Unloved (The Undone, #2)

by Peyton Corinne

Ask me, Rosalie. Please. I think I could tell you.

“Do you mind?” The voice that stops him is gruff, but with a sickeningly smooth quality threaded in the deep tone. And the man it belongs to, now grasping Tyler’s shoulder tightly where he was starting to box me into the corner, is more terrifying. He’s massive, tall even to me, with warm russet skin and black hair dripping wet. A player, I assume, based on the black-on-black suit he’s wearing, but I’ve never seen him before tonight—even on the roster I studied a few weeks prior.

Omg im freacking obsessed w him

He hangs up. And I think about trying the classic male punch my fist through a wall coping technique.

“Yeah.” I nod, smiling softly up at him. “You’d never want to even chance letting someone down. You… you always show up.”

The other newcomer in my quiet hallway space doesn’t say anything, only leans against the opposite wall. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me because he’s wearing a Ghostface mask, a lazy choice, as shown by the simple jeans and half-buttoned nearly translucent button-down that’s soaking wet and sticking to his skin. He undoes the remaining buttons and pulls it from his tan skin, and I almost swallow my tongue. Muscles on muscles, amber in the light from the single standing lamp that screams “boy dorm decor.” The mask comes off next, and I realize it’s the guy who hit Tyler—Toren Kane. After our run-in and hearing him announced at the home game, I looked him up. He’s as terrifying as I thought, somehow worse in person. And the Ghostface costume doesn’t help that image. He’s covered in tattoos, and I can’t stop my eyes from scanning them slowly, realizing that I recognize quite a few. Starry Night wrapped half around his torso. Bedroom in Arles on one bicep. A unique design that seems to mix Van Gogh’s famous self-portrait with the sunflower vase on one arm. Almond Blossom twining down the other, nearly reaching his fingertips. He’s covered in Van Gogh’s work. And not just famous pieces, but more unknown ones— Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette, but surrounded by blends of landscapes and pastorals I can only assume are based on the famed artist’s work. All done in grays and blacks, but still recognizable without the color.

AHHHHHH IM SO OBSESSED W HIM. Need his book rn

He clears his throat before quietly offering, “Sometimes the people we love most hurt us the easiest, even if they don’t mean to.”

“You wanna fight someone, you can fight with me,” Rhys says, which makes me feel slightly embarrassed knowing I’m the one who wants to fight. Does it piss Kane off that everyone assumes he’s the one trying to fight? Does he feel the same way I do when people call me a playboy, the school slut?

“Sure,” Kane smirks, grabbing my collar and jerking me forward. “But it won’t make you feel any better. Trust me.” “Yeah, yeah.” “I’m serious,” Toren says, jerking me again. “I’ve been doing this for years.” “And?” “And what? Still feels like I got shot in the fucking stomach and I’m bleeding out.” He lands a hit square to my abdomen, but I tense, seeing it coming. “It never stops, and it never hurts less.”

“I miss my mom.” I keep my crying silent as I grieve for the woman I’ll never know, and the boy she loved more than life. The boy I know she’d be proud of, even if he doesn’t know it. I’ll take care of him, I vow to her silently. I promise.