Chapter 8 Garrett
Garrett
Watching James and Aslan together was starting to piss me off.
Not because I was jealous—don’t be stupid. Jealous of what? Besides, Narnia Boy was probably straight. And a prude. And about as exciting as unsalted oatmeal.
No, what got under my skin was the way they kept laughing.
Leaning in. Talking like they had all the time in the world. Like they weren’t under my watch. Like the Silver Star treatment didn’t apply to them.
Which it did.
Very clearly.
What the fuck?
If they thought they could defy me—my rules—at my own goddamn school, they were in for a surprise.
They took off after lunch, and I was still deciding what I was going to do about James for breaking the silent treatment when something else caught my eye.
A redhead.
Trisha. I knew her.
Gorgeous. Tall. Fake boobs. Too much lip gloss. The kind of girl who walked like she expected people to move out of her way—and they usually did.
She’d looked at me before. Back when I was still in “recovery.” Back when I was trying to swing that way.
I hadn’t gone for her. Even though my friends thought I was out of my goddamn mind.
She caught up to Aslan in the hallway, talking fast, smiling like she already owned him.
I felt my jaw tighten.
Do they all have a death wish?
I followed at a distance, close enough to see but far enough not to draw attention. They stopped a couple of feet from Aslan’s locker. James peeled off, still laughing, and suddenly it was just the two of them.
She touched his arm.
Just like that. Casual. Familiar.
It took everything I had not to walk over and rip her hand off him—off her arm while I was at it.
The thought hit so hard it startled me.
What the hell was that?
Anger surged, hot and fast, swallowing whatever else had tried to surface. I walked past them, close enough to hear her voice over the blood rushing in my ears.
“See you this evening, then.”
Oh no, you didn’t.
I didn’t look back. Didn’t slow down. Just kept walking, already putting the pieces together, already forming a plan as I stormed toward my next class.
If Aslan Rivers thought he was going to start enjoying himself—laughing, flirting, pretending he wasn’t marked—
He was about to learn how wrong he was.
I stayed angry for the rest of the day.
The kind of anger that had nowhere to go and just kept building, sitting heavy in my chest, making everything itch. Every smile Aslan shared with anyone, every look he didn’t give me, added fuel to it.
By the time Wellness class rolled around, I was more than ready.
Self-defense.
I wished it were wrestling. Or sparring. Something where I could rightfully beat the shit out of Aslan, James, and anyone else who’d gotten under my skin that day and call it training.
But fine.... Let’s see if the little lion could defend himself at all.
The gym smelled like rubber mats and disinfectant. Everyone changed into tank tops and athletic gear, stretching out, pairing off. I rolled my shoulders, eyes already scanning the room.
The instructor started with basics—stance, balance, center of gravity. Then he looked at Aslan.
“You ever done any self-defense before?”
He hesitated, just a second. “Yes, sir. I've done a little.”
That got my attention.
When we were told to pair up, it felt like fate—or a bad joke—when he ended up in front of me.
Perfect.
Up close, this weird itch I felt around him was worse. And suddenly, I was staring.
He wasn't huge or anything. Not as buff as I was either. But fuck... every inch of him was carved for a purpose. Lean, wiry muscle that shifted under his skin with every subtle movement. I told myself not to look.
Did it anyway.
I watched a drop of sweat slide from his neck down into his collar, and my gut tightened. Annoyance. That's all it was. Just irritation at having to look at him. He moved with that same stupid, liquid calm, like he wasn't even trying. It was a performance. All of it. The way his shorts hung low on his strong hips, showing the cut of those obliques—disgusting. Who gave a shit? I sure didn't. I had to focus.
The proximity made something coil tight in my chest. Heat. Irritation. I didn’t know. I stepped in, testing his balance, putting pressure where I expected resistance.
He didn’t give me any.
He moved with it. Redirected. Slid out of my grip and used the technique exactly the way the instructor had shown.
I hit the mat.
Hard.
There were a few surprised sounds around us. I pushed myself up fast, jaw clenched, going at him again—harder this time. Trying to overpower him.
Bad idea.
He stayed grounded. Centered. Every time I tried to dominate the exchange, he used leverage instead. Timing. Precision.
I hit the mat again.
“Good,” the instructor said, eyes lighting up. “Really good. You’ve got instincts, Aslan. Ever considered joining the academy team this fall?”
My vision tunneled.
Aslan blinked, clearly surprised. “I—no. I mean, I hadn’t thought—”
“I’d love to have you,” he continued. “You’re a natural.”
I was furious.
When Aslan was sent to grab some of the equipment with one of the guys—Rick—I took him aside.
“Make sure to welcome him to the team…” I whispered.
Eventually, as two others performed, I stretched by the equipment room door, half-listening, waiting.
I expected raised voices and menacing threats, but what I heard instead was a dull thud.
And a muffled grunt.
I frowned, pushing off the wall and stepping away from the door just as Rick came back out—alone.
No Aslan.
When the instructor called his name and he didn’t answer, he turned, frowning.
Then Aslan appeared.
He was pale. One hand pressed to his stomach, posture stiff, like every step hurt.
“I think I’ve got a bad cramp,” he said quietly.
The instructor’s expression softened immediately. “Sit down. Don’t push it.”
Only then did I look at Rick and understood.
I shot him a vicious glare. The kind that promised consequences. His eyes flicked away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could've sworn I saw Aslan reaching for some pills before his body sank on the benches.
Across the room, Aitor was staring at me. Disapproval written all over his face.
Something twisted in my chest. Sharp. Uncomfortable.
I looked away.
It wasn’t my fault.
I didn’t order it...
But the message was clear now. Maybe the lion would think twice next time.
And if he had to miss his little date tonight?
Oh well…
He didn't.
Which… annoyed me more than it should’ve.
That evening, I found myself doing something that would’ve made me punch any other guy in the face.
Spying like a creep.
I told myself it was just curiosity—just wanting to see if he was still going to bang Trisha after his library shift... Turns out I didn’t have to wait. Or follow him anywhere.
She showed up toward the end of his shift, right there, in front of my face.
They talked for a minute and headed to the back, out of sight between the stacks, and I immediately felt my jaw lock.
Shit.
Either Narnia Boy was really lame at dating…
Or really kinky.
I mean, the back of the library? Seriously?
Been there. Done that.
My spiraling got cut short when they reappeared—no messed-up hair, no guilty eyes, no lipstick smudges—carrying a couple of art books like they were on some pathetic little field trip.
They sat at one of the tables and spread the books open between them, laughing quietly while she poured cocoa from a thermos she’d brought.
Cocoa.
In the library.
What kind of romantic-ass shit was this?
He leaned closer, pointing at something on the page, and she smiled like he’d hung the damn moon. Like he was… the last guy on Earth. Like he wasn’t just pretending.
My fingers curled at my sides.
Then she touched him again—hand on his arm, casual, familiar—
And something in me snapped.
I turned around and took off.
Nope.
Not a damned chance…