Saint

“No, and I definitely mean that.” He says the words so easily, it shocks me. My anger spikes, my temper breaking free, and when I open my mouth, I can’t stop the words that roll from my tongue.

“Look, I get it. I humiliated you in front of the whole school. Is this twisted revenge really what you need to restore your fragile ego?”

“Do you really think it’s that simple? That you get to say sorry and then it’s just over?” He moves so fast I don’t have time to process his intent, and before I know it, he’s in front of me, his hands splayed on the wall on either side of my head. I’m trapped, cold stone at my back, hot furious boy at my front. My breath leaves my lungs in a rush as I stare up into his face, dumbstruck. “It’s not, Mallory.”

“What do you—”

“Listen to me very carefully,” he growls, lowering his face so it’s even with mine. “You have a choice here. Make it easy on yourself and go home or stay and suffer. There is no in-between for you now. You threw that away this morning, so walk away before I fuck up your entire world.”

I’m so aware of him, it’s overwhelming. The heat of his large body. The way his biceps tense beneath his uniform blazer as he leans closer. His scent wraps around me like a straitjacket, confining me. He smells like smoke and weed, but there’s an underlying aroma that’s warm and intense and uniquely his. I don’t want to breath it in because it feels like I’m taking a part of him inside me, but I have no choice. He’s too close.

Far too close.

“Not an option,” I manage to answer at last, my voice hardly louder than a whisper. “I’m here to stay, so you just need to deal with it.”

He stares at me for several moments in silence, studying me intently, as though searching for cracks in my armor. One of his hands drops from the wall and he’s suddenly tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of my neck, completely decimating what’s left of my braid. He pulls me closer, not enough to hurt me, but enough to let me know that I’m not in control of this situation. His fingers are big and rough, and I can’t remember anyone ever touching me like this.

He’s touching me like he owns me.

“You’ll regret staying,” he promises in a murmur. “I swear to God you will.”

Before I can think of a response—before I can think at all—he steps away from me, unraveling his fingers from my hair. Without a word or a backwards glance, he turns and walks down the hall and away from me. I watch him go, helpless to do anything else but stare at his retreating back.