Malice

That night, I finally find a modicum of peace by escaping to the library to look through old yearbooks for the years Mr. Angelle and Benjamin Jacoby attended Angelview. The day has been a lot harder to get through than I had anticipated, and classes don’t even officially start again until tomorrow. The cruelty of the other students is already weighing on me, but it’s the thought of Saint with that girl that’s making me sick.

What a bastard.

I shuffle off to the very back row of shelves to hide, and maybe cry. I’m not sure yet.

All I know is that I just need to be alone. To not be glared at for ten goddamn minutes. To not hear the whispers from the subtler people, or the sharp insults from the more blatant, or the reminders of how I should have been the one that was burnt to a crisp that night in Angelle House by the boldest of them all. I just want a few moments of peace so that I don’t lose my freaking mind and take my crazy out on Saint or some other unsuspecting soul.

When I reach the end of the row, I press against the wall and lean my head back to stare at the ceiling a moment before I slide my eyes shut. I release a deep breath of relief.

Quiet at last.

Except, I quickly realize it’s a lot harder to avoid my thoughts in the silence as I immediately begin thinking about Saint and Rosalind again.

They looked good together. So damn good, it hurt. I doubt Saint and I looked like that together—like we were made for each other. Like we were Instagram models, documenting our perfect lives and relationship for all the world to see. Rosalind obviously comes from money, just based on the clothes she was wearing and her purse that cost more than I ever amassed working summers at the shitty diner in Atlanta or the slowly dying theater back in Rayfort.

I’m so absorbed in my gloomy thoughts that I don’t hear the approach of footsteps until they’re right in front of me. With a start, I open my eyes and start to let out a scream when I find a big, muscular body towering over me, but Saint quickly presses his hand over my lips.

“What the fuck?” I gasp, shivering when my tongue skims his fingertips a second before he lowers his hand.

“Why’d you come back?”

“What?” I’m playing catch up as my mind scrambles to shake from the stupor he’s put it in.

“Did you get fucking dumber over break?” he spits out. “I asked why you came back. You said you weren’t, so what the fuck are you doing here, Ellis?”

I blink, regaining my senses, and narrow my eyes at him. “It’s none of your fucking business why I came back.”

His hand slams against the wall next to my head, and I startle because I’m not prepared for it. “It is my fucking business.” He bares his teeth like an animal, but I’m not afraid. No, I feel a rush of heat shoot through me, and I’m sickened with myself for the way I react to him.

Screw this guy.

Especially when he adds, “Everything you do is my fucking business.”

“Oh, is that so?” I demand, blinking slowly. “Don’t think your girlfriend would appreciate hearing that.”

He scowls at me but doesn’t deny that Rosalind is his girlfriend. Shit! Why does this make my chest ache so much? Why do I even care?

He should be dead to me.

“We were together freshmen and sophomore year,” he explains in a softer tone, though I didn’t ask or expect him to. “Then her stepdad died, and her mom transferred her to a boarding school in New York.”

He and Rosalind have history. She was his once, then he lost her. Now she’s back, so of course he wants to be with her. Once again, I tell myself not to care since he and I were never anything more than fuck buddies on our best day.

Except, I hadn’t believed that until it was too late. I was too into my feelings to see that he never felt anything deeper for me.

Nothing but three holes.

That’s what he told me I was, and when I think of that I stand a little taller and grit my teeth into a fierce smile. “You know what? I don’t give a shit about your dating past, present, or future, Saint. The only thing I want is for you to stop the obsessed stalker act so I can finish my year in peace.”

“Obsessed stalker,” he repeats in that soft but treacherous voice that always chills my spine. He takes another step toward me. “Is that what you think this is?”

“Is it not?” I arch an eyebrow. “By the way, Saint, I know you lied about Laurel. I know you weren’t with her that night.”

He stares down at me for several moments, and he’s so close I’m engulfed by his intoxicating heat. I don’t let myself melt for him, though. Not this time.

Never again if I can help it.

When he speaks, he doesn’t correct me, and I hate the way my shoulders sag in relief that he hadn’t gone that far.

“You should’ve stayed away.” His voice rumbles, at once gentle but firm. “You’re not wanted here. By anyone.”

He doesn’t have to say by him for me to get his message loud and clear.

Backing away from me, he gives me a lingering look, and for a moment, I wonder if he’ll take it back. Tell me he’s lying, and he’s sorry for what he did.

He doesn’t say any of that, though, because of course he isn’t. I’m still just an idiot as he turns and walks away from me, not even sparing me one last glance.