Malice

Dylan jerks at my arm and then releases me completely. When my mind catches up and processes what I’m seeing, I gasp.

Saint has Dylan shoved up against the wall.

“You ever touch her again, I’ll fucking kill you,” Saint barks. He’s enraged, his whole body tensed, and he reminds me of a wild beast gone rabid. He’s even baring his teeth, like he’s going to tear Dylan’s throat out.

After his initial shock at Saint’s attack, Dylan’s expression darkens, and he grabs Saint by the front of his white uniform button up. “You’d better back the fuck off,” he says. “I don’t give a fuck who your parents are. I’m not scared of you, you little prick.”

“Oh, you’re not?” Saint’s lips curl into a wicked grin. “You don’t think I can bury you and take everything you care about? I’ll destroy your whole life, and I won’t even break a sweat doing so.”

Dylan’s eyes slide toward me and he murmurs, “Don’t worry. She’s already destroyed my life, and I won’t forget about it until she confesses.”

Saint shoves away from Dylan and moves to my side, his fingers wrapping around my wrist. “Come on,” he gruffly orders.

I numbly follow after him. Before we step out into the hall, I glance back over my shoulder at Dylan. He’s still pressed against the wall, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. There’s pain in his expression, and I swallow hard because I can feel it deep in my chest.

Saint doesn’t look at or speak to me until we’re outside the building. When he does finally turn to me, he freezes, and his eyes go wide with shock.

“What?” I murmur.

“You’re crying,” he answers softly.

I am? I press my fingers to my cheek, and sure enough, they’re wet with tears. Why am I crying? Why didn’t I notice?

And why can’t I seem to stop?

Saint steps closer and cups my face, wiping at my tears with the pad of his thumb. It’s a shockingly tender gesture that shakes me to my core.

“I hate it when you cry.” His voice is so soft, I barely hear him.

The irony of his statement isn’t lost on me. He hates seeing me cry, but he continuously does things to me that would cause most normal people to do so. I step away from his touch and turn my face away.

“I need to go back to find my phone,” I mutter. In all the chaos of the confrontation between him and Dylan, I forgot my reason for being there in the first place.

“I have it.”

I spin back around to face him. “What?”

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls my phone free, waving it in the air between us.

“Why do you have my phone?” I sputter. “When did you take it?”

When was he even close enough to me to swipe it?

“I took it during class when you went to the bathroom. I wanted to talk to you, and I’m tired of waiting.”

While I wish I could say I’m shocked at his nerve, that would be a big fucking lie. I’m just … tired. I tried to take back some power. Tried to meet with him on my terms in my own time, but he just won’t let me. It’s futile trying to control the uncontrollable, I realize.

My shoulders slump slightly as I come to the conclusion that I’m not going to beat him in this.

“Fine,” I say, defeated. “Let’s talk.”