Eden

32

I leave the classroom and hurry out of the academic building. My mind is a firestorm, and I don’t really know where I’m going, only that I need to get away. Far, far away.

Unfortunately, as big as Angelview’s campus is, it has its limitations. I don’t realize where my feet are carrying me until I find myself standing outside of Saint’s dorm building. Is he still here? Has he already gone to class?

I don’t hesitate and rush inside. My shoulders sag with relief when he answers the door after only a few moments.

“Thank God.”

“Couldn’t wait for me, Ellis?” he teases as I push past him, but his smirk disappears once I’m standing in the center of the room and he gets a good look at my face.

“Shut the door,” I whisper.

Once he does, he’s in my face, his big hands on my shoulders, his icy blue eyes clashing intensely with mine. “Mallory?” he churns out.

I gulp and stare up at him. Tears form in my eyes before I can stop them, but when I try to blink them away, it only makes things worse and they break free, rolling down my cheeks.

Saint appears stu

Swallowing, I force myself to whisper, “Your dad…”

“Come on, Mallory, out with it.” He’s struggling not to let his frustration show, but I can read it in the tight lines around his eyes.

“He was here,” I manage. “Dylan … I … The way he looked at me, Saint, I—”

“You were with my father?” He drags in a shuddering breath before it bursts from his flared nostrils. “He touched you?”

His reaction is oddly comforting. It feels like a justification of my fear, and it’s somewhat soothing having someone angered on my behalf.

I open my mouth and the whole sordid encounter comes tumbling out. I don’t spare a single detail, even telling him how his dad took my phone. With each word I say, his fury spikes a little more. His face is dark red, and there’s a vein throbbing in his forehead. He seems to be taking care not to squeeze my shoulders too hard, though he doesn’t let me go the entire time I tell him about my confrontation with Jameson.

When I finish, he doesn’t say anything for several beats. He just closes his eyes and breathes deeply, and I wonder if he’s trying to rein his temper in.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his tone tight and rumbling.

My heart rumbles, but I nod and shrug at the same time. “Physically, yeah, but mentally?” A breath whooshes past my lips. “It’s worse than I thought. They were fucking accomplices, Saint. They did this together.”

“I’ll fucking kill him,” he promises, guiding me to his bed. “He’s done, Ellis, I swear.”

When he draws away from me, panic seizes my chest. “Where are you going?”

“Where are you going?” I ask, panic seizing me as he moves for his door.

“Why does it matter?”

“Saint, stop—”

He offers me a mirthless, close-lipped smile as he throws open the door. “Wait here, little masochist. I mean that.”

A moment later, my chest jolts when the door rattles shut behind him.

I sit and stare at the closed door for several minutes before I’m able to shake myself from the stupor he left me in. As soon as I do, however, everything that Mr. Angelle told me comes flooding back in and nearly overwhelms me. I can’t believe Nora was behind her own fiancé’s death. Sure, Mr. Angelle was the one who actually had him killed, but Nora wanted it. She was supposed to marry Benjamin, and instead she plotted his death with who he thought was his oldest friend.

It makes me sick just thinking about it, and my worry for Je

Nora has to go, and that needed to happen yesterday.

Releasing a deep breath, I fall back against Saint’s bed and stare up at the ceiling. His scent tickles my nose and I curl myself around his pillows, shudders coursing through me.

It’s all so disgusting what lengths these people will go to for money. I can’t imagine living life with such a shallow outlook.

Does Saint think that way?

I bite my lip and remember what Mr. Angelle had said to me.

Everybody has their price, and everybody has their limits.

I don’t want that to be Saint.

I don’t want to love someone like those people, so Saint can’t be that way.

I sit up on the bed, dragging my fingers through my hair. My knees begin to jog as I grow antsy. He’s been gone awhile at this point, and I don’t know how much longer I can stay cooped up in this place. I want to be here when he gets back, but I also feel obligated to do something to try and clean up this colossal mess we’ve found ourselves in.

An idea suddenly strikes me. Digging out my phone, I pull up my contact list and find Dylan. That sonofabitch has some explaining to do. I want to know exactly what Mr. Angelle said to him—how much Jameson gave him. It probably wouldn’t have taken much to get Dylan to throw me under the bus, but I’m guessing it was a hefty payout if Mr. Angelle got him to agree to go all the way back to Georgia.

I hit the call button, press the phone to my ear, and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

When the call goes to voicemail, I hang up and try again.

Still no answer.

“Motherfucker,” I growl out loud, attempting to call him for a third time. Maybe if he sees me being persistent, he’ll answer.

Or maybe I’m just full of shit because I get his voicemail once again.

Gritting my teeth in frustration, I tell myself he’s just screening my call, but something prickles the back of my mind. I only have Mr. Angelle’s word that Dylan went back to Georgia.

And as it stands, his word is nothing.

The image of Dylan beaten and bloody pops into my head, and bile rises in my throat, but I push it down. Dylan’s probably still on the plane or something. He called me last night, after all. He’s okay. He’s just avoiding me.

Right?

No matter how much I try to rationalize it, though, I can’t shake that all too familiar sensation of dread. I have to know for sure that he’s all right before I can focus on anything else. He’s not answering his cell, but I have another number where I could probably find out if he’s alive and well yet or not.

If the person on the other end bothers to tell me, that is.

I stare down at my phone, too afraid to find the number, but what choice do I have? If Dylan’s hurt, I need to know.

Despite everything, I’d never want him to be hurt.

Taking a deep breath, I hit the call button. My heart pounds in my ears at the phone rings, and a part of me hopes nobody answers.

I’m not so lucky a second time, however.

“Hello?” a soft voice comes through the speaker, wrapping around me in a nostalgic chokehold.

“Mrs. Porter, it’s Mallory. Mallory Ellis.” My tone is soft and unsure, and sure enough, as soon as I say my name, I swear I feel a blast of cold air rush through the phone.

“Mallory. I never expected to hear from you again.”

I flinch, forcing my lips to keep moving. “I’m sorry to bother you. I was just wondering if…”

“If what?” she snaps.

Fuck, I feel like such a child talking to her. That’s really all I am though, isn’t it? A stupid child who stole her child away from her.

“If Dylan made it back to Georgia okay,” I murmur.