“Mallory.” There’s a warning in his tone that’s impossible to ignore.
I swallow and release a heavy sigh. “I haven’t had an appetite.”
“You need to take better care of yourself,” he admonishes. I feel like I’m being scolded by an angry teacher or parent, which is really fucking weird considering everything Saint and I have done together.
I roll my eyes, hating how high-handed he gets with me. “I’m fine,” I insist. “You can just back off, all right? I can take care of myself.”
“Clearly. Nothing says self-sufficient more than a little murder, mayhem, and starvation.”
“God, you’re such a dick.”
I focus back in on my sandwich. As it hits my stomach, I start to feel better. More stable. Thankfully, Saint lets me eat without badgering me for a few minutes, and once I’ve polished off the sandwich, I make quick work of the apple.
“Feeling better?” he asks when there’s nothing but a core left in my hand.
Though I hate to give any indication that he’s right about anything, I bob my head. “Yeah, I am.”
He pushes away from the desk and prowls toward me. I almost expect him to ask me to do something fucked-up, but he takes my garbage from my palms and says, “Good,” before turning to dispose of it.
I watch him as he moves around the room, and it’s a strange experience, having him take care of me like this. It feels so out of character for him, but at the same time, it’s kind of … nice.
But definitely a little disarming.
I begin to wring my hands in my lap, uncertain what I should say or do now. The urge to thank him is there, but I don’t want to give in. No doubt, he’ll figure out a way to use my gratefulness against me.
Instead, I ask a question that’s poking at the back of my mind.
“Where were you this weekend?”
His shoulders stiffen, then he slowly turns to face me.
“Missed me?” He grins, but I can tell he’s deflecting. There’s something off about his expression. Something that makes the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end.
“I would’ve thought you’d show up at my door Saturday or Sunday to give me shit about what happened. To … to demand some sort of…”
“Payment?” he offers with a low chuckle. “Reward? Penance? Praise?”
I purse my lips, my irritation growing. “You know what? Forget it.”
Pushing from the bed, I stand and start to leave, but he blocks my path.
“You don’t think you’re getting away from me that easily, do you?” he asks, his big body towering over me.
Folding my arms over my chest, I blink up at him. “You didn’t give a shit the past few days, apparently. Why start now?”
He reaches out and snares my chin between his fingers, bringing our faces close together. “Watch your mouth, Ellis, or I’ll stuff my cock between your lips to shut you up.”
A breath rushes from my nostrils. “I’ll say whatever the hell I want because you’re a piece of shit.”
The insult doesn’t seem to faze him one bit. “And you’re a bitch, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to fuck you senseless.”
I try to pull my chin from his grip, but his fingers tighten around me.
“Saint—”
“I went to see my mother,” he suddenly says, and I freeze. “And then I tried to figure out what to do with you.”
Okay, that’s weird as hell. And disturbing. I can vividly picture the way his ice queen mother looked at me the last time I saw her—like I was dog shit on the bottom of one of her Louboutin’s.
“You tried to figure out what to do with me with your mother?” I rasp. Of course, he doesn’t answer, so I try again. “And what exactly did you decide on?”
He still doesn’t answer me because he’s an insufferable asshole.
Instead, he says, “I’ve got track practice. You stay here and get some rest. You look like death.”
“Well, aren’t you just a ray of fucking sunshine. I want to know what you decided on and why—”
But his lips press hard against mine and he scrambles my brain, stealing away my insult. The kiss is brief and rough, but when he pulls away, I feel as dazed and lightheaded as I did before I ate and more confused than ever.
“Sleep,” he murmurs, releasing my chin at last. “I won’t be long.”
3
I don’t stay in his room.
It’s a childish thought, but I feel the overwhelming need to reassert my independence before Saint completely sucks me in and really makes me his possession.
Instead of returning to my dorm to get some rest, because again, Saint and his orders can suck a dick, I make my way to the library. I’m feeling more energized now that I have food in my stomach and irritation toward Hot Draco heating my blood. Going back to my room would only feel like being caged, so I decide to put myself to work doing some research on Nora and Alexandra, the mother formerly known as Jenn.
Now that I know they weren’t students at Angelview, it should be easier to find information on them. I slide into a chair in front of one of the desktop computers that no one ever seems to use, even though they’re the latest high-tech models, and open one of the internet browsers on the desktop.
The first thing I Google is Eleanor Mallory Ravenwood, and as if I’ve discovered a magical password that I’ve been missing all this time, the results are a treasure trove of information. The first thing that pops up is a random PDF from the Ravenwood school website with her name listed among others for past student achievements. She was apparently a swimmer, and a good one at that. Having something in common with her feels strange.
Disappointing.
With a sigh, I exit out of the PDF and go down to the next link. It’s an article about the fire that supposedly killed Nora. When I click into it, the headline of the article reads RAVENWOOD ALUMNI KILLED IN TRAGIC HOUSE FIRE.
I scan the article, and everything I read lines up with what Nora told me—other than the part about it being the weekend of her wedding to Benjamin. That isn’t mentioned. All in the house were presumed dead, including her one-year-old daughter, Eden, and the real Jennifer Ellis isn’t even listed in the article because nobody had missed her.
That thought twists my stomach—that the woman who raised me had taken the identity of someone nobody even bothered to look for.
I return to the search bar and type in Alexandra Mallory Ravenwood. Then, I click on images and gape in wonder. The person I see in the photos is nothing like the one I grew up knowing. She appears vibrant and happy and so pretty—with big blue eyes that glimmered with promise and a confident grin—that my chest aches. There are pictures of her in a cheerleading outfit and sitting on a grassy hill with other girls.
How did she go from this healthy, whole person to the drug-addled shell she is now?
The Angelles, dumbass, the voice in the back of my head reminds me but it’s scary how much it suddenly sounds like Nora.
I keep up my search, uncovering everything I can about both women until I’m falling down an internet rabbit hole filled with clickbait and unrelated nonsense. The relevant stuff, though, is pretty amazing. In addition to being top athletes at Ravenwood, Nora and Alexandra were also near the top of their classes for academics. I find a whole slew of award announcements with their names listed for high grades, special projects, and even a research award for Alexandra.