It’s Saint, and he’s smirking at me.
“Fuck.” The word’s out of my mouth before I can stop it.
Moving toward the ladder, he pulls himself out of the water and I can’t keep from staring at him. His body is … holy shit. I can’t think. I can’t even move as he saunters toward me. A voice in my head is telling me to run away, but I’m not listening. I’m like a sailor tempted to his doom by a siren, but instead of a beautiful mermaid calling to me, it’s a sexy demon who’s going to prove my downfall.
“Like what you see, Ellis?” he asks, stopping in front of me. He’s dripping wet and doesn’t bother with a towel as he seems to put himself on display. Arrogance makes his eyes bright, and his mouth is still curled up in a cruel, wicked grin.
I manage to shake off my stupor and remind myself why I hate him. I think about what he did to Nick, what he keeps doing to me, and even remember how angry I am at my mom just to give my fury an extra little kick. Instead of legitimizing his stupid question with a response, I narrow my eyes, turn without a word, and storm right back out of the pool room.
Of course, he follows me.
“Ellis!” he barks, as if saying my name in a threatening voice would do him any good.
I keep going, my flipflops slapping noisily on the vinyl tiles as I make my way back down the hall. Suddenly, just as I reach one of the large trophy cases displayed throughout this building, his fingers wrap around my elbow and he yanks me to a standstill.
I whirl on him. “Get your hand off me.”
“Who do you think you are?” he demands to know, ignoring my words completely.
“Who do I think I am?” I repeat back like some goddamn parrot. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Without taking his eyes off me, he points to the trophy case. Furrowing my brow, I turn to see what it is he’s indicating. There’s a large trophy dated decades ago, but he’s not pointing at it. He’s pointing at its base, where an old photo rests. It’s faded and folded on one side, but the image is of four boys smiling proudly at the camera, the school gates behind them. I squint and study it closer, as one of the boys kind of looks like Saint, except with dark hair.
“Who are they?” I ask, glancing back at him.
“My dad and his friends when they were here,” he answers easily, releasing my elbow.
I look between him and the photo, the resemblance fascinating.
“So?” I say at length, somewhat confused as to the significance of the photo. “Good for your dad, but what’s that have to do with anything?”
“I own this school,” he sneers, taking a step toward me. “Just like my father did before me.”
He’s too close now. His size overwhelms me, and his heat and scent wrap around me. I don’t want my body to respond to him, but it does. I clench my legs against the pulse that’s started beating in my core, and I’m so disgusted with myself, it’s nauseating.
Crossing my arms, I drop my gaze from his, frazzled.
“Like I care,” I snarl. “Like I give a flying fuck about who and what you think you own. I don’t have to stand here and put up with your shit a second longer.”
I turn, intent on storming away, but his hand grabs my arm again and he spins me back around. The next thing I know, I’m pressed up against his chest and his hand is tangled in my hair, forcing my head back so I meet his gaze. A little gasp escapes my lips before I can stop it, and I’m paralyzed by fear and desire as I stare up into his cold eyes.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he snarls. His other arm is around my waist, his fingers splayed on my lower back. Too low. And inching lower. “You do have to put up with my shit, because you don’t get a choice. This is my school, and I make the rules. I choose the games, and how we play them, and I’m not done playing with you.”
“You’re a sociopath,” I hiss and focus on breathing as his fingers go further south. “You make me sick. I know what you did to Nick, you sonofabitch. Is hurting people really so much fun for you?”
To my surprise, his features darken. He was mad before.
But now? Now, he’s furious.
“You really are a dumb bitch if you believe I had anything to do with that.” His voice is low and dangerous. I can’t help but think of a predator growling in the darkness, warning its prey that its time is running short.
“Of course you’d deny it,” I retort. “But it’s not much of a stretch to imagine you assaulting someone like that. Just look at the hell you’re always putting me through!”
“That’s different.” He tugs on my hair to emphasize his words just as his fingers drift down to rest on the curve of my butt. I want to wiggle away from him but I’m too scared that I’ll like feeling him against me. Instead, I stay perfectly still.
Still is safe.
Still means I won’t have to acknowledge the horrible truth of what Saint Angelle does to me.
“How’s it different?” I narrow my eyes and bare my teeth. “Torture is torture, though mine has been far more mental than poor Nick’s.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Nick Reynolds, only that my name isn’t associated with shit I didn’t do.”
His angry confession catches me off guard.
Does that mean he gives some kind of fuck about me?
For a long moment, I can’t look away from him, and I don’t bother to fight his hold. Silence falls between us, heavy with our angry words and burning glares. His fingers have stopped their descent, but he’s not removing them. It feels like a magnet is trying to pull me into him, and when he lowers his head, I don’t say a word to dissuade him.
A sudden clattering noise down the hall snaps me out of my self-destructive stupor.
“Fuck,” he growls, loosening his hold on me so that when I push away from him, I escape easily.
I hear the squeaking wheels of a mop bucket and realize a janitor’s heading our way. Pivoting away from him, I’m ready to make a break for it, but his next words stop me in my tracks with their threat.
“Don’t think this is over, Ellis.” When I glance back over my shoulder, his eyes are locked on me. “We’re far from finished.”
His expression frightens me as much as it arouses me. He looks like he wants to swallow me whole and spit me back out again. I don’t think I’d survive being at his mercy.
Without a word, I give him my back and run from him and the dark promises in his eyes.
11
I double down on my efforts to ignore Saint after our unfortunate encounter at the pool. I pretend I don’t see him when I pass him by on campus and act as though I can’t hear when he calls my name or insults me. As far as he’s concerned, I’m an impenetrable fortress, immune to him and his sharp words.
In reality, I’m not immune at all.
The more I ignore him, the harder it is for me to get him out of my mind. I should be furious that he touched me, but I can’t forget how strong his fingers were—how good it felt to have them pressed into my sensitive skin. I hate myself for thinking this way, but I can’t help it. Saint’s like a bad rash that I just want to get rid of but is, at the same time, so satisfying to scratch.