I stack my books and papers, holding them close to my chest. My body pauses beside Marek’s row, and I glare down at him.
“Oh, you should really smile more, sweetheart.” His hand glides up the inside of my leg, creeping close to the apex of my thighs hidden beneath my skirt. The heat of his hand warms me.
I smack his touch away, which only makes him smile harder. “Mr. Decatur, are you going to do anything about him? He just touched me without my permission.”
“Miss Weston, quit causing trouble, and please leave my room. Some of us take our education seriously.” Byron sits down at his desk.
With a huff, I start for the door, but not before he winks at me.
Entitled bastard.
I slam my palms on the door, swinging it open for my escape. I turn in time to catch Byron leaning forward, his eyes dead set on Marek. He holds a single finger to his lips, then points directly at Marek. My stare breaks to the front row, and Marek mirrors the gesture.
What kind of band of brothers shit is going on?
“Miss Weston, why are you standing in the hallway? Don’t you have a class to be at?” Miss Hughes slides her glasses to the crown of her head.
She’s one of the younger teachers who’s always trying to connect with us. I applaud her effort, but she’s ill-equipped to crack these rich kids. A quick internet search is all it took to learn she’d grown up in a trailer park, with an abusive father and drunk mother. The kids at Glass Heart Academy have no idea what it’s like to walk in Miss Hughes’ shoes.
My trust issues are what drove me to search her background. After my sister vanished without a trace, Miss Hughes had tried to grow close to me. My mom calls them daddy issues. Maybe she’s right. Regardless, I don’t allow people I don’t know to get close to me. It’s a simple system that keeps me protected.
“I got kicked out of Byron” — I cringe at my slip-up— “Mr. Decatur’s class.”
“May I ask what for?” She slips off her dark-rimmed glasses and cleans the lenses.
“I told Marek to shut the fuck up.” No point in sugar coating my indiscretions.
“Oh, boy.” She shakes her head. “And let me guess, it was well deserved?”
“You can say that.” I nod, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.
“Come with me.” Miss Hughes grabs my arm and drags me back into Mr. Decatur’s room. I cringe, a deep burn shifting into place on my cheeks. “Go take a seat, Miss Weston.”
Is she kidding? And yet, I listen to her. Hidden under the bubblegum pink cardigan, something about Miss Hughes screams business. There’s no way she gets pushed around in this life. A pit bull in stilettos, she can hold her ground with the best of them.
Miss Hughes leans over Mr. Decatur’s desk. Nothing but a low whisper can be heard, making it impossible to hear any of the words they’re exchanging.
“Got Miss Hughes to fight your battles for you, huh, Palmer?” Marek pulls his bottom lip with his teeth, luring me in like a damn fish on a hook. “You can pretend like you didn’t like my hands on you, but we both know that’s a lie. You’re curious.”
“Do you get off on tormenting people?” I sit down and face the front of the classroom.
Miss Hughes is already gone. Byron’s dark brown eyes burn into my skin, heating every exposed inch. With an angry glare, he grabs a stack of paper and begins handing them out.
“I only enjoy tormenting you.” Marek clenches his jaw, drawing my attention to the sharp edges of his stupid, perfect face.
“Because we all know you secretly love it,” Byron chimes in like he and Marek share a brain. He continues to the front of the class, standing with poise and a presence that is undeniable. He belongs here, and this is his playground.
“Better watch your back or else you just may become the teacher’s pet,” Marek whispers.
The remainder of class, Byron yammers on about this semester’s syllabus. Every so often, he checks my seat. There’s a fire inside him, and I have no choice to look away, breaking the spell he has me under. He knows he’s won, and I hate that.
“Miss Weston, please hang back for a second,” Byron calls out as the class comes to an end.
“What did I say?” Marek wiggles his eyebrows and slips on his aviator sunglasses. “Teacher’s pet.” His words come out like a gleeful song.
I lean back in my desk, acting natural when I’m anything but. A teacher shouldn’t look at a student like he is me right now. Byron waits for all the students to pass and only then does he push off his desk. He saunters over and sits on the edge of mine, crossing his leg over his knee. I start to stand, fight or flight taking over my body, only to be shoved back into my chair.
“I’m a student.” I gulp back the growing lump in my throat. “You can’t—”
Byron holds his hand up. “The exact opposite, Palmer. It’s because I’m a teacher, I can do whatever I want.” He rises, a pleased and domineering sway to his walk. He turns halfway to the chalkboard. “It would be better for you to remember that. Don’t ever undermine me in front of other staff members.”
What the hell is this guy trying to get at? I didn’t undermine him. Miss Hughes stepped in, not at my request. I would have been perfectly happy spending this past hour in the dean’s office.
“Afraid they’ll see you for what you really are?” I stand, holding my books close to my chest.
“And what is it you think I am?” He spins, his head tilting from side to side.
I’m not his student right now. I’m his prey, and he’s famished.
“You know what you are, Mr. Decatur, and don’t think for a single second, I’m not privy to information you try so damn hard to keep tucked away.” I bare my teeth, but the strength is a hoax. In front of someone like Byron, survival is my only option. He’ll chew the strongest up and spew them at the feet of their loved ones if it means he’s victorious.
I’ve heard the stories, folklore, passed between classes. He’s unapologetically cruel with zero regard for anyone else except himself.
“Reed had quite the imagination, Palmer. It’s best to not listen to the words of a dead girl.” He turns his back. His blunt dismissal doesn’t make him seem strong. The opposite is actually true.
“Hit a nerve, huh?” I whisper over his shoulder as I pass to the door.
A cool hand wraps tightly around my wrist. I’m spun around and slammed into the white brick wall next to the door.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” The vein in his neck throbs. If I could read minds, I’d say he’s plotting a way to dispose of my body without being noticed, or he’s imagining what it would be like to kiss me. There’s a thin line dividing the two sometimes. His closed hand slams against the wall beside my head. “So shut the fuck up.”
“Or what, Mr. Decatur?” I reach up, running my fingers over his short, brown hair. “You going to shut me up yourself? I hear that’s your thing after all.” I reach between our bodies and wrap my hand around my own throat, applying enough pressure for him to notice.
Byron’s pupils dilate, and if that isn’t proof enough, his tongue peeps out of his mouth and runs along his bottom lip. He’s hungry to replace my hand with his own.