Without a word, the tall woman I presume to be the instructor steps up to the podium and begins to quietly unload her things from the satchel at her side. I feel the prickling burn of someone’s awareness—the kind of feeling you get when you know someone is staring. My gaze follows the two guys who’d come in after the teacher as they stop at the bottom of the steps leading up to the desks, tilting their heads back as they look up and their eyes meet mine.
I arch a brow and settle into my seat. The room seems to hold its collective breath as the two of them begin to move. Curious, I follow the trail they make through the room—watching as girls ogle them with lustful eyes and guys either avoid looking directly at them or stare with worshipping expressions. As if these two aren’t mere students but gods who’ve graced us with their presence.
The taller of the two men hangs back, letting his friend take the lead. Something about him makes me feel restless, though. By all appearances, he looks like an all-American jock—bright hazel-gray eyes, chiseled jaw, and even a little boyish curl of dark hair over his forehead. Perhaps he’s fooled many people with his casual swagger and easy half-smile as he ignores the attention, but not me. I recognize a wildness to his movements. How? Well, chaos calls to chaos, right?
It’s not hard to see savagery in someone else when you see it in the mirror every day.
They're halfway up the steps when I drop my gaze to the man in front. Although he's slightly shorter than the jock, and despite the fact that he doesn’t have the hint of unhinged violence like his friend, he has a similar intensity. Instead of Mr. All-American, though, he looks more like a Rock God come straight from the silver screen. His body moves like a lithe panther, his ocean blue eyes piercing me with their careful consideration. The top of his hair is longer, a gleaming blond, but when he stops in front of me, I realize that the rest of his hair is slightly darker underneath.
My head falls back on my shoulders as they stop at the last row. My row. Right in front of me. Before he says a damn word, I know what’s coming. I really hoped that this could be avoided, but it looks like that’s not going to happen. I’ve been to too many schools to be ignorant of the fact that these two are clearly important—it’s simply the way everyone in the room reacts to their presence.
The Sick Boys? I wonder absently as I meet the man’s gaze. Perhaps. Guess I’m about to find out.
The frontman’s lips twitch, one corner lifting into a smirk. "You must be new," he says.
I smile back and don't say a word, leaving him to make his own assumptions in utter fucking silence just because I know that it usually pisses people off.
He frowns when, after a few more moments, I still don’t speak—which, of course, only serves to make my smile grow. His eyes flick over his shoulder to his friend, who shrugs, and then frontman is staring back at me. He huffs out a sigh. "Alright fine,” he says. “Then lesson one. This is our row. No one else sits here unless we allow it.” He slaps a hand down on the table. “Unless you’re my flavor of the week, you’re not invited. Get up and move. Now."
I shift, getting more comfortable in my seat. "I don't think so," I say. “I'm comfortable right where the fuck I am, and I don't see your name anywhere on the seat currently residing under my ass.” A tingle slides through my spine and before I can stop that little whisper of chaos in the back of my mind, I blurt out my next words. “But you’re welcome to try and make me.”
Blue eyes widen and behind him, All-American chuckles. "Do you have a death wish?" frontman asks, dropping his hand from the table in front of me.
I lean back and cross my arms over my chest before shrugging. "Not particularly."
He grows silent and I take the reprieve as a chance to glance around and gauge how the others in the room are reacting. The teacher remains turned away, obviously trying her best to act as if nothing is happening. It makes me curious as to who these guys really are if she’s so willing to ignore what would have a high school teacher yelling at us to sit down and get ready for class. Ms. Bairns was right, this is certainly not high school, but I’m getting the feeling that neither is it a normal university. Everyone else in the room is not so subtly watching the exchange. Some with worried looks. Others with expressions that could only be described as bloodthirsty.
How very interesting…
I flip my attention back to the matter at hand—or rather the men at hand. "Listen," I say, waving my hand in their general direction, "you're welcome to sit at the opposite end of this row, but there's no way in hell I'm moving. If you wanted this seat, you should've gotten here first."
Frontman’s hand lands back on the table, harder this time and he leans close—far closer than before. I still, forcing my body not to react. "I'll give you one last chance to get away without getting hurt," he says, his voice dark and low. "You should be grateful. We never give second chances, and maybe after you've recognized your place, I can show you a better one, eh? Maybe you’ll actually get one of those invitations if you play your cards right.”
I let my eyes trail down his body. He's hot——there's no denying that. It's obvious from the way his t-shirt stretches across his shoulders and pecs that he's packing a sinewy kind of muscle. He’s got a swimmer’s body and likely has a tapered waist with one of those sexy as fuck Vs that makes women lose their fucking minds. But I wouldn’t be where I am or who I am if I let every guy with a gym membership tell me what to do. If he thinks I want to be his flavor of the week at any point in time, then he’s got another thing coming.
"Tell me something," I droll. "Is your ass jealous of all the shit coming out of your mouth?"
His slightly stunned face morphs into one of devilish glee. "Well, we have ourselves a little fucking smartass, don’t we?"
"Oh, honey." I shake my head. "I'm not a smartass. I'm a skilled and trained professional at stating the obvious. And it's obvious you think that I'm going to get up and move just because you tell me to. Except I'm not because I don't know you and I got here first. Therefore, my ass will be sitting right where I planted it. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with someone who has a fuck to give. Here’s a hint: It’s not me.”
The taller guy laughs, the sound so loud and booming it makes several girls in the room jump. Even the teacher, though I note that she still keeps her back turned. Plausible deniability. I shake my head again. Adults are such pansies. Frontman gets closer, slamming his other hand down on the back of my chair as he bends over me, that smile of his still in place despite my insult.
"It's been a while since I've been challenged like this," he admits. "You're turning me on, princess."
I scowl, baring my teeth. "Don't call me a fucking princess."
"Aww, don't you like the nickname?" he asks, grinning. "That's what you are, right? The Pauper Princess? One of our new program students, right? Well, let me tell you something, princess.” I curl my lips back even more as he emphasizes the distasteful nickname just to be an ass. “The only reason you're even here is because of families like mine. We brought you here and we can send you back to whatever ghetto it is that you crawled out of. We hold the power and you hold nothing we don't fucking give you. Understand? Now get that gorgeous ass up, but don't worry, this time I won't ask you to move. I'll just slide beneath you and let you ride my cock while we learn about statistics, yeah? Your own personal welcome from the Kings of the fucking Eastpoint Castle.”