These Thorn Kisses (St. Mary’s Rebels 3)

Thankfully I come out of my stupor. “I was just leaving.”

It’s his turn to come out of his stupor then. At my words.

His expression clears of any shock or anger and goes all smooth as he lets go of the handle. Then, keeping his eyes firmly planted on me, he puts his hand on the door itself and splays his fingers wide before pushing on it, his biceps flexing from the force, and opening it completely.

He steps over the threshold then, finally entering the room.

I automatically take a step back to make space for him, for his large, looming body. And I automatically wince as well when, still without taking his eyes off me, he brings his arm back and shuts the door behind him.

Although with a soft click instead of the loud bang that I was expecting.

Which somehow makes everything seem even worse.

“Were you?” he asks, murmurs almost, his voice soft as well.

Just like it was yesterday on the field, all silky and smooth and dangerous.

Shiver-inducing.

I clear my throat. “Yes.”

At this, he folds his arms across his chest and leans against the door, as if telling me through his actions that I’m not going anywhere. “Why?”

“What?”

“Why were you leaving?” he asks as if he doesn’t know and is really curious to hear my answer.

As if it isn’t obvious.

“Because I…” I fist my skirt. “This is your office and I — I shouldn’t have been in here like this and —”

“So you’re aware of it then,” he cuts me off as he asks. “That you shouldn’t have been in here. In my office.”

I blush. “Yes. Yes, I’m aware. I just —”

“So if you’re aware that you shouldn’t have been in here in the first place,” he interrupts me yet again with a mocking, thoughtful tone, “then what were you doing? In my office.”

Swallowing, I wince again even though he still hasn’t raised his voice. “I know this looks bad. I know that. But I just came in here to look for you and —”

“To look for me,” he speaks over me yet again, for the third time. “In an empty room.” I open my mouth to say something but this time, he doesn’t even let me get to the speaking part as he continues, “So where were you looking? Behind that bookcase? Or under the desk, perhaps.”

“I —” I try again and again, he cuts me off.

Oh God, why won’t he let me talk?

“Or maybe you thought I was hiding in that storage closet. Just by my desk. Maybe that’s why,” he continues, his voice finally catching up to his ire, “you were taking a leisurely stroll through a teacher’s office like it’s your personal fucking amusement park. Is that it?”

“Oh my God, I was doing it because of you,” I blurt out then.

The truth.

Why would I do that?

Why?

Why, Wyn?

“Me,” he repeats in a flat tone.

Damn it.

Why do I have to be so pathetic?

So pathetic that I now need to salvage this situation after I’ve so carelessly blurted out the truth.

“Yes,” I nod. “Because you traumatized me yesterday.”

He did.

He did traumatize me, by bringing up The Unspeakable.

Everyone was talking about it at the dorms after dinner. About how I — Bronwyn Littleton, the good and quiet girl of St. Mary’s — talked back to a teacher for the first time ever. And how that teacher threatened to stop my graduation. Poe looked extremely proud of me while Salem looked worried that I was coming down with something.

I’m just glad that Callie doesn’t live in the dorms anymore or she would’ve heard about my absurd behavior and definitely gotten suspicious. As it is, I’ve asked Poe and Salem not to breathe a word about it to her.

His chest moves as he takes a breath and repeats my words again. “I traumatized you.”

I swallow, shifting on my feet and trying to sound more confident. “Yes. You did. When you crazily threatened to stop my graduation.”

Something flickers in his eyes then.

Something bright.

But before I can read it or understand it, he moves them. His denim blue eyes.

He brings them down to my body.

To my braid first, which is lying limp and messy over my shoulder. It starts out pretty neat though, in the mornings. But then over the course of the day, it starts to unravel. Maybe because I stick things in it, pens and pencils and paintbrushes.

My cardigan and my skirt share the same fate as my braid. Ironed and neat in the mornings but wrinkled and ink-stained by the end of the day. Even my knee-high socks somehow have pink ink stains, and my Mary Janes are dirty as if I’ve been kicking a ball around on the soccer field when all I’ve done today is go to classes and sketch.

He’s probably coming to the same conclusion.

That I look like a disaster as compared to how I looked a few hours ago in the morning when Callie innocently brought him over for introductions.