ROMAIN
Ilet the bitch stew. I act like she doesn’t exist. And she doesn’t until, occasionally, our eyes lock, and I see the terror lurking in them, not knowing what will come next. After she slapped me again, I could have reported her and got her fired. This is my fucking school, after all. But where’s the fun in that. All I had to do was let the boys continue to wear her down. And all I needed to do was wait, bide my time.
But then I find out from Zane that Carter stole her bag, which means he’s had a key cut. The game is getting out of hand. It’s only a matter of time before they do something even I will regret. I manage to get the bag off Carter and send it back to her with a note to come and find me after school on Friday.
She’s waiting for me after rugby practice at the entrance to my dorm house.
“Romain, what is this,” she says as I get closer, brandishing the note. “It was you who stole my bag?”
Her dark chestnut-colored hair is windswept as she brushes it out of her eyes. Gray eyes, serious and soulful, peer into mine. She’s wearing some godawful shapeless fucking trousers and a padded jacket to match, but I still run an eye over the slope of her breasts and the curve of her waist.
Then I don’t bother to acknowledge her and carry on walking inside.
Arabella has surprised even me. She’s tougher than she looks, than I thought, given the scars on her wrists. Anyone else would have left by now. Broken into pieces by now.
She sighs loudly. Footsteps behind me echo on the stone as she follows me in. It’s possible she knows the three-story building is empty since most of the Mercia House is still on the field. Only seniors get to leave early if they have a pass. I’m a senior, and I always have a pass.
That and my father is away on business and needs me to attend some shitty gala fundraiser in his place. They’re always so fucking tedious, but I can’t say no. Someone has to play nice with the investors and suck up to the old prick. If I want any inheritance, I need my family to see I’m an asset to the Montford name.
“It was you who locked me in the cupboard too, wasn’t it?” She glares at me.
All these accusations….
I ignore her and dump my training bag on the sideboard and pour myself a bourbon over ice. Once I’ve taken a mouthful, I shoot a look at my fucking teacher.
A frown creases her brow when she sees me drinking.
I shrug at her. “I’m over eighteen.”
Her lips purse, but she doesn’t say anything about alcohol not being allowed during school hours. She looks tired, as she should. I had the boys lock her up last night…to teach her a lesson and to keep Carter from following her home after his match. He’s the only one out of us all who can’t keep it in his fucking trousers when he’s drunk, and he always drinks when his team loses. Always.
“Romain, you asked me to come and talk to you,” she huffs.
“Correction. I asked you to come and apologize,” I say.
“What? You want me to apologize?” She sounds tense and anxious. Good.
“It’s not every day a student gets struck by a teacher. Twice.”
She glares at me and then tilts her head, letting out a breath. “Look. I’m sorry I hit you. I was out of line.” She ruins it by glowering in the way she does. “But so are you.”
I raise a brow. “You think I’m behind the pranks?”
“I know you are.” She practically bristles. “I don’t care about them. You can harass me all day and night. Just leave my cat out of it.”
“I didn’t take your cat.” That’s at least the truth. Zane probably did. “I’m not behind the pranks either,’ I lie.
“But you did assault me.”
I stifle a yawn. “Hardly. You were begging for it, soaking wet, in fact. I distinctly recall you moaning for more.”
She frowns. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“What about at Little Bird? Did that not mean anything too?” I ask with a slight edge to my tone.
“That was a mistake.”
“So you keep saying,” I say coldly.