Angry God (All Saints High 3)

I leaned against the wall and shoved my hands into my pockets, watching as he kissed both her cheeks and flung her blonde ponytail with a familiarity that told me he’d done it a thousand times before. And why wouldn’t he? He was her uncle.

“Thank you for the new jumper, by the way.” She took a step back, seeming to forget all about Edgar.

I knew she’d been raised here, in this castle, so it made sense that she was close to him. I just hadn’t thought of that.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“You’re never going to wear it.” He flicked her ponytail again.

Stop touching her.

She shrugged. “It’s the thought that counts.”

They both laughed. Harry ran his cool eyes from me to her, a vicious smile tugging at his lips.

“So, Lenny, are congratulations in order? Is the talented Vaughn Spencer your new beau?”

She frowned, about to deny it, and at this point, denial was exactly what I needed. He shouldn’t think he had leverage on me. Especially in the form of a pussy. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t put it past him to hurt her to get to me, and he needed to know she was off limits.

I took a step forward. “Yeah, I’m the boyfriend. Nice to see you again, Mr. Fairhurst. Oh, wait…” My eyes flicked to his cast. “You can’t shake my hand. Never mind.”

Lenora’s head shot up, her gaze chasing mine. Fine, I’d declared us as a couple without consulting her. But really, we were exclusively fucking each other and throwing fits whenever the other breathed in another person’s direction. It wasn’t far-fetched.

“Is that so?” Harry lifted a brow.

I could already see the wheels in his brain turning, trying to figure out a way to use it in his advantage.

“No other way for it to be,” I said wittily. “And you’d be wise to remember that.”

Yet again, I threw myself into the fire to save her skinny ass, dumb motherfucker that I was.

“Nice,” he said, taking the hint.

“Haven’t been called that before, but I’ll take it.” I threw an arm over Good Girl’s shoulder, taking off toward her room again.

Len turned around to look at her uncle, then looked up at me, confused. “What was that all about?”

I ignored her question.

That was one secret I was taking to my grave.

I woke up alone.

Vaughn’s warmth had evaporated right along with his hard frame. I scrubbed the sleep out of my eyes and sat upright, trying to ignore the painful echo of Papa’s whispers to Arabella last night. There was no mistaking what had been happening there. He’d told her to get off of him. That meant she was on top of him—and not to play chicken fight, presumably.

I stretched, trying not to worry about what last night with Vaughn had meant. He’d said I was his girlfriend, but Vaughn was a master manipulator, and had many reasons to say things—many reasons that had nothing to do with his actual feelings.

I stood up and opened my door, knowing I’d find a steaming cup of coffee and a basket of something sweet. This time, it was a tray of muffins. The scent of banana bread and blueberries wafted in the air, and my mouth watered as I grabbed the tray and coffee, ushering them to my new drafting table. I was grateful my sister had kept up her daily tradition. I set everything aside and called her.

“Heya,” I said when she answered.

“Hey! What are you up to? I was meaning to call you yesterday to check on you.” She sounded like she was out and about in the big city. A bit breathless.

I ran my hand over the table, mentally going through the pros and cons of salvaging my assemblage statue.

Pro: It was a magnificent piece. It was going to help me put a mark in this industry. There was something iconic and different about it.

Con: Putting this piece out in the open meant admitting to feeling things I swore I wouldn’t feel, to a man I swore I’d never even acknowledge.

“How’s London?” I asked.

Listening to Poppy’s voice soothed me. I didn’t know how I could break her heart by telling her about Papa and Arabella, but I knew I had to.

“Lovely, albeit gray. And Carlisle?”

“Same.” I chuckled, picking invisible lint from my PJs. “Listen, I know you’re busy; I just wanted to say thank you for all the chocolate and pastries. Aside from the type two diabetes I’m bound to have by the end of these six months, it’s a sweet gesture, and it reminds me someone cares, that somebody is thinking about me every day.”

Silence stretched on the other side of the line.

Should I have said something sooner? Probably. It’d been months since she started doing it. I hadn’t wanted to embarrass her by talking about it. This was obviously a mistake. A gesture better left unspoken.