My Darling Arrow (St. Mary's Rebels 1)

I don’t know what I was expecting after I finished my hurried, impassioned speech. Maybe I was expecting him to dismiss it or to make a joke or a sarcastic comment.

But I wasn’t expecting him to move.

I didn’t know that my words had the power to make him lean away from the shelf and unfold his arms. I didn’t know that my words would expose his flayed knuckles when he lowers his strong arms.

They aren’t as swollen and wounded as they looked last week, but there’s still some redness there, still some bruising.

But I don’t get the time to study them more because he’s walking toward me, advancing, and his eyes have this intense look in them. So intense that it pushes my body. It pushes me to move back.

Back and back as he grows closer and closer, his footsteps thudding on the cement floor.

As soon as my spine hits the bookcase, he reaches me, trapping me effectively.

Between the wooden bookcase with large, thick books and his body that has a broad, muscular chest and a tapering, sleek waist. Not to mention powerful thighs, encased in a pair of jeans.

“You’re right,” he says, dipping his face toward me. “I am angry. And upset and fucked in the head. And I did take it out on him and I liked it. I would’ve killed him if they hadn’t pulled me off. So yeah, I’m fucking furious and I’m furious all the time.”

I swallow, hugging the book tighter, feeling the pain in his guttural words. “I’m so sorry.”

But he completely ignores it and keeps going. “But I can’t go around punching people, can I? I can’t go around breaking things as much as I want to.”

“No, you can’t.”

He leans even closer then.

In fact, he raises his arm and grabs the shelf just above my head. I swear, I feel the mountain-like bookcase wobble at his grip.

“So that’s why I was at the bar that night,” he whispers, his chain shifting against his V-neck t-shirt.

“The bar?”

He nods. “I was looking for a distraction.”

It takes me a moment to understand what he’s saying and when I do get it, I hug the book so tight that the binding hurts my chest and my arms.

“The girl you were kissing,” I whisper. “You were looking for someone to…”

Have sex with.

That’s what he means, doesn’t he? He was looking for a one-night stand.

Someone to dull the pain, and I have to breathe slowly to let it digest.

To let the fact digest that the guy I’m in love with, my sister’s ex-boyfriend, was looking for a girl to fuck.

“Yeah.” His dark eyes squint for a second as he agrees with me. “I was looking for someone and I would’ve found her. But then you showed up.”

I bite my lip. “I…”

“All messy hair and flushed cheeks.” His gaze roves over my face before dropping to my mouth. “And darkly painted lips, and ruined everything.”

I wince at his harsh tone.

But I don’t think he notices because he keeps looking at them, my lips, and I have a feeling that he’s thinking about them painted. He’s thinking about the lipstick I wore and I can’t stop myself from whispering, “I-it’s called Teenage Decay.”

He raises his eyes and does that lip-lick thingy that he did back at the soccer field. Where his tongue peeks out and takes a slight swipe of his plump lower lip and where I have to go ahead and do the same.

Because it’s still so unbelievable to me. That sexy move of his.

“Teenage Decay,” he repeats on a whisper, and I feel the bookcase wobble at my spine again as he grips it harder. “It suits you. Or at least, I think it does. Because that’s the problem, see. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?”

He tips his chin at me, studying me like I’m a puzzle or something. “You. I don’t know a thing about you. Until now, I didn’t know you played soccer. I didn’t know you had a talent for lame poetry. I didn’t know anything. About you. The girl who knows so much about me. You do, don’t you? To draw all the conclusions about me. About my hurt.”

Oh, he has no idea.

He has no idea all the things that I know about him, and I don’t want to give him any idea either. So I try to act casual and shrug even though it comes out awkward.

“Uh, yeah. We lived in the same house. For years. A-and as I said before, you were busy with soccer and other things.”

“Well, again lucky for you. I’m not busy now, am I?”

I look to the side. “I don’t understand.”

And as if in response to me averting my eyes, he raises his other arm as well, grabbing the same shelf by the side of my head, making a prison out of his limbs and chest. So I never look away from him again.