A Gorgeous Villain (St. Mary's Rebels 2)

All of a sudden it hits me that I’m in costume.

I’ve been wearing this for three hours now and I completely forgot. I completely forgot that this is the first time Reed is seeing me in this.

A white leotard and a light green tutu.

Not to mention, I also have wings.

They are heavy — although after wearing them for so long, my shoulders have gone numb so I don’t feel their weight anymore — and made of white fur. They’re slung over my shoulders with white ribbon-like strings and rustle across my spine and arms.

Like a fairy…

I’ve been wearing leotards and tutus all my life so until he looks at me from top to bottom, I don’t realize how revealing it can be.

How tight the costume is and how it fits me like a second skin. How it highlights every lithe muscle, every delicate bone in my body.

How exposed I am.

Even more than I was back in the woods.

And before I can stop myself, I say, “It’s my tutu.”

When he lifts his eyes back to my face, they’re the darkest that I’ve seen them.

Liquid and fiery.

“Yeah?” he rasps in an almost indulgent tone.

I bring my trembling hands forward and trace the frilly fabric. “It’s like a skirt.”

“And what are those?”

He points to my feet and I look down. “Uh, they’re called pointe shoes.” I chuckle as I look up. “You know, people say that ballerinas have the ugliest feet. They’re all swollen and bruised and cut up and –”

“People are stupid.”

“But –”

I stop talking because something makes him move.

I don’t know what it is but he straightens up and I’m wondering what the chances are that he’ll stay put where he is, by the door, when he starts walking toward me.

It’s not a big space so by the time I gather my wits to ask him what the heck he’s doing, he’s already here.

He’s already touching me.

Not me, per se.

He’s touching my wings. Or one of them actually.

Standing over me like a threat or something, a delicious, gorgeous threat in a white hoodie and a pulsating bruise, Reed reaches out and brushes a finger along the edge of my wing. Crazily, my spine arches up at the touch. As if he’s touching my skin instead of my fake wing.

His eyes drop to my bowed body and if he couldn’t see the shape of it before, he can sure see it now.

He can see the bones of my ribs, the hollow of my stomach. My really small but jutting out breasts.

“What are these wings for?” he asks, bringing his eyes up to mine.

“F-for my character.”

“What character is that?”

“I’m a fairy.”

Somehow his eyes grow all heated even as a slight lopsided smile pulls up his lips. “So I was right, huh?”

“I –”

He rubs the fur between his fingers as he continues, “You are a fairy. You dance like a fairy.” His eyes flick over my face, my bun. “You look like one too.”

I lose my breath for a second.

I also lose my heartbeats. My rational thoughts.

That’s the only explanation for why my legs stretch up and I get closer to him. “I’m a stupid fairy though.”

“How so?”

“Because I fall in love with my enemy. In the song.”

“Your enemy.”

“Yes, a human. He’s supposed to hunt fairies.”

“And what about him?” he asks, his fingers still playing with my wing and his eyes going back and forth between mine. “Does he fall in love with you too?”

“Yes.” I swallow, my own fingers fisting my tutu. “Or I think he does. But he’s lying.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s using me. He wants to trap me and bring me back to his family. I’m supposed to be his first hunt.”

“What a fucking asshole.”

“Everyone warns me about him. All my fairy friends and my family. But I don’t listen to them. I think he’s a hero.”

“But he’s not, is he?”

“No, he’s the villain in my story.”

A fire rages in his eyes, hot and so vivid that it burns me. “Yeah, I know something about villains.”

My heart twists in my chest for some reason. “His name is Romeo.”

“Romeo.”

“Yeah. In the song.”

“And you must be Juliet then.”

I nod. “I’m actually Juliet.” Then, “My name. Calliope Juliet Thorne.”

“Calliope Juliet Thorne,” he repeats in his rich deep voice.

Also smooth.

And it feels as if instead of plucking at the edges of my wing, he’s swirling the ends of my nerves with his long fingers. And he’s doing it somewhere in the small of my back so that my spine bows for him even more.

He appreciates my efforts too.

He runs his eyes over my stretched-out body once more.

“And you’re Reed Roman Jackson.”

“You know my name, huh?”

“It’s not a secret. Your full name. Girls chant it pretty often. Like a prayer.”

He smirks. “Do they?”

“Yes,” I answer, slightly irked. “They also call you Romeo.”

His eyes narrow. “What?”

I nod. “Because everyone knows that Roman is just another version of Romeo.”