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

“Get out.”

I say it calmly, evenly.

So much so that I don’t even think that I’ve said it. I think I’ve whispered it. Whispered it to the wind so it can carry my words to him.

The guy who’s standing only a few feet away from me.

But we might as well be miles apart. Millions of them.

He might as well be in a different dimension because of what he just said.

Because of what he just stupidly, callously said.

“Get out,” I say again, this time loudly, more determinedly. “Now.”

I don’t know if I’m imagining it or what but something flashes through his features. A wave of anguish, and he swallows before throwing me a short nod. “Fine.”

He turns around and leaves then.

I watch him bound down the porch stairs and stride toward his car that glints in the night. I watch him jerk the door open and get inside before peeling out of the driveway.

I watch him and watch him and when I can’t see him anymore, my eyes fill with tears.

A sob catches in my throat.

But I don’t let it out.

I won’t.

I refuse to cry for him anymore. I refuse to waste even a single tear on him. After all the progress we’ve made, all the tender and intimate moments that we’ve shared, he goes and does this. He hurts me like this.

Asshole.

God, he’s an asshole. A cruel fucking asshole. A villain.

And yet I’m crying for him.

I can’t stop the tears that I just promised myself that I will never shed for him. What is wrong with me?

What is wrong with you, Callie?

What is wrong with you that you lo…

No.

No, no, no.

I can’t. I won’t.

And suddenly I’m so angry at myself. So angry at him for pulling this, for being so cold, that I pant and heave. I march to the glass door and slam it shut.

And lock it.

I turn every lock on the door as if I’m keeping something out, and I am.

I’m keeping him out.

Even though I know he has a key and it’s his friend’s house — I still don’t know who — and he can get in any time he wants, I won’t let him.

As irrational as it is, I won’t let him come inside.

As soon as I’m done, my knees give out though and I slide down to the floor. And I completely smash the promise that I just made myself. Propped up against the locked glass door, I let myself go and cry.

I hug my knees and I sob.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

I hate him so much and the thought of it makes me cry all over again because it’s a lie.

I don’t hate him. That’s the problem.

Because I’m still stupid.

Because even though all I wanted to do was forgive him and move on, I know that I haven’t. Not completely. Not how I wanted.

Because all I have moved on from is the past, not him.

I’ve already committed the crime.

He’s right.

It’s done and I can’t… I can’t bear it.

And so I sob and sob for hours and days and an age.

Until I hear a sound.

A screech.

Tires burning the gravel that dulls out the sounds of my broken sobs. And then comes a flood of light pouring through the glass door and chasing away the shadows.

I spring up from where I’m sitting on the floor and spin around to find his Mustang coming to a jerking stop.

Out of which he climbs.

My gorgeous villain.

He’s here.

A glowing silhouette. A dark shadow.

Tall and broad as he stands by his Mustang. A dream. A beautiful nightmare.

I have to squint against the headlights so I can’t really tell the details of his face, but when the light goes off and he bangs the door shut, taking a step toward the house, I do the opposite.

I take a step back and away from the door.

And I keep doing that. I keep moving away from him. For every step that brings him closer to the house, to the door, to me, I take a step back.

Until he’s at the door and my legs touch the back of the cozy white couch, feet and feet away from him.

He watches me through the thick glass, his chest heaving up and down, his mouth slightly parted, his wolf eyes glowing.

Hungry.

And despite everything, I clench my thighs together. The thighs that are still wet with my juices and his mouth.

I clench them harder when he runs those heated eyes all over my body. From my loose hair to my rapidly breathing chest and his hoodie that I’m wearing over my floral-printed pajama pants. His eyes stop at my belly for a second or two, the outline of which is now visible through his baggy hoodie.

Only slightly though, but still.

She flutters inside me and I cradle it under his scrutiny.

His eyes narrow when he notices it and his hands that were fisted by his sides unfurl. He grabs the knob then and turns it.