Lessons in Sin

The little shit openly stared at her, stared harder, and continued to do so as his elbow rammed into the guy beside him. Within seconds, the entire row of senior boys was gawking at her.

I gave them the sternest look I had, but none of them caught it. They were spellbound by the Constantine princess. Maybe they recognized her from the press. But I knew it was more than that. The girl was a knockout. Stunning beyond anything these boys had ever encountered.

Out the corner of my eye, she held her palm out and blew them a kiss.

Some of them scrambled to catch it. None were listening to the sermon.

I angled toward her and growled in her ear. “This is your only warning. Do that again, and you’ll earn another strike.”

“Are these strikes given with a strap or a cane?” she whispered.

“Shut up and pay attention.”

Five minutes later, she was asleep, her neck hanging at an awkward angle, bobbing her head.

I grabbed a missal from the book rack and dropped the heavy text onto her lap.

She jumped, her arm flying out and nailing me in the chest.

“Sorry,” she mouthed.

Within minutes, her head bobbed again.

And so it went. Through what little of Mass she was actually conscious, she groaned between the kneeling and standing, yawned through the prayers, smiled and winked at the boys, and tested my patience. She did everything wrong.

But she would learn. By the end of the day, she would understand the meaning of a hard lesson.

CHAPTER 9

TINSLEY

My head pounded as I stared at the laptop, the screen growing blurry with each heavy blink. I snapped it closed. After three hours of test-taking, I could barely keep my eyes open.

I stood from the desk and extended my arms toward the domed ceiling, stretching in a yoga upward salute, trying to wake my muscles.

Father Magnus’s classroom had been empty all morning, save for the man himself. For the past three hours, he sat in the row behind me, working on his laptop. He was so eerily quiet, so stock-still, I might’ve forgotten he was there. But that was impossible.

His presence overwhelmed the very air, smothering it with his dark masculinity and the echo of his promise.

It’ll be unpleasant.

He was really playing up my impending punishment, drawing out the suspense and dread. It was working. I envisioned a physical beating with some kind of dungeon-like implement, one I would fight tooth and nail. I would do everything in my power to make him regret keeping me here.

But deep in my gut, I was scared.

Pulling in a breath, I turned to face him.

“You finished?” His low, rich timbre vibrated through me as he lifted his eyes from his work.

“Crushed it.”

I’d considered not crushing it. If poor test scores meant more one-on-one time with Father Malicious, it would give me more opportunities to land a spot on his banned-from-Sion list.

But I couldn’t do it. I didn’t care if I was perceived as disobedient, entitled, or promiscuous. But I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone thinking I was dumb.

My pride could only take so many hits.

He looked at his watch. “You still have forty minutes left. Most students run out of time during these tests.”

“I don’t know what you want from me. I answered all the questions.”

“If you didn’t do your best—”

“Yeah, I know. More strikes. Geesh.”

“Head to the dining hall. After lunch, I expect you back in this room. I teach two classes in the afternoon. You’ll sit through those, and by tomorrow, I’ll have your test results and class schedule.” He returned his attention to his laptop. “Dismissed.”

As I treaded out of the classroom, his gaze burned a hole between my shoulder blades, and I knew. I just knew he was counting down the minutes to whatever punishment he had planned for me.

At the doorway, I peeked back, and sure enough, his eyes were waiting, watching, glowing with anticipation.

With a shiver, I bolted down the hall.

Down the stairs and around a few bends, I found the dining hall easily enough. Starving, I made a beeline for the serving line. If the food was anything like the gooey, homemade cinnamon roll I’d grabbed from here after Mass, I was in for a treat.

Around thirty students and teachers sat at round tables scattered throughout the room. Their conversations quieted when I entered, their eyes tracking my path to the food counters.

I hated that. It didn’t matter where I went or what I was doing. There were always spectators judging me, picking out my flaws, and looking for ways to use me for my family.

Tuning them out, I filled a plate with organic fruit, warm baked bread, and vibrant green salad with grilled chicken. Everything looked so fresh and high quality, made from the best ingredients. Given the outrageous tuition, it made sense that first-class meals would be included.