Angry God (All Saints High 3)

“Yes, actually, but you’ll have to keep your mind open.”

“My mind is nothing but open. An artist with a closed mind is like a limbless dancer.” He winked.

We gathered our things and hopped onto the boat. As we sailed our way back to the castle, it began to drizzle, the first rain of the season. Summer was coming to an end, and with it, my few weeks of uninterrupted bliss. Come Monday, everything was going to change.

I wasn’t ready, yet at the same time, I felt ripe for something I couldn’t describe, bursting at the seams. The air was thick with possibility. I hadn’t told anyone what I was working on. I wanted to help Vaughn deliver his piece to Tate Modern, then reveal mine to private galleries in hopes of snagging a good internship.

Something occurred to me while Raff was anchoring the boat and helping me hop onto the grass. I threw my backpack over my shoulder and frowned at him.

“You know, I never bothered to ask who you chose for your assistant.”

It made sense that he would’ve asked me the minute we learned I didn’t get in, but he never did. I hadn’t brought it up, because the subject of the internship was so sore, so sensitive for me. For a while there, I’d barely agreed to talk about it at all.

Raff smiled his cocksure grin and gave me the answer that shook the earth beneath my feet. “Oh, no one I know. She wrote me a heartbreaking letter about how much she wanted to get in, and frankly, it helped that her father invested eight hundred thousand quid in the exhibition I have planned for next summer. Her name is Arabella Garofalo. Actually, she’s from California, too. Perhaps she could be your friend.”

Fat chance.

And though this was yet another cruel turn of events, I couldn’t really muster much surprise. I made some excuse to Raff and left immediately, the blood draining from my face as rage filled my heart.

Fat chance, with a side of making me borderline suicidal.

I didn’t show up at the dining hall for the festive Sunday dinner, which marked the official beginning of both summer session and our internships.

The idea of Arabella sitting there next to Raff made me want to pull out every hair on my head, even without exploring the idea of seeing Vaughn again.

They were supposed to be here by now, but I had no intention of willingly seeing them.

I paced my room, fists clenched, my CD player tucked into the waistband of my sweatpants. Lit’s lyrics reminded me I was my own worst enemy.

I passed out in my bed at some point, headphones still on. When or how, I don’t know, but I was definitely sleeping until I felt a hand brushing my hair aside, a harsh, warm breath skating over my ear.

The headphones were pulled down gently, wrapping around my neck.

“I like you in this position, Good Girl—like a frightened dog curled into itself.”

This time, I didn’t pretend to sleep.

This time, I grabbed Vaughn’s golden, almighty, so-talented-it-was-allegedly-insured left hand and twisted it, darting up to a sitting position. My eyes popped open, blinking and trying to find a slice of light in the otherwise dark room. In the half-second it took me to adjust, Vaughn had pushed me back to the mattress, captured my wrists, and jammed them against the bed, his knee landing between my legs.

He growled in my face. “Never touch my hands again.”

I laughed, then arched my back, trying to lift my pelvis and kick him, since my hands were firmly locked. He applied more of his weight to me, laughing darkly as his knee accidentally pressed against the sensitive nub between my legs. I wondered if he’d sat at Arabella’s side at dinner. If they’d already made up after what happened at my house and charmed their way into Pope’s good graces. I hadn’t had the chance to warn Raff off Arabella. I’d needed to cool down before laying it out for him.

“How…” I trailed off, narrowing my eyes at him. “I changed the lock.”

He shifted slightly, ending the friction between his knee and my groin, and I almost moaned. The pressure had felt good, and I did everything I could not to let my eyes roll and wiggle myself lower, so he’d touch my clit again.

“Haven’t you learned anything? You can change your lock, your zip code, your hair, wardrobe, your entire fucking life, and I’ll still always find you. Touch your shit. Stake my claim.”

“You are so bloody full of yourself.”

“Bet you’d like to be full of me, too.”

“Keep telling yourself that while you hold me hostage underneath you. We both know I’ll knee you in the bollocks and stab you in the heart if you let go.”

I wished I was exaggerating, but after what he did with Arabella the last day of school, I wasn’t. Even though he’d saved me, I hated him with all my heart after that humiliation, and I didn’t even know why it bothered me so much.