Angry God (All Saints High 3)

“Appreciate it.” I unbuckled my seatbelt.

Dad put his hand on mine, stopping me. “Keep me posted.”

“I will.” I hesitated, frowning. “Aren’t you going to ask what I did?”

Technically, I did nothing. It was allegedly Mom. But I was curious as to why Dad didn’t poke. Did he not give a shit, or just had no moral compass?

He shook his head. “Sadly, it wouldn’t make any difference. I’d still save you from harm. But if you raped someone, if you hurt…” He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. He shook his head. “I just want to look at you and see someone I’m proud of. Always.”

I let out a breath. “I’d never do that,” I said. “Touch someone like that. No. It’s nothing violent or shit like that.”

“Thank fuck.”

I opened the passenger door.

“One more thing.” He clasped my wrist. There was a threat laced in his voice. “I promised not to poke, but if I find out who’s doing this to you, they will be mine to deal with.”

I stared at him long and hard. I didn’t plan to leave any traces behind. I was not going to make a mistake. Dad was never going to find out. This was not my hill to die on.

I smirked. “Deal.”

“Mate, I’ve seen more signs of intelligence on a moldy sausage roll,” Pope snorted, lying next to me in my bed in the dark, licking his fingers clean of chocolate smudges.

We were recounting our day and sharing the latest of the chocolate baskets Poppy had sent my way. This one had arrived this morning. I broke off a piece of chocolate, popping it into my mouth and savoring the sugar and saltiness of the pretzel balls inside it.

“That daft, huh?” I wiggled my brows.

I felt Pope shaking his head beside me. His hand was propped under his head. We stared at my ceiling like it was a drive-in theater.

“I don’t know how you put up with her an entire year. This Arabella lass is actively stupid, like it’s her patriotic duty. She doesn’t even know how to mix paint. No. Actually, she can’t even distinguish varnish from a cup of water. Should’ve let her drink it, frankly. That way I’d be given another assistant. How was your first day?”

Pope rubbed my shoulder.

Why couldn’t I obsess over someone like him? Nice, decent, and at least outwardly sane? Why did I have to secretly salivate over Vaughn Spencer, who wanted me to suck his blood and cock but didn’t want to reciprocate? The guy who’d vanished faster than an Agatha Christie character as soon as he’d arrived in this castle, and had me looking for him all day like a lovelorn puppy?

I was so mortified to tell Papa I couldn’t find the intern I was assisting that I hadn’t even asked him where he was. Instead, I asked Uncle Harry if he knew where Vaughn worked on his piece. He gave me a cryptic answer that ultimately suggested Vaughn’s piece was not to be seen by anyone other than Papa.

“I couldn’t find him,” I admitted to Pope. “I looked in all the studios, in his room, and asked Harry and Alma. No one knows where he works.” I shrugged, trying to downplay how badly that stung—especially after last night, when he’d refused to touch me where I craved him.

“What a wanker.” Pope shook his head.

Not quite, I was tempted to correct him. He wouldn’t wank me.

“Well, if you can’t find him tomorrow, I could certainly use a hand.”

“And someone with a brain,” I volunteered. We both laughed.

Pope said Arabella had wandered out of his studio minutes after establishing she couldn’t tell the difference between a brush and a canvas, looking for my father. He said she’d seemed frantic. Maybe she’d finally realized Vaughn wasn’t going to be with her, even if she moved across the ocean for him.

“Pope,” I said, my voice turning serious. “About my birthday present…I know what I want.”

“Do tell.”

So I did. I told him. It was one of the most embarrassing conversations I’d ever had. Fortunately it was dark, so he couldn’t see my nuclear blush, and to my relief, he agreed. Part of me had thought he might laugh in my face and tell me to bugger off. But he was completely cool about it, said it wasn’t going to be a problem. Then, to extinguish the awkwardness, he turned around and tickled my waist.

I laughed, pushing him to the corner of the mattress, against the wall, trying to tickle him back. We wrestled on top of my bed, and I was grateful that interns and assistants weren’t under the tight supervision of the staff the way the students were, and I could sneak him in. We giggled breathlessly, and I managed to sneak my hand into his armpit, which caused him to jolt. (Pope was notoriously ticklish.) He climbed on top of me and straddled me to the futon, just the way Vaughn had the night before, my wrists locked beside my shoulders.