Page 31 of Duplicitous
I want the real thing.
But now, she isn’t even trying to message Bones. She’s partying with the spoiled, naïve idiots from her MA course.
A dozen of them are packed into her tiny flat, spilling from the lounge into the kitchen because there’s not enough space for all of them.
I can’t deny the jealousy that’s a sour tang on the back of my tongue.
Her full focus should be onme.
I’m supposed to be her entire world. She’s supposed to be desperate for me.
But instead, she’s smiling at a blond boy who won’t be breathing much longer if he dares to move so much as an inch closer to her.
And when he makes her laugh, my entire body tenses with the need to throttle him.
His name is Rich Paulson, a wealthy kid who’s been handed everything in life, as far as I can tell. He barely earned his place on their MA course, and judging by the amount of time he spends watching porn online instead of studying, he’ll fail out before the year is through.
I’ve made sure to learn as much as possible about all of the new people in her life now that she’s moved to York—assessing for possible threats.
And possible distractions.
I hadn’t expected her to be bold enough to host a fucking party, and I definitely hadn’t seen baby-faced Rich as a threat to my ownership.
“My dad’s a dairy farmer,” he’s telling Karolina, his voice slurring slightly. “My family has owned land for generations. I’ll inherit someday, but I don’t actually work the farm. I’m more like a caretaker for the estate.”
She eases back a bit at his boast.
Karolina isn’t impressed by wealth, and she definitely doesn’t care for people who brag about theirs.
“Did you like growing up in the countryside?” she asks, polite despite not caring for his attitude.
Why is she wasting her time with him when she could be talking to me?
I barely hear his inane response through the sound of my own heated blood pounding in my ears.
My ire is barely cooled when Amala joins their conversation, chatting animatedly about her summer visit to her extended family in India.
It’s so boring. Mundane.
But Karolina seems content to sip her cider and listen to them, even though she doesn’t share much about herself other than where she went to undergrad in America.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Amala says to her. “Are you okay, Lena? Professor Hirst was so mean to you during our first lecture. I would’ve cried.”
That gets my attention.
Karolina flicks her fingers in a familiar gesture—dismissing something that’s actually bothering her as though it isn’t a big deal.
“I can deal with Professor Asshole,” she asserts.
I chuckle.
That’s my fierce Karolina.
Iwasan asshole that day, but the worst of the pain over her rejection is fading; I’m simply determined now.
Amala giggles. “You can’t call him that to his face.”
“Why not?” Rich challenges, puffing out his chest. “If Lena doesn’t, I will. He really is an arsehole.”
