Page 105 of Wicked Vile King
"I need a shower," I say, looking at him as he rifles through Dr. Cross's desk. He scatters everything, opening drawers, searching them, and then slamming them shut until finally, he finds a small black fabric-covered box buried at the back of one of the bottom drawers. He lifts the lid.
"Jackpot," he murmurs.
Then he tips it over and empties the contents onto the messy desk. He starts to spread them around, dropping photographs onto papers and then the floor before tossing a few on top of Cross's body.
I'm not sure I want to look, but I can't stop myself. My gaze scrolls until I find three in a group on the floor. The ones I catch sight of are nearly enough to make me sick.
They're all female students by the looks of it.
Young female students, most freshmen or sophomores, I think, and all in disgustingly compromising positions. Some are in various states of undress—shirts gone and breasts exposed or skirts removed and legs splayed wide. Others are completely naked, posed so that their most private areas are on full display for the camera. All of them are unconscious, open-mouthed and eyes closed, and on this very same chaise.
I have more questions than answers right now that the dead man on the floor can't remedy.
First is how many girls did he do this to?
Second is how many others would there have been?
And third is how many weren't believed, if they even remembered, because the world judged them by their worst moment and deemed them batshit crazy instead?
I cast a disgusted glance at his body, staring at his back and the pen Saint re-lodged in his spine. There's blood everywhere in his office, staining the floor and splattering the furniture and the books on the bookcases. Dr. Cross died violently and painfully, but I can't manage to feel bad for him.
He was the worst kind of man, preying on vulnerable girls deposited at his doorstep.
The bastard deserved it.
I kick him once and hard for good measure. It ruins my Chucks, splattering blood all over the pink glitter, but it's worth it when his ribs crack at impact.
"What now?" I ask Saint, looking back from the body to him.
"Now," he says, walking over to me, the collar I threw away in his hand, "we leave out the window, and you come to my room. We clean up, and I'll watch you sleep." He opens a hand to show a box of Narcan in his palm. "I grabbed a couple more of these in case we need them. I'm not sure how long it takes for that shit to get out of your system."
"Thank you." I reach for the collar in his hand and take it, slipping it around my neck. Then I turn my back to him and move my hair out of the way, silently asking him to latch the buckles. He begins almost immediately.
"What about room check?" I say after he's finished, and the collar is where it needs to be for the both of us.
I immediately realize my question is stupid. We're probably going to jail for murder and room check won't matter.
"I'll take you back," Saint offers. "You'll be there for room check. Then you're coming back with me."
I blink at the body.
"But what happens when they find out?" I whisper.
"The Academy is going to want this swept under the rug," he says. "It's not a good look. Their doctor being a rapist."
"And if they don't?" I ask.
He grabs my hands and holds them between his own.
"Pretty girl . . ." he kisses my knuckles, "do you trust me?"
"Yes."
He kisses them again. "Then trust me when I say I will burn this place to the ground before I let anything happen to you. It's you and me against the world, pet, and the world will never win."
He leads me by the hand to the window and undoes the latch.
"Oh and Willow," he says as he starts out onto the ledge first.
