Page 21 of Wicked Vile King
"Three of them," she raises a finger with each name, "Saint, your stalker; Gabriel, the creeptastic pyromaniac; and Killian, who scares the shit out of me, actually probably everybody at the Academy. All of them come from money, though I guess most of us do or how else do you afford to send your fucked-up kid to this?" She waves a hand at the cafeteria. "Word is Saint's been in and out of reformatory academies since he was, like, seven.Some people say he walked in on his dad chopping up his mom and went ballistic, but I don't know. All I know is something isn't right with him. He's dangerous. Dude's a legit psycho."
"What about the other two?" I ask, pushing my plate away, my appetite suddenly gone.
"Gabe's got a thing for lighting shit—and people apparently—on fire, and Killian's the third messed-up triplet. I think he cut his stepfather up from what I heard. They're all bad news, and they arrived here around the same time too, been here a lot longer than I have. There's a saying around here. You better run if the lords smile at you."
"What does that mean?"
"Fuck if I know." She shrugs. "I've never stuck around long enough to find out, but I guess it means you don't want to see what it takes to make those three happy."
She starts in on the oatmeal that looks more like white, lumpy Jell-O than anything appetizing, and it makes me a little nauseous.
Talking out of the side of her mouth, she continues, "I once saw Saint beat the shit out of someone for looking at him, and the creep just smiled the entire time. Killian will stare at someone for hours, and I swear he doesn't even blink. And Gabriel, I've watched him cackle as they dragged him away to isolation. He's probably spent more time in it than out at this point, like the weirdo enjoys it."
"I don't belong here," I murmur.
"No one belongs on the same plane of existence as those three," she remarks, digging her fork into her oatmeal again. "All I can say is donotengage them. Hide, run, leave the room, but do not engage. Don't ask the guards for help because they don't care about any of us, and don't trust the docs either." She points at my food. "Now, eat up, buttercup. It's time to bounce. Our lords and saviors have arrived, and that means it's time to skedaddle, sunshine."
I shouldn't look.
IknowI shouldn't look.
But I feel the draw from across the room as a prickle tap dances across the back of my neck. I swivel in my seat, and I see them, dead center of the double doors that lead into the dining hall. Saint is in the middle with his impossibly black hair and ice-blue eyes. Standing on either side of him are two guys, both weirdly beautiful for this cold, desolate place with dead eyes and messy hair, like they couldn't be bothered with a brush this morning.
The carcass of my appetite rots to nothing as Saint locks eyes with me. His gaze lands like a blow directly to my sternum, knocking my breath away, and he says something I can't hear as the two guys on either side of him track his gaze to me.
All three smile, and across the table, Trixie sucks in a strangled breath and says what I'm already thinking, "Oh fuck."
6
SAINT
There's electricity in the air. It skips across my skin and dives deep into my bones. I'm going to be burning alive before the day is out. Or that's how it feels anyway.
The push and the pull, the high of the chase, the hunt and the kill.
Well, to be fair, it's more like the push, a short hunt, and then the pulling her in until I own every part of her. I want it all—each sacred secret and unspoken dream, each nightmarish memory and the scars from the monsters she can't forget. If she won't give them to me willingly, then I'll fucking pry them out of her with my hands, teeth, and cock.
I want her every tear and scream, each breakdown and time she splinters into a million tiny pieces. I want every morsel of pleasure and to know the color of her face when she comes. I just want . . .her.
It's strange. I don't remember feeling this excited about anything in, well, months, probably more.
Obsession.
Compulsion.
Repression.
And the cycle repeats, my life one damn vicious riptide. It pulls me under, only to spit me out weeks or months later to start all over again.
For me, obsession is natural, compulsion divine, and repression . . . absolute torture. And when the object of all my nasty thoughts and unholy compulsions sits at a table across from her annoying roommate, oblivious to my existence, it makes me want to break her.
It'll end the same. It always ends the same,the presumptuous, fuckall voice in my head taunts. It's probably the dying breaths of my conscience that never fully formed, and I snuff it out quickly.
When was the last time I felt this excited about anything or anyone?
Months ago?
Maybe more?
