Page 27 of Wicked Vile King
"So I've been told, but I'm not wrong."
I turn her hand over on her desk and place a finger on the center of her palm and start a slow, steady line across her skin and up her wrist. She flinches when I reach the edge of the sleeve of the cardigan she's wearing, but I keep going, pushing the fabric out of my way, until I see it. It makes my bloodsing, like if I look hard enough, maybe I'll finally figure out my pretty enigma.
Scalloped, pink, gorgeous scars.
Perfect.
She tries to pull away, but I clamp my other hand down, pinning her arm flat to her desk, as my finger slowly inches over the gnarled flesh. My dick weeps.
"I'm not interesting," she repeats, and it takes everything in me to look away from the perfection.
My gaze lingers a moment longer before I meet her gaze and cock my head. "Are you calling me a liar? I'm a lot of things, pet, but a liar is not one of them."
Unless it gets you what you want.
"You lied to me my first day on campus," she retorts.
"No, I didn't."
She rolls her eyes. "Your accent?"
"I wouldn't call that a lie." I shrug. "I'd say it was being polite."
"In what world is pretending to be someone you're not being polite?"
"In my world," I say, "it's the most polite thing I can do."
She blinks at me, confused, her brow pinched like I make her head hurt.
"I think that's the first honest thing you've said to me," she says eventually.
I'm not about to argue semantics about niceties versus lies when I can still see the scar and feel the broken flesh beneath my finger. I look down and continue my trace, pulling her sleeve up farther this time, all the way to where it ends halfway to her elbow. She grimaces.
"Pretty," I remark, staring at it, running my finger over the slightly pebbled flesh.
"What?" she breathes. I don't miss the hitch in her breath.
Like she can't believe I used the word.
Like she doesn't believe it.
Such a shame.
"This," I say, continuing to follow the line of the scar and giving her the look that gets me what I want, when I want it, "is very,verypretty."
Up and down, up and down, across the marred skin and back up again.
More students are filtering into the classroom now, and seats are starting to fill up. Still, I don't take my eyes off her. It's not like the fucker at the podium cares about starting on time.
"How do you do that?" she asks me.
"Do what?" I ask innocently, like I don't know what I'm doing to her.
I knowexactlywhat I'm doing to her.
Causing the flush at her collarbone to bleed across her flesh.
Making her heart whip in her chest until she feels like she can't breathe.
