Page 29 of Wicked Vile King
"Then tell me."
"Never."
I capture her wrist, yank her back toward me, and bring it to my mouth. Following the line of the perfect pink flesh, I flatten my tongue and lave it across her forearm.
"You're disgusting," she manages a second later as I nearly come on the spot. Her skin tastes like salt and soap andsuicide.
I lean forward, eating up the space between us, and run my tongue up the curve of her ear.
"And you want to be filthy with me," I say.
She doesn't have to reply to confirm it. Her answer is in the hitch of her breath and the blush that bridges her cheeks.
She wantsme, even if she hates herself for it.
8
WILLOW
For three hours, I sit and stare at the back of the professor's head, willing him to turn around and actually look at me, to care, to save me from the creep that never learned the meaning of the wordboundaries. But the guy at the front of the room with a tweed jacket that's seen better days and a pair of khakis faded at the knees cares even less about this class than most of the students in here by the looks of it. What kind of teacher puts on the movie version ofThe Grapes of Wrath, rather than actually giving us the book, especially in English class?
My scar hurts after being rubbed raw by the freak beside me. I don't care that he smells like campfires and cloves today or looks like God created the perfect male specimen. I also definitely don't care that as much as it hurts, I feel his touch elsewhere, in the heat unfurling in my belly and the wetness gathering between my legs.
I tell myself it has nothing to do with him, that it's just hormones, crazy hormones all out of whack because my father decided to ship me nearly a thousand miles away to this slice of hell. I tell myself it's because I'm lonely, because I need a freaking hug or a friendly voice. I tell myself it absolutely has nothing to do with the fact that his irises look like snowstorms and icicles had a baby, or that his inky black hair is a little too long and keeps falling into his eyes and curling around his ears.
I tell myself he's lying about having all of our classes together, and if he's not, I'm going to find Headmistress and beg for mercy at the earliest chance I can get. I can't be stuck with him all day, every day. He's too strong. I can't fight him off, not physically at least. He'll wear a hole into my forearm before the week is out at this rate.
Ten minutes before class is over, I have my backpack on the floor next to me, ready to leave, as pretentious Lord and Savior Laurier tries to whittle away at the scar on my right wrist.
I hate it.
And it makes you feel grounded and wanted and all the nice things Papa wouldn't give you.
No, I hate it!!
If I had a real pencil, I would have stabbed him by now, but everything here is designed to not be a weapon: notebooks with cardboard spines, pencils that bend, paperback books, and desks that are one solid piece of plastic. Even the damn zipper of my backpack has the knotted string tie on the end of it removed. Like how was I supposed to make that into a dangerous weapon? I get the point, though. I guess I'd probably try to if I had to deal with the guy next to me much longer.
Two minutes later, and I'm still stuck with the weirdo next to me, the thief who claimed my first kiss when he had no right, knew my bedroom before even me, and trapped me here beside him when I wanted to be left alone. He's stronger than me, so much stronger, but no matter how many times I tell myself that, I'm still fantasizing about ways to escape.
Escape him. Escape this place. Gohometo where I'm loved and safe. Or where I used to be, at least.
Maybe I'll knee him in the balls, run past the guards, and flee through the front doors to never return.
Maybe I'll run all the way back to my dorm, remove the bolts on the window, and climb down the wall.
Maybe I'll scream until all the windows in this place shatter into a thousand tiny pieces like I'm an opera singer. At least I think opera singers can do that, but so what if they can't? That one's far-fetched, but I don't care. I'm getting out of here one way or another.
Screw this place.
Screw the kings of the Academy.
Screw the guy next to me providing a weirdly comforting anchor when I have been tossed out to sea.
And screw the fire kindling in my belly every time I look at Saint Laurier's beautiful, vile face.
I wish he looked as ugly on the outside as he did on the inside. It's just not fair to the rest of the unsuspecting world.
Finally, after what feels like forever, the bell rings, tolling loudly and echoing throughout the halls. I am free to leave this class, or I think I am. Honestly, I don't even care at this point. I jump into action and leap to my feet, tearing my sore arm from Laurier's unsuspecting grasp. I don't give one flying fuckwad about finding out where my next class is. He can keep my schedule or tear it up like crackers and eat it in a bowl of soup or snuggle with it against his pillow for all I care. Really, none of those options would surprise me at this point.
