Page 30 of Wicked Vile King
I am gone.
I am out of the classroom in three seconds flat, not caring where I go as long as it's not near him. Students swarm the halls, and I spot Trixie up ahead by her short blonde hair, moving between bodies. I dart ahead, slipping between students, careful to not stop, practically running, and as I open my mouth to call to her, something grabs the back of my cardigan, catching my shirt with it. I whiplash back, nearly falling to my ass, as the neck of my white, short-sleeve dress shirt cuts into my trachea, burning and turning off my air. I let out a strangled sound before I am unceremoniously deposited in an empty classroom. I cough and gag before I am finally released, and I come face-to-face with the reason my arm—and now my throat—burn.
I cough violently, spitting onto the polished stone floor as Saint looks at me, an insouciant expression on his beautiful, crazy lips. It's dim in the room—an unused classroom, by the looks of it—not quite dark, but it makes me uneasy just the same. The psycho couldn't have flipped the light switch?
With one blue-eyed look, Saint pins me where I stand and cocks an eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed. I'd slap the wounds still healing on his jaw from where I scratched his face if I thought I could get away with it.
I cough again, massaging away the burn from my collar against my skin. He cocks his head at me and continues to stare, and it's creepy when he stares, but it's even creepier when he opens his mouth.
"You're pretty when you can't breathe," he remarks before he tips forward, bringing a cloud of cloves and ash to fall over me again. He bites his lip, letting it free only when he says the words, "Bet you're even prettier when you're choking on my cock."
What the . . .?
I slap him. I must be insane. I must belong here because of how well the last slap turned out for me. He went from very annoying to full-fledged, lick-your-arm creep-master in a matter of two days. Plus, he's got at least fifty pounds of lean muscle and a foot or more on me, but I don't care. Maybe later I will, but not right now. No, right now, I relish the blossom of color across his perfect cheeks and the flare of anger in his cold, dead eyes.
"Cute," he remarks, something dangerous flickering across his gaze. "Well, itwascute, at first, but I do expect you to behave, pet."
"I'm not your pet!"
"You are mine!" he snarls, the words landing with edges and teeth and a rumble that stabs straight through me. "Mine to play with, mine to torment, mine tofuck."
Oh, hell no!
My mama would roll over in her grave and shout at him to learn some damn manners.
I slap him again, once for the kiss.
And again, twice for the trick.
And a third time for saying I amhis.
Until I'm hitting him, over and over, on his head, his chest, his arms, and the solid wall of his stomach, and he's not even stopping the blows. He just stands there, letting me hit him, like he can't feel the punches that land, like they don't hurt him.
In an instant, like a snake coiling to strike, he captures me by the wrists and reels me in close. I trip forward until the toes of my Mary Janes kiss his boots. I'm wheezing and panting, and his breath falls like hot coals, making all of me burn beneath the heat.
"Harder," he hisses with a sneer before he lets go.
Gladly.
I hit him with everything I've got, pouring all the pain and disgust and fear of the last three days into the blow. He doesn't move, not an inch. He just looks at me before he lifts the side of his mouth in a lopsided smile and says his next words.
"Try again, pet."
The clap of skin on skin sounds in the room, but he doesn't stagger with the hits. I am panting, sucking in air, my arms turning to noodles, but I don't even think he's breathing faster. Is he a deranged robot? He cocks his eyebrow at me again.
"Are you done?" he asks.
No.
I hit him once more, straight in the stomach, for good measure. It lands like a punch to a brick wall and makes my knuckles ache.
"I am no one's pet," I snarl.
"Pretty girl," he reaches out—slowly at first, gently even—before he grabs my ponytail and yanks it back to expose the column of my throat, "you are going tobegto be mine."
A moment later, I am lifted into the air and slammed against a desk, folding on top of it like a doll. One strong hand traps the side of my face against the tabletop, mashing it hard and making it impossible to move my upper body without breaking my neck. A second later, there's rustling behind me, but my head is still firmly against the desk, my cheek smushed and drool falling onto the cracked wood.
What is he doing?
