Page 63 of Wicked Vile King
Saint grabs my hand as I walk toward the dining hall, the smell of something sugary and sweet calling to my stomach. I go to get in line, but he tugs me back.
"No, pet," he says with a shake of his head. "Not anymore."
I spot Trixie seated across the hall, and she gives me a look that silently begs me to not invite her to sit with me. Saint pushes me to a chair in the center of the room and takes a seat by my side. Suddenly, trays are delivered to us by students, female students I note who eye me like I'm the devil.
Since when have the kings of the Asylum gotten waited on hand and foot? Was I always so blind?
I sit there with Saint, and it's surreal as we finish our breakfast, Gabe laughing at the most inopportune moments, and Kill eyeing me like he can't decide where to place his bets on how long I last before Saint breaks me, leaving me rocking on the floor in a corner.
We finish breakfast and head to class. We're headed down the hall when a scuffle breaks out up ahead. I spot a guy I recognize from the fight in the dining hall my first day here—the one who started it and was put in restraints and a face mask—only he's not fighting with anyone right now. He's cowering against a wall, his bulky frame cramped into a large ball as two guards crowd him.
"Where do you think you're going, Jenkins?" one of the guards jeers.
"Get the fuck up!" another one says, kicking the wall beside the guy's head.
The big guy whimpers and starts to cry on the floor, and I look to Saint, desperate to help, to do something, but he's already watching the scene unfold. He frowns at them, and I don't know if he actually feels bad for the guy or if he just hates the guards, but as we approach, he moves behind me to my other side and closer to the guards and the guy. As we pass, he shoulder-bumps one of the guards hard.
The man stumbles into the one beside him with a curse.
"Watch where you're going!" the guard snaps, his attention snapping to Saint and his fist raised and ready for a fight. When he sees it's Saint though, he lowers his hand.
In return, Saint throws them both a toothy grin.
"Aye, aye, Captain," he says. "Won't happen again."
The guards grumble but turn back to their target, only to find the floor empty. The big guy has disappeared and is hopefully headed to safety.
Saint saved him. Why?
"Why'd you do that?" I ask Saint as we enter our American Literature class.
His upper lip curls in a sneer. "It's disgusting how the fuckers act, especially to Jenks."
"It was nice of you," I say.
Saint glances at me. "Don't read too much into it, pet. It'll only disappoint you. It pisses me off, that's all."
But I'll take it,I think.Saint Laurier did a good thing, and I saw it. It's like finding out unicorns are real.
Maybe he was angry or disgusted and it wasn't actually about helping the guy, but he did a good thing regardless. It makes a fizziness pop inside my belly.
Saint steers me to our seats at the back of the room and pulls my desk, and me along with it, close. Then he jerks my arm over onto his desk and rolls up my sleeve. As the professor arrives and for the entirety of the next three hours, he plays with my scar.
Up and down, back and forth, he rubs the disfigured flesh, like it soothes something inside of him, until finally, the bell tolls, and I stand, gathering my things. Saint comes around the desk as the professor—if you can call him that—leaves the room, and the door closes behind him.
"What does death look like?" Saint asks me softly.
"I wouldn't know," I say to him.
He grabs my forearm, holding it tight, and the fuzziness that's still there from before the lecture pops and falls flat.
"Liar," he tells me.
My heart lodges in my throat.
He couldn't possibly know.
He couldn't possibly . . .
