Page 78 of Wicked Vile King
But it's also not like I can exactly leave campus grounds, drive to a pharmacy, and ask for Plan B.
Shit
This is bad.
So very bad.
Images of diapers and miniature humans skitter through my head as I change into my uniform, toss the swimsuit into a rolling laundry basket, and walk outside the locker room.
"Pet," Saint remarks, standing up from the bottom row of the metal bleachers.
Oh God. He's still here. What does that mean? Is that bad or worse?
He notices me noticing him and stops walking, his eyes narrowed.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks.
"I'm wondering what I'm going to do if you got me pregnant," I tell him.
The robot doesn't even blink.
"You're not pregnant," he says, continuing toward me. "And you're not going to get pregnant."
"Why? Read that in my file too?"
Yes, my reply is snippy and petty, but I don't regret it—the asshole read my private medical records. He shoots me a look that dares me to say it again.
"You're not going to get pregnant because you're on birth control," he remarks. "All the girls here are in one form or another."
I roll my eyes. "I'm not on birth control, Saint."
And I can't have the baby of a certifiable psychopath who likes to rub my freaking scars.
He clucks his tongue one time, and I can't tell if he's annoyed or amused. It's a very fine line for him . . . a thin, nearly invisible, probably non-existent line.
"You are on birth control, Willow," he tells me.
Oh my God, he said my name.
And heneversays it.
I think I like the way he says my name.
Stay on topic, Cadelle!
I start for the exit, and he follows.
"All of the female students at Chryseum are on birth control," he tells me. "Either they came with an IUD or an implant or whatever when they got here or they get a pill every morning with their crazy meds."
I stop walking. Is he fucking with me? Is this some ploy that ends with me knocked up and Saint doing, well, whatever the hell Saint does when he knocks someone up?
He stops walking too.
"Those little round blue pills with your meds," he explains, cracking a grin at my ignorance. "Didn't you wonder what they were for?"
Lord, he's laughing at me. And I don't know what's worse. That he knew—a boy—before I even did. Or that I'm so naïve I'm funny to him.
"I thought they were anti-depressants," I say.
