Page 2 of Sinful Storms

PROMISE?

Nodding, he used his finger to erase the question mark next to my word and then underlined it. I breathed out, gradually relaxing into him, and together, we watched the lightning show until it was over.

That night was the first night in my life that I forgot to be afraid of the storm.

1

ARIA

PRESENT DAY

Warm sun. Check. My friends. Check. Tristan fucking Smith-Chamberlain. Check—wait, what?No.

I tilted my head upwards, screwing my eyes up against the sun as it beat against my lids. “Why?”

“Why, what?”

I swung my head around so fast that I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d managed to get whiplash. My friends Elena and Quinn were making their way along the row of tiered spectator seats towards me with various parents in tow. I sighed, shaking my head as I took in their attire. The two of them were clad in navy lacrosse team jerseys with royal blue trim, with their boyfriends’ numbers stamped across the backs.

I studied them as they drew nearer to me. They were my closest friends, but sometimes, especially lately, I felt as if we were miles apart. I was…me. According to my godbrother, I was rude and abrasive, and I couldn’t even deny it. My friends weren’t like that at all. Take Elena, with her cascade of shiny deep brown hair and golden-brown eyes fringed withlong lashes. Then there was Quinn, with lighter brown hair threaded through with reds and golds and huge eyes in a kaleidoscope of blues and greens and greys. Both of them were beautiful, confident, and popular, and most importantly, they were personable. Nice. People liked them. And for the icing on the cake—not my cake, but some people’s cake—they both had popular, lacrosse-playing boyfriends with dark hair and film star good looks who practically worshipped the ground they walked on.

Elena and Quinn had repeatedly told me that people liked me, and that was supposedly why I’d been voted for as one of the goddesses at the recent school ball. In my opinion, I’d been voted for purely for the fact that I gave no fucks, which was a good enough reason to me. Some people—the people who had voted for me—liked to say they admired someone who didn’t give a shit or said what they were thinking without worrying about the consequences. They’d outwardly admire those traits, anyway, while inwardly, they knew that they themselves would never say anything to rock the boat.

Back to my friends, though. Neither of them had chosen their popularity. But when you were dating one of the gods of Hatherley Hall, you had no choice but to be in the limelight. In my opinion, they’d fitted into their roles seamlessly, completely at home as the girlfriends of two of the three most desirable boys at Hatherley Hall.

“Nothing,” I mumbled as they took their seats. “I was just talking to myself.”

The teams lined up, and Quinn glanced at me. “Thanks for coming.”

I sighed. “You know I’ll always show up to support you. And the team…I guess.” My gaze flicked over her, and I shook my head. “I’d never be caught dead wearing a lacrosse jersey, though.”

“You might if your boyfriend was a lacrosse player,” Elena said under her breath. I discreetly gave her the finger. She laughed but fell silent as the game began. Hatherley Hall’s team was playing Cheltenham, and everyone knew it was going to be a tough game.

I pointedly looked away as the team captain jogged onto the field, his blue eyes blazing with determination as he faced off against the Cheltenham captain.

Tristan Smith-Chamberlain might have been the golden boy of Hatherley Hall, but to me, he was nothing but trouble.

When he jogged past me, purposely shooting me a wide, fake grin, I returned it with a glare and a discreet middle finger. His fake smile melted into a real one, and I turned away, fixing my gaze on the castle-esque structure of our school building across the far side of the field. The sandy Cotswold stone appeared as more of a burnished gold in the sun, the lead-paned windows glittering, reflecting the rays. As far as exclusive private boarding schools went, it was impressive, but the beauty of the building didn’t necessarily reflect what was inside. This year had been filled with drama I could never have anticipated, and I just hoped that the remainder of my time here was calmer, aside from the stress of A-level exams.

My gaze flitted towards my sanctuary. From my position in the stands, it was barely visible. All I could see was the top of the right-hand corner of the crumbling bell tower. The tower everyone else seemed to have either forgotten or didn’t even realise was there to begin with. Staff and students alike.

Everyone except for me.

Me, and Tristan Smith-Chamberlain.

The lacrosse team had beaten Cheltenham 14-9, and everyone else was celebrating the win at a party deep within the crypts hidden beneath Hatherley Hall’s cellars. I wasn’t in a celebratory mood. Instead, I was sprawled out on my bed, deep in a conversation with my grandma about a house renovation TV show we’d both been watching. Every now and then, my grandad joined our video chat, giving his opinion on the redecoration ideas before returning his attention to the sudoku puzzle he was working on.

“How was the lacrosse game?” my grandma suddenly asked in the middle of a debate about grey versus blue walls.

“The game? Today?”

“Yes. Did Tristan score any goals?”

Images flashed through my mind. Tristan running down the field. The ball flying from his net to Roman. The screams of the crowd as the team scored. Tristan, his eyes sparkling behind his helmet, sweating and breathless, shooting a grin at his teammates. Shooting a grin at me that had started out as fake and become real when he’d realised how annoyed I was.

Tristan, Tristan, Tristan.

“Fuck him,” I muttered.

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