Page 1 of Wicked Mistletoe

PROLOGUE

EMILIA

6 years ago…

I’m a shadow, a ghost, a nobody.

My hands bury themselves deep into my hoodie pockets, elbows jutting out like awkward wings as I hunch into myself, trailing behind the group of four insanely tall high school seniors.

I’m not hiding—okay, maybe I am. But can you blame me? I’m just trying not to draw any unwanted attention.

Fat chance of that working.

I can practically feel the derisive sneers and glares drilling into the back of my head. Even the Christmas lights lining the hallway seem to join in, their mock cheer only sharpening the sting. Ho-ho-freaking-ho.It’s January, people. Let it go already.But no amount of festive decorations can soften the biting bitterness pouring off these seniors. A 16-year-old joining their ranks—in second semester? The horror!

I roll my eyes so hard I nearly see my brain and sink deeper into my baggy cocoon. Screw them and their judgmental attitudes.

My gaze latches onto the feet of one of the guys in front of me.Nice shoes—probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Mesmerized, I fixate on his stride.

Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot.

The world narrows down to those alternating steps. My brain goes quiet, my breathing evens out, the hallway noise fades away, and suddenly I’m zeroed in on their conversation with supernatural clarity.

“Think about it, Michael,” one of them says. “Just how smart can this girl be? Are we talking genius level? This is a death trap for her. No way she can survive senior year coming from where—the junior grade? Sophomore?”

Great. They’re talking about me. Because of course they are. Why wouldn’t they gossip about the freak newcomer?

Another one guffaws, and I resist the urge to look up. “I heard she has OCD or some shit. And she has a neuro—neuro–something. A neuro deficiency perhaps?”

Oh, for the love of— These idiots can’t even get their insults right.

Now laughter bursts out among them—loud, hysterical, and grating. It’s like nails on a chalkboard, setting my teeth on edge. The fizzing in my veins boils over, and before I can even think, the words spill out of me. “You mean neurodivergent, blockhead?”

They come to an abrupt stop, and I nearly face-plant into one of their backs. As all four giants swivel to face me, I hold my breath. Shit. Why are they so freakishly tall?

My heart does the cha-cha in my chest. But I raise my chin defiantly, keeping my gaze glued to Mr. Nice Shoes’ feet—no way am I craning my neck to look at their faces. I may be small, but I’m not about to let them see me cower.

“I’m neurodivergent,” I continue, my mouth apparently on a suicide mission. “You want to know just how smart I am?Smarter than a bunch of morons walking around the school with their pants halfway down their asses, which is against the rules, by the way. Nobody wants a peep show of your stinking underwear.”

Scraping together every ounce of courage, I glance up.They look absolutely gobsmacked. Huh. Now I’m on a roll, my filter completely fried. I’m so over people talking down to me. “And what’s with the stench? Drugs? What are you guys? Some wannabe gangsters? Just because our town’s crawling with crime doesn’t mean a bunch of high school boys like you should glorify it. You could get arrested, you know.”

I wrinkle my nose in disgust as I sidestep around them. My hands are trembling inside my pockets, and sweat dribbles down my back.

Nice going, girl. Make enemies on day one. Stellar plan.

The cafeteria doors loom ahead. I push them open and?—

Silence.

I swallow hard. Every eyeball in there is already on me, gazes fixed like I’m some kind of alien specimen.

Oh crap, did they hear my little tirade?Please, ground, open up and swallow me whole.

A deep rumble snaps my gaze back. My eyes land on the familiar shoes first, then travel up, up,andup until they meet his face. My heart does a spectacular backflip and lodges itself in my throat. He’slaughing, but that’s not what steals my breath. No, it’s his face.

Holy guacamole. God must’ve been showing off when He made this one. Because why else is he so criminally good-looking? Strong nose with a roguish little crook—most likely the souvenir of one too many fights. Flawless golden skin that would make even the sun jealous. Full, pink lips that look softer than a cloud. And those eyes. Sweet baby Jesus, thoseeyes.

For one eternal second, our gazes lock. Grey? No. Chrome? No.Silver. Like moonlight. The kind that pulls you in and doesn’t let go. The guy who walks nice also looks nice. Haha. No, forget nice—he’s downright lethal. Breathtaking.Literally.

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