Page 63 of The Demons We Hide

She dips her head and then hurries off to her seat, allowing me to find mine as the teacher slips back into the classroom and shuts off the lights for a slideshow day. All throughout the period, I can feel Lex’s gaze on the back of my neck. Every so often, I peer back at him with a frown. Lex isn’t the type to care if he’s caught, either. He never looks away, but he also never gives me any indication that he has a question or wants something. He just sits there and he stares until the hairs on my arm lift and the teacher coughs, grabbing my attention once more.

When the class is over and the bell rings, I slide out of my seat and grab my things. Roquel eyes me, but the second Lex stops by me, she slips out of the room and disappears down the hall. I blow out a breath and look up at my shadow.

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” I say. “I’m just heading to the counselor next.”

Lex’s smoky gaze fixes on mine. He lifts his hand, several silver rings adorning the long, almost piano-perfect fingers, and pushes a large swath of his rich dark hair out of the way. “Not bodyguarding,” he murmurs. “Just walking.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t you have class or something next?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Why?” He tilts his head, that swath of hair falling right back into place and almost making him appear boyish. A flash of memory slams into me. Those dark gunmetal eyes on me, that hair hanging into his face as I rode his lap in the back of his SUV. I promptly shut that shit down and stride for the door.

“No reason.” Do the words sound choked to him? They do to me and damn it, I don’t want him to know what I’m thinking or how being near him again is going to warp my senses, especially if it’s going to be on a regular basis.

Lex hums in the back of his throat and the sound vibrates through my fucking soul. Goddamnthat sound. He should make it again when his face is buried between my—no! Absolutely the fuck not.

I shake my head and walk faster. When the counselor’s office door comes into view, I practically sprint towards it in an effort to get away from my shadow. Having him so close, so near, sets me on edge. He waves me off as I open the door and I offer him the same, disappearing and sliding into the cheap and uncomfortable seat in front of Ms. Beck a moment later.

The scent of potpourri is heavy in the room, practically drowning out the undercurrent of bleach and cleaning spray, but not by much. I wrinkle my nose and adjust myself in the seat as Ms. Beck finishes typing something into her computer before turning to me with that bland smile of hers.

“Welcome back, Miss Donovan.” I don’t reply, choosing instead to let my backpack fall to the floor as I kick it under the seat and cross my legs. “I’m happy to see that you haven’t had much more in the way of disputes with other students since we last chatted.”

That was because I didn’t bother to go to the teachers or Principal Long—though at least the principal seemed a reasonable person—and Megan and her cronies had gotten smarter. Do I say any of that, though? Nope.

“Is there anything you want to talk about today?” Ms. Beck asks.

“How much longer do I have to keep coming here?”

The fake smile twitches, but she’s good—she manages to keep it on. “Do you not like coming here?”

“Youdon’t like me coming here,” I point out. “Why would I?”

“That’s not true.”

My fiancé killed himself. Her words from my first meeting with her circle in my head. A breach of what she’s allowed to talk about with students, I’m sure, but I’m no normal student. I’m the representation of the man who destroyed lives, including hers.

Turning my head away from her ageless beauty, I scan the windows, noting that the sky is clear today. After several more moments of silence, Ms. Beck sighs.

“I can’t release you from counseling until I’m confident that we’ve worked through some of your issues,” she states.

“And what are those issues?” I ask, whipping my head back around.

She arches one eyebrow. “Anger management. Defiance to authority figures. Negative attitude. Unwilling and inability to make friends?—”

My upper lip curls back. “I have friends.”

Ms. Beck straightens in her seat and purses her lips. “And?” she prompts.

“And what?”

“What about all of your other issues?”

“I don’t have anger management problems,” I tell her. “I have people trying to fuck me up because they’re mad at my dad issues.”

“Please watch your language while you’re here,” she says. “That’s another thing I should add to the list.”

I roll my eyes. “Please.” I huff out a breath. “Like you don’t cuss.”

“I don’t.”

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