Page 77 of The Forbidden Note

Because, while The Kings always command every eye in the room, a few of those eyes swing to me.

Vanya turns too. “Zane is here.”

The way she says his name, with a hint of awe and hero worship, sends a dark feeling through me. It’s so unexpected that I internally flinch. Why do I care that someone is fawning over Zane when my world is literally imploding?

Jocks swagger up to Zane and pat him on the back. Words like ‘right on’ and ‘good for you’ echo through the hallway.

Zane looks confused. His dark gaze wanders the hallway and briefly flicks to mine. My heart surges to my throat, and I feel this sharp, piercing prick in my chest.

Zane quirks one of those thick, black brows at me.

I whirl around, darting out of the hallway and into the teacher’s lounge. I can’t stand to look at him right now.

The placard on my table reads ‘Grace Jamieson, AP English’. I wrap my hands around the wooden stick and squeeze, trying to calm down.

I need to figure a way out of this mess.

The other teachers in the lounge glance at me, but no one says anything. I get the feeling that they don’t know about the picture. If they did, they’d be more glib about it.

None of the teachers here at Redwood Prep like me.

There are many reasons for that. I’m younger than most of them and, arguably, closer with the students. I also have a small, but passionate group of male students who routinely carry my books, bring me snacks and leave notes and gifts on my desk.

I’m also the only teacher at Redwood who’s immune to the scorching power of The Kings.

Or at least I was.

Before Zane started blackmailing me.

Is this his work? Did he sneak into the bathroom, move into my house, and charm my mother—just to stab me in the back like this?

Anger surges anew. I feel like tearing through the hallway, stomping right over to the obnoxious four and slamming a punch into each of their faces.

I rub my temple and contemplate what I should do next when the door bursts open. All the air gets sucked out of the room when I glance up and see Zane. He didn’t bother with a Redwood Prep jacket—it’s probably still drying at home. Instead, his stark-white shirt is unbuttoned at the top and tucked into a pair of dark trousers. The sleeves are folded up and tattoos snake over the pale skin from his wrist to his fingers.

Blue eyes slice through the room, landing on me with a thud.

I stiffen, form fists, and prepare for anything.

Zane stops in front of my desk. “We need to talk.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cross. I have to prepare for class,” I say professionally. “You need to leave.”

The teacher’s lounge has gone deathly silent. Everyone is staring at us and they’re not bothering to hide it.

Zane’s intense energy rockets up to a near nuclear blaze. I’ve never seen him this angry.

“I wasn’t asking,” he snarls.

I lift my head and glare at him. “Neither was I.”

“Grey.”

I stiffen at the nickname.

He taps his fingers on the table.

I look up.

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