Page 48 of The Tenth Circle
I’ve been fighting the voices in my head screaming at me to march over to Saint’s dorm and shove his precious Halo up his ass. I was in no way contemplating forgiveness—fuck the high road.
I just had to prioritize my friend—ish?
With benefits?
Honestly, I don’t know what to call Stevenson and I other than what I’ve spent months making surenotto.
And Stevenson agreed.
To the casual,notcasualty.
So I refused to leave his side for three days until I knew he was okay.
Well…now he is.
Which is great news for Stevenson.
But not so much for Saint.
My mother’s arched brow speaks volumes as she watches me shove my arms into a cropped hoodie. “Since when do you prefer spending the weekends at school?”
Oh, for fucks sake.
These women are relentless in their efforts to torture me.
Reaching for my pack of cigarettes off the bed, I focus on shoving them into my bag along with some more clothes. “Bex is off seeing Crayton this weekend, so figured I would hang back with Archer.” When catching sight of my interrogators again, I find them standing together in true twin fashion. Arms crossed and fluffy beige slippers tapping against the floor.
I cross my arms to mock them, but it isn’t until my foot is tapping away like Peter Rabbit that they realize they’ve been caught with twin telepathy.
Mom and Auntie Pop play it off as they drop their arms.
“Can you guys chill with the third degree, please? All is fine and dandy in the world of stuck up assholes.”
Something seems to be altering Mom’s outlook on her new lavish life: could be the stress of trying to maintain the simplicity of just being a mom, sister, and some random mobster’s ex.
Okay, maybe not the last part, because even the smallest affiliation with the mafia has its complications.
We’re just lucky enough to have ended our danger affiliations with a small amount.
Unlike now.
Living in a world where PTA meetings consist of buy-ins, blackmail, and violence for kicks, my mother once again expected to find sheep in a lion’s den and has spent every day worried I’ll get eaten alive like one.
But I am no sheep.
And fear won’t stop me from challenging the lions.
Especially not this one.Especially not tonight.
You knowwhat they say about best laid plans.
They love to fail.
In retrospect, I should’ve known Saint’s dorm room is the last place the dipshit would be found at midnight on a Friday.
Most students, or “Riversideans” as the faculty calls us, spend their weekends partying in the famous “Pit” underneath the school.
And by pit, I literally mean a pit.
