Page 12 of Riot House
“Good girl. Now, if you don’t mind, I have some paperwork to catch up on. I believe you have a French class to be getting to. I’m sure you’ll enjoy that, given that it was your first language.”
“Actually, I never learned Fre—”
“Good, good. Off you go now. If you need anything, please let someone at the administration desk know and I’m sure they’ll be happy to help you. Have a lovely day, Elodie.”
I’m ushered out of Principal Harcourt’s office so quickly I almost forget to collect my bag before the door is slammed loudly behind me.
I take a deep, calming breath, slinging the leather strap up and over my head. I have no idea where my French class is or which direction I’m supposed to head in, and since Carina threw out my map yesterday morning, I find I’m at a bit of a loss. Carina had to get to class, and without my guide, I—
I see the dark silhouette, hovering at the mouth of the corridor that leads to the principal’s office and a cold sweat breaks out across my back.
Crap.
My scientific mind tells me that this old, crooked, rambling building isn’t haunted, but the shadowy figure looks distinctly ghost-like as it moves toward me.
I could be wrong, but I’m betting none of the training my father drilled into me will be useful against non-corporeal forms. Stilling my racing heart, I step forward, swallowing down the lump in my throat, and…Wren Jacobi steps into the circle of flickering, dim yellow light cast off from a sconce on the wall.
I don’t know if I should be relieved or twice as scared.
His black clothes contrast so dramatically with his pale skin that he looks like the negative of a photo, brought to life. I didn’t see him again after English yesterday, so I’d tricked myself into believing that I wouldn’t be seeing him today, either. Clearly a very stupid, naïve thought, because here he is, larger than life and way more threatening than any apparition. The hallway’s wide but not wide enough for me to skirt around him without having to acknowledge his existence. I duck my head, tucking my chin into my chest, eager to get past him as quickly as possible…
“Stillwater.” My last name echoes down the hallway, ringing in my ears. His voice is cold and stiff. “They sent me to escort you to class. Come with me.”
Oh. That’s just…fuckingwonderful.
He sounds pissed that he’s been assigned this task. I move closer, dragging my heels as much as possible, trying to delay the moment that I reach him and we’re standing face to face in the confined space, unable to avoid each other’s gaze. It comes all too quickly, though.
God, his eyes are so green. I’ve never seen eyes that color before. He doesn’t blink as he stares down at me, his top lip twitching like it wants to curl upward in disgust. He brushes a hand through his thick, wavy hair, blowing hard down his nose, his nostrils flaring. “Try to remember the way,” he says curtly. “I’m not doing this twice.”
I don’t even want him to do it once.
He spins, turning around and showing his back to me, and then he takes off at a fast clip, heading for the east wing of the academy. For every one of his long strides, I have to put in three in order to keep pace with him. Tension radiates off him as he marches ahead of me, clenching and unclenching his massive hands into fists.
With the heavy, solid oak doors to all the classrooms firmly closed, concealing the students inside, a thick silence floods the hall as Wren leads the way. Cursing myself for being so damn stupid, I rip my gaze away from his ass, telling myself that I wasn’t checking out the way his jeans hang a little too low, revealing the black waistband of his underwear. No, no way was I checkingthatout.
I’m hot all over and flooded with unexplained shame. If I inspected that shame up close, then I’d discover that thereisa reason for it, and that reason has an awful lot to do with the way Wren’s mouth had looked yesterday when he said the wordfuckin Doctor Fitzpatrick’s class.
A deviant shiver runs down my spine, and I shake my head to dislodge the memory. I’m quickly making new memories, though. The stubble on the back of his neck, short and black, where his hair’s been cropped so close to his skin is perversely fascinating. I stare at the base of his skull, like I might be able to pierce through the skin and bone and see right into his mind, and all the while, my hands grow clammier and clammier. I nearly leap out of my skin when he angles his head down and to the left, barely showing his features in profile for a brief second as he says, “You’re throwing in with Carina, then.”
“Throwing in with her?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something else. “You’ve chosen her as a friend,” he clarifies.
“Yeah, I suppose I have.”
“Interesting choice.”
This is the kind of leading comment that invites someone to ask questions:what do you mean by that? Is Carina a sociopath or something? Should I stay away from her?Unfortunately for Wren, I’ve spent an awful lot of time figuring people out, as well as uncovering their intentions, and he’s got another thing coming if he thinks I’ll give him what he wants so easily. He has something he wants to tell me about my new friend Carina? Then he’s going to have to offer the information up all by himself.
I say nothing.
Wren Jacobi says nothing.
Down the hallway we go, Wren walking ahead of me, his tall frame solid, his shoulders drawn back in the same over-confident way kids who are born into money all seem to have. He takes a left, and then another left, and then a right, and before I know it, I’m completely turned around, and I have no clue where I am.
So much for remembering the way…
Wren stops abruptly, spinning around, and I almost walk straight into his chest. Applying the breaks as quickly as possible, I pull up just in time, a mere eight inches between us. This close, I have to crane my head back, pointing my chin at the ceiling in order to look up at him. “What’s she told you about Riot House?” he demands.
