Page 28 of Riot House
I automatically check my hair, finding the petal and disentangling it. Wren sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, his eyes full of an emotion I can’t rightly decipher. It’s a dangerous look. Sharp. The type of look that could cut if administered correctly. Retreating a couple of steps, he shrugs, grabbing hold of the hem of his black long-sleeved shirt.
“If you want to stand there in your soaking wet clothes, that’s your call, Stillwater. I’m not one to suffer discomfort willingly, though.”
Before I know what he’s doing, he’s pulled the sodden material of his shirt over his head and turned around, walking back to the fire, where he hangs the item of clothing from the rough-cut mantlepiece for it to dry. I’m left staring at his back—a naked expanse of muscle and flawless, tanned skin that makes my throat pulse and throb. That shirt, the same shirt he’s been wearing day in and day out since that very first night when I met him outside Wolf Hall, has been hiding a multitude of sins: strong arms, a broad, strong back, and a chest that would make Michelangelo weep. His body’s nothing short of divine.
He faces me and just stands there, letting me shamelessly take him in. I should have some self-respect and look away. I can’t, though. I’ve never seen anything like him before, carved and sculpted, magnificent in his perfection. I refrain from counting his abs. It’s enough that they’re there, and they’re defined. From the crown of his head to the low-slung waistband of his jeans, Wren is the stuff of sweet, heavenly dreams, and twisted, terrifying nightmares.
His eyes burn, feverish and fierce, as he uses them to pierce me to the core and gut me with a practiced ease. How many girls has he brought here and pulled this shit on? How many students at Wolf Hall has he dragged out here in the middle of the night and stupefied by stripping down to his bare and glorious skin? His list of casualties must be too long to comprehend.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to take off the shirt,” I mutter, finally looking away.
“Oh, I could have taken it off all I wanted,” he muses. “I just wasn’t allowed to wear anything else. It’s past midnight now, though. February first. I’m released from my punishment.”
“You’ll be wearing bright red tomorrow, then.”
He laughs quietly. “I’m not a very colorful person. Black suits my demeanor best.”
“Hah. Yeah, I can see that. Black like your heart? Like your soul?”
“Ouch.” He slaps a hand to his chest. “I’m hit. Let the record show, I’m officiallyhurt.” He sinks down onto the couch, kicking out his long legs in front of him. With the light from the fire casting a warm glow across the solid expanse of his stomach and his chest, as well as across his face, he cuts a frustratingly handsome figure.
“I can find something to put on,” he says. “If I’m making you uncomfortable.”
This is all so pointless and irresponsible that I’m furious at myself all of a sudden. He’s playing me, and I’m letting him, allowing him to manipulate me and pull at my strings. He knows what he looks like. He also knows how his looks must affect members of the opposite sex. By clinging to the wall and choking on all my words, I’m feeding his need for attention. “You know what makes me uncomfortable?” I snap, stalking across the room. “Coming back to my room to find a bowie knife sticking out of my mattress and my belongings in pieces. That makes me really fucking uncomfortable indeed.”
From the couch, Wren looks up at me with a subtle, convincing frown pinching his brows together. “Bowie knife?”
“Don’t give me that shit, Jacobi. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You trashed my room and slashed up my mattress. If you were trying to put the fear of god in me, then it didn’t work, okay? So just…stay away from my room.”
The frown deepens. “Your room was trashed.” He’s deadpan, the words flat, devoid of emotion. He repeats the words as a statement, not a question. “I didn’t have anything to do with that. Not my style. Breaking and entering is pretty…pedestrian.”
“Cut the shit. I know it was you. Who else would bother?”
He smirks. “Why wouldIbother?”
“You were looking for something in there. And you wanted to scare me.” I proceed with my accusation, trying not to second guess myself now that I am looking into his clear green eyes and I can find no hint of a lie within them. He’s an excellent actor, I’ll give him that.
“The best butchers don’t scare the animals before they take them to the slaughter, Elodie. The fear taints the meat.”
“What the fuck isthatsupposed to mean?”
Wren sighs, looking into the fire. “Why would I try and scare you, Little E? What would I have to gain from petrifying you half to death?”
I’ve asked myself this already. There are plenty of reasons why he’d want to intimidate me, and I’ve considered them all. Now thathe’sposed the question, all of the reasons I came up with seem ridiculous. He doesn’t need to frighten women into his bed; they probably fall over themselves in their rush to go there willingly.
Thereisno good explanation why Wren would have messed up my room.
“Don’t fret, Little E. Again, I assure you, I didn’t enter your room without your permission,” he says, toying with the seam on the back of one of the couch cushions.
Do I believe him? Hell no. It’s pointless going back and forth with him, though. “Whatever. It’d be great if you finally spit it out and tell me what I’m doing here. I’d love to get back to bed, and—”
“I’ll answer your question but not until you come and sit down,” he interrupts. “With you standing over me in that giant fucking coat, this is starting to feel like an interrogation.”
I want to go. The weather hasn’t improved in the last five minutes, though. The chances of me finding my way back out of the maze are slim at this point. It won’t do me any good to get lost out there again, and I don’t think Wren’s going to help me back to Wolf Hall unless I humor him.
Swift jab to the throat.
Knee to the balls.
