Page 50 of Riot House
I look down, shocked to see my own bare feet against the floorboards. How the hell did I neglect to put shoes and socks on? Kicking and scrabbling my way through the crawlspace alone could have cut me to ribbons. Damnit, what the hell was I thinking?
That you wanted to kill the conceited asshole lying on the blankets in front of you, that’s what.
Urgh. I was in such a rush to get up here and tear him a new one that I wasn’t thinking at all. My knuckles buzz with pain as I clench my hand into a fist, inspecting the damage I did there. It’s not as bad as it could be—the gash isn’t that deep, but it definitelyisbleeding. I pull my hoody sleeve down over the injury, covering it up with the cuff. “It’ll be fine,” I clip out. “It’ll stop in a minute.”
Wren’s sharp gaze flays me down to the bone. “Sit down, Elodie.”
“I will not. I only came up here to ask you who the fuck you think you are.”
“And once I tell you who IthinkI am, you’re gonna wriggle back into that crawlspace and disappear back downstairs?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Exactly. Okay. Well I think I’m the only guy in this godforsaken hellhole who you’ve looked twice at. I think I’m the guy you can’t stop thinking about. I also think I’m the only guy who’s ever made your heart race out of your chest. Am I wrong?”
I narrow my eyes to slits. “Yes.”
Using the wine bottle again, Wren points at me rudely. “You are completely incapable of telling the truth, aren’t you? That’s pretty sad.”
“I am telling you the truth.”
“Okay. Then deny all I’ve said. Tell me I’m wrong. You don’t imagine me. You’re not plagued by me day and night, the way I’m plagued by you. See, I have no problem with the truth. I made friends with it a long time ago. A lie only makes a fool of the liar. The truth always comes out. I am besieged by you, and it fuckingsucks. You’re in my head when I wake up. You’re in my head when I wander around this wretched place, and you’re still there, tormenting the ever-loving shit out of my when I close my eyes at night. So, do it. Lie to me some more, Little E. Please feel free. But you’ll excuse me if I choose to get wasted while I settle in for the show.”
I wasn’t expecting this confession out of him. I’ve always thought him too proud and too arrogant to ever admit that he has a weakness out loud. It’s impossible to comprehend thatIam that weakness.
Wren takes another drink, then spreads his arms wide, as if encouraging me to get on with it. He’s so fucking sure of himself. He’s so certain that he knows me. Knows precisely what I’m going to say. I don’t plan on living up to his expectations. “Fine. You’re right. I’m rotten and eaten up on the inside because of you. Is that what you want to hear? I let something spoiled and bad into my head, and now I can’t rid myself of it, and it’s festering away, driving me madder and madder by the day. Congratu-fucking-lations. I’m going against every ounce of common sense I own every damn day, and I’m making decisions Iknoware fucking stupid, and I can’t do anything about it! How fucked up is that!”
If I were back in Tel Aviv, this wouldn’t be a problem. None of it. Colonel Stillwater’s foreboding presence would have nipped this bullshit in the bud the day I arrived here. I wouldn’t have been weak enough to let my head run away with these thoughts, and Wren…well, let’s face it, Wren would probably be dead by now. My father would have cottoned on to what he was doing and the guy would have mysteriously wound up in pieces, scattered along the embankment of a fucking highway in black garbage bags.
He drums his fingers against the side of the wine bottle, shifting so that he’s lying on the welter of blankets now instead of sitting. His shirt’s risen up, exposing a few inches of bare stomach, and my chest pinches tightly. I’m the worst kind of addict. I know precisely how bad he is for me, and yet I can’t stop myself from craving more. I had my first taste of him in the gazebo during the storm, the memory of his naked torso’s been driving me to distraction ever since, and now I want that shirt he’s wearing gone. I want it fucking gone, and I hate myself for it. Where’s all of the self-control my father taught me? And the common sense?
Like a sated cat, basking in a patch of sunlight, Wren closes his eyes, resting one hand on his solar plexus. “Was that so painful?” he murmurs. “Sit down, E. You have questions for me.”
“I don’t. I—” For fuck’s sake. Whyisit so hard to be straight with him? I have a million questions, and I’m dying to know the answers to all of them but sitting on that blanket is inviting a kind of trouble into my life that I don’t need. “Whatever questions I have are irrelevant. The answers aren’t going to change anything,” I tell him. I’m beginning to feel a little hopeless now. This situation’s miserable; I’d give anything to get myself out of it, but the bitter irony of it all is that I’d also do anything to have him.
He’s the bad guy. The monster that crawls out of the shadows to hurt and maim those around him. Nothing good can come of him. But fighting this attraction I feel for him seems so futile and pointless that my will no longer feels like my own. I’m his prisoner, and Wren Jacobi is not a benevolent jailer. He’ll keep me under his lock and key until he’s bored of me, and I get the impression that his obsessions are for life.
“What harm can it do?” he murmurs. “You speak. I speak back. It’s a conversation, Elodie. It won’t fucking kill you.”
My heart is a sharp-edged lump of rock. It refuses to beat as I step onto the blanket, the thick woven material soft on the soles of my feet, and I lower myself down into a seated position. Wren smiles to himself and my temper spikes. “I don’t know why you’re grinning. You haven’twonanything. Don’t go marking your score card yet, Jacobi.”
Instead of squashing his smile, my annoyance only encourages it to grow in size. “I’m not keeping track of points. And the only thing I’m interested in winning—”
“God, don’t even say it,” I interject. “Do not. It’ll only make me hate you more.”
He opens his eyes, watching me askance, his lips slightly parted. Both his eyebrows shoot up, and I know he’s going to finish his ridiculous sentence. “—is your trust.”
“When I was six, I stayed up every night, waiting for Peter Pan to fly through my window. I waited every night for him to come take me away. I wanted fairy wings, and a beautiful dress, and I wanted to escape with him to Neverland. Guess what? It didn’t happen. I grew up and I realized it was dumb to wish for things that were impossible. You should probably do the same.” My tone is so thick with sarcasm that it feels oily and uncomfortable coming out of my mouth. I’ve never spoken to anyone like this before. Honestly, I don’t like how it makes me feel.
Wren rolls onto his side, his brows crimping together. He props his head up with his hand. “Have you stopped to question why you harbor this kind of negativity toward me, Stillwater? I mean, really asked yourself why?”
“I know why. You’re an arrogant fuck boy with no conscience who terrorizes the people of this academy without a second thought.”
“And you have proof of this?” he asks evenly. “You’ve seen it with your own two eyes?”
“Are you serious? You’re beingseriousright now?”
He nods.
