Chapter 62

ELODIE

MONDAY MORNINGS WERE SO MUCH EASIER at Mary Magdalene’s. The weekends were my own in Tel Aviv. My father’s schedule meant he was always away from the house on Saturdays and Sundays, and I was free to do my own thing. Go shopping with Ayala and Levi. Go to the movies. Do my homework and put it around the house in peace. He was around more during the beginning of the week, so going to school was an actual blessing. It saved me from his ire, walking the halls of the international school. I stretched out every single class I had, making the time away from Colonel Stillwater count. I signed up for as many after-school activities as I could. Anything to avoid going home, when I knew he’d be there, waiting for me, his never-ending anger rolling off him in waves, just waiting for me to do something or say something that warranted an explosion of epic proportions.

At Wolf Hall, there’s no escape from my studies. I’m only three floors away from a classroom, and that fact in itself makes the beginning of the academic week more depressing than it should be. I don’t get to leave, so it never feels as though I’ve had a break.

It’s gloomy again, rain slashing at the windows as I make my way down the stairs, dreading this morning’s English class. When I reach the hallway, there are students everywhere, chattering loudly and joking with one another as they make their way to their first lesson of the day. I should feel lighter than I do. I get to see Wren soon, but this isn’t some sweet high school romance that I can let myself feel giddy over. It’s a secret. Wren didn’t tell me to keep what happened with him the other night quiet, but it’s there all the same, an unspoken agreement between the two of us: it would be bad for both of us if anyone knew we’d torn each other’s clothes off and fucked in his bedroom.

My heart shoots up into my throat as I see Dashiell enter through the academy’s entrance, shaking his head like a wet dog, sending droplets of water flying from the ends of his dark blond hair. Pax appears after him, a broad smile spread across his face, laughing at the top of his lungs at some private joke.

And then there’s Wren.

My breath stills in my chest.

He enters the school, dressed head to toe in black, the shoulders of his hoody darkened by the rain, the hood pulled up over his head, his eyes already searching, searching, searching...

He finds me, standing on the bottom step of the stairs, and the lights overhead dim. I step down, sliding along the edge of the hallway, my back against the wall, and the Riot House boys shove their way through the crowds, still caught up in whatever conversation they were having when they arrived. Two of them are, at least. Wren stills on the other side of the hall, coming to a stop opposite me. A tense moment passes where we stare at each other across the sea of bustling bodies, our line of sight clear, then obscured, clear, then obscured by the flow of students as they pass us by,

How is no one else reacting to this? How can they not feel the electricity in the air? How is everyone else so blind, and deaf and dumb to the pressure that’s building around them as Wren Jacobi and I share this blisteringly surreal moment?

“Forgotten the way?”

I glance up and Carina’s there, clutching her school bag to her chest, wearing a pristine white t-shirt and a tartan skirt that should be illegal, it’s so short.

“Sorry?”

“What are you doing, just standing there? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she says, laughing.

“Oh. Uh, nothing. Sorry.”

“I thought you were gonna go save us a seat. Come on. If we don’t hurry, someone else will grab our sofa.” I look up and Wren’s gone.

Doctor Fitzpatrick’s already at the front of his room when Carina and I enter. “Come on, girls. You know the punishment if you’re late,” he says, grinning.

“What’s the punishment for being late?” I hiss.

Carina grabs my arm and pulls me toward the sofa. “You don’t want to know.”

Once we’re sitting down, I grab my notepad out of my bag, twisting a pen over in my fingers nervously, surveying the room. I look at every other student in the class before I give in and allow my gaze to drift (as casually as I can manage) over to the battered leather sofa on the opposite side of the room.

Wren’s right where he’s supposed to be...but he’s not sprawled out, lying on his back, staring angrily at the ceiling today. He’s sitting up like a normal person, eyes locked on his hands, his hair falling into his face, a tiny frown pulling at his dark brows. Dashiell and Pax are sitting on the floor, underneath the window, but they’re not sniping at one another today. They both seem to be covertly watching Wren, muttering to each other under their breath. Dash must feel me looking at him. His head whips up and he looks right at me.

Wait. No. Not at me. At Carina.

“Asshole,” she grouses. “What kind of sick fuck do you need to be to lead someone on, take their fucking virginity, humiliate them in the worst way imaginable, and then stare at them every available opportunity you get afterward? Like, what is he even trying to accomplish, looking at me like that?”

He’s not trying to accomplish anything. He’s reliving something. Replaying it over in his head, savoring every second as he remembers stripping Carina out of her clothes and fucking her senseless. I know, because I know that look. That same dazed, distant expression has appeared on my face at least ten times since Saturday night.

I didn’t text him.

He didn’t text me.

What does that mean? Were we both waiting for the other person to reach out first? Have we both been stubborn and stupid, too caught up in our pride to even communicate with each other? Or have I gotten this wrong? Is he just content, now that he’s had me? Have I given him the one thing he wanted, and now I can expect never to speak to him again?

“I’d love to walk right over there and smack the evil prick. He probably doesn’t think I’ll do it. I used to kickbox, though. I could hit him hard enough to leave a bruise.” Carina’s oblivious to my spiraling panic. I don’t want to be that girl—the girl who freaks out over a boy, questioning every move she makes and overanalyzing everything to the point of madness. I make the decision, right here and now: I will not be that girl.

“He’s probably ruing the day he messed with you, Carina. Don’t worry about it. He’s looked away now.”

“Class. I hate to have to do this to you. I’m sure you’ve all been dreading this moment all semester, but it’s that time again...” Doctor Fitzpatrick laughs as a chorus of groans goes up around the room. I lean forward, squinting at the handsome teacher, trying to get a better look at him. Something’s off. Something—

“Carina?”

“Mmm?”

“Does Doctor Fitzpatrick have a split lip? Fuck, it looks like he’s wearing makeup.”

My friend leans and squints, too, chuckling softly. “Wow. Yep. That’s a corker of a bruise on his jaw. Who knew? I wouldn’t have pegged Fitz as a brawler.”

I would. I can see it on him somehow. A hidden, secret violence that likes to spill out from time to time. I realize I missed his announcement while I was talking, and now I have no idea why the rest of the class is grousing very loudly, hurling balled-up pieces of paper at the doctor. He holds up his hands, shielding himself from the harmless projectiles, laughing when most other teachers would be losing their shit. “Okay, okay. That’s enough of that, thank you. It’s not up to me. The curriculum mandates this kind of stuff. You have to complete team projects to learn how to work together. How else are you going to know what to do when you move on from this fine establishment and begin your illustrious careers as line cooks in fast-food restaurants, huh?”

A rowdy jeer goes up at this. Doctor Fitzpatrick’s lack of faith in us is more entertaining than troubling. “You know the drill,” he says. “Now, are you gonna pair up like adults, in a calm, reasonable fashion, or am I gonna have to draw names out of a hat again?”

A furor breaks out, bodies flying across the room, friends searching for friends, and people squabbling like chickens over who gets to be with whom. I don’t move. Carina and I will be partners for whatever godawful project we’re about to be assigned.

Only...

“I want Carina Mendoza, Fitz.”

Carina sits up straight, her eyes rounding out. What the hell just happened? By the window, Dashiell Lovett’s on his feet, and he’s pointing at Carina wearing a very cool, very entitled look.

“I think Carina’s already partnered up,” Fitz says.

“What’s the point in us working with our friends? That’s hardly helpful. How are we supposed to learn anything if we’re simply hanging out with the people we always hang out with?”

Fitz studies Dash for a moment, frowns, and then claps his hands together. “You raise an excellent point, Dashiell. Change of plan. Everyone in this room must partner up with a person they don’t like. I don’t mind how you go about it, try to be sensitive to each other’s feelings or whatever,” he mutters, waving his hand at us as he stoops to grab his bag from the ground.

“You’ve got two minutes. Figure it out.”

Silence falls like a stifling blanket over the room.

Well, this is fucking awkward.

People begin to reluctantly reorganize themselves, shuffling between the furniture like unhappy zombies as people decide who they’re now going to sit beside.

Again, I repeat, so fucking awkward.

“Come on. On your feet, Elodie. I need to sit next to my partner.” Holy fuck, how did Dash get across here so quickly? He looks so proper in his shirt and tie. It looks like he shined his Italian leather shoes before he showed up this morning. Beside me, Carina’s as stiff as a board. “You’ll regret this,” she snarls at him.

“Doubt it.” He quirks an eyebrow at me, jerking his thumb over my shoulder. “Are you gonna make this super uncomfortable, or are you gonna go sit next to Wren like a good little girl? We all know how much you hate him.”

I am going to fucking kill him. I give Carina an apologetic look, slowly getting to my feet. My heart’s racing like a runaway train as I grab my bag and begin to make my way across Doctor Fitzpatrick’s den. Wren’s eyes are sharp yet calm as he watches me approach. I’m four short steps away from the leather couch when Mercy just appears, like she was conjured out of thin air from the fucking depths of hell, and throws herself down next to her brother.

“I’m still trying to figure out if you’re detestable, Elodie, but I’m afraid I’ve got you beat here. Wren doesn’t hate anyone as much as he hates me.” She grabs his arm and loops her own through it, smiling so angelically that my fucking teeth itch.

Fury pours off Wren like smoke, but he doesn’t get to object. There isn’t time for that. Because the next thing I know, I look up to find Pax scowling down at me. “Congratulations, Frenchie. Looks like I get to be a pain in your neck, now.”