Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dimitri
I SIT IN the back of the cafeteria, brooding. Every few seconds my eyes venture over to the table across the room where Savina sits with her new boyfriend.
Corbin fucking McCall.
I hate him.
And every time I see his hand creep up under the hem of Savina’s shirt, I want to break it the fuck off of his wrist. She playfully slaps his hand away, but I can see the look of desire in his eyes. He wants her. He wants what’s mine. And she is mine. She will always be mine.
And it’s not just because of that stupid, archaic contract — the perfect alliance between two families that love tradition more than they’ll ever love their children. No. The moment I heard her singing in her bedroom and I decided to spare her life, I knew she’d be mine, no matter what.
At first, I wanted to make her life miserable, because I hated what she represented. But now, things have changed. I have a longing for her that I can’t seem to satisfy with any other means possible.
I’ve been dating over half of her classmates, but none of them seem to hold my interest for even a day, let alone five minutes. I need to just face facts. None of them are her.
For the past several months, I’ve made her life hell. Spread rumors like gasoline, cornered her in empty halls just to scare her and say terrible things that made her lower lip tremble and her eyes fill with tears. Fuck, she’s so pretty when she cries.
I want her to hate me. Need her to hate me. Because if she hates me, then maybe it won’t matter that I’m starting to fall for her.
Against my will, Savina Cipriano has wormed her way into my cold, black heart.
I’ve tried everything to break up her and Corbin, to no avail. He’s determined as ever, but I know his true motives. I just hope I can stop him before Savina gets hurt.
I watch her mouth open on a laugh, and the melodious sound carries across the cafeteria. She’s laughing at something Corbin said. Probably a dumb joke that only he truly gets, but she wants to play along and be nice.
She’s always so fucking nice. And it drives me insane.
The bell rings, and I watch as she jumps up from his lap and gathers her things. While watching her surreptitiously, I notice her beloved sketchbook falls to the floor. She doesn’t even know she dropped it in her haste, and no one else noticed either.
When the cafeteria clears out completely, I stand up and waltz over to the forgotten sketchbook and pick it up.
I have watched Savina doodle in this goddamn thing for a countless number of hours.
She never shows a single soul what’s in here, and I know I’m invading her privacy by even possessing it, but I decide I don’t give a fuck.
Cracking open the worn cover, I leaf through the pages. Drawing after drawing are on the pages. Some in ink. Some in pencil. Beautiful collages and depictions of everyday mundane things but in her own unique style.
I’m about to close the book and leave it where I found it when something catches my eye and has my heart skipping a beat inside my chest.
Savina signed her name over and over again on one of the pages. But it’s not just that. She signed her first name with my last name.
Savina Sokolov.
And seeing our names combined makes me smile. And fuck, I can’t remember the last time I genuinely smiled. To be honest, it feels foreign on my lips, awakening forgotten muscles in my face. It almost feels like a forbidden treat for my body to do something other than feel miserable.
I hear footsteps approaching, and I quickly tuck the sketchbook inside my hoodie and walk away from the table.
I turn the corner, and Savina bumps right into me.
When she looks up and realizes it’s me, I can see her visibly flinch.
That flinch used to give me a kind of sick satisfaction.
It was proof that I still got under her skin.
Proof that I still mattered. But now, I want her to look at me the way she looks at Corbin.
And that pisses me off even more. My hands curl into fists at my sides as I glare down at her.
Sensing the shift in my mood, she backs up quickly. “Oh, h-hi,” she says nervously, her eyes barely able to meet mine. “I f-f-forgot s-something,” she says, clearly referencing the sketchbook that I have hidden from her.
“Hope you find it, privighetoare mic?,” I tell her before walking past her.
I know she’s going to be frantic when she can’t find it, but I decide that I don’t care.
Having her sketchbook makes me feel closer to her in a way that I never thought I would have.
This book is like looking straight into her soul, and I want to crack it open and obsess over every single part of it.