Chapter Eleven #2
“Oh, well, if you really want to know…” She drags it out, hanging on every syllable. I lean forward on my thighs, hanging on her next words. Needing this piece of key information to destroy her for good, but there’s more to it than that. I want to feast on her fear and bathe in her pain.
“What truly terrifies me is knowing that insults to society like you don’t get the karma they deserve,” she finishes, eyes locked on mine. “Which is exactly why I’m going to give it to you.” Before I can even process her threat, her fist connects with my jaw.
My head whips sideways and I topple off the edge of the table with a crash that echoes around the room.
It wasn’t the pain that knocked me sideways, but the shock of it.
This girl, this new girl who was supposed to be meek and timid, just struck me.
Despite the pleasure of a caress curving around my cheek, I jump up, shoulders bunched and fists clenched. I won’t be disrespected so easily.
Hunting around the room, there’s no sign of Harper. Clayton is still rooted in place like a useless lemon, arms folded, eyes on the swinging door she disappeared through. For someone who plays bodyguard, he’s spectacularly shit at actually guarding anything.
I shoulder past the scholarship scum clogging the aisle, refusing to remain standing there with a hard-on and a bruised ego next to my nemesis. Catching Hargreaves’ narrowed gaze, she doesn’t try to stop me, returning to her screen like nothing happened.
By the time I reach the courtyard, she’s vanished.
Lost to a sea of faces I’ve refused to learn.
People are expendable, everyone’s replaceable.
After growing up with only my father present, I’ve seen first-hand how people can be used as pawns for personal gain.
The rich and ruthless are hardwired to reach for unimaginable wealth and nothing else, even if most don’t know what to spend it on.
We are disciplined in the art of spotting and exploiting weaknesses in such a way, people don’t even realize until it’s too late.
Once the viper’s fangs are embedded, they are hooked on our poison, eager to please.
No matter what is asked of them, they always come running back, their loyalty emanating from greed.
Rain needles down on me as I stalk the path between the fountain and main hall, glowering at anyone foolish enough to drift into my orbit.
I don’t know where the fuck to go, or what to do next, and I hate the unfamiliar itch of indecision crawling under my skin.
One more minute in a lecture hall and I’ll combust. My patience is shot, my mood’s in the gutter, and if I keep playing the model student, someone’s bound to notice I’ve gone soft.
“Hey Rhysie,” a sickly-sweet voice sings from behind.
“Fuck off,” I hiss without even looking.
If my father didn’t insist I accompany Klara to all of her family’s high-class functions, and I wasn’t appeasing my father so that he doesn’t see the bigger picture, I would have scared her off a long time ago.
Not that I’m particularly pleasant to her now, but she doesn’t seem to take the hint.
She’s a means to an end, a necessity, but if she calls me Rhysie again I might just snap.
“Oh, come on baby, how about we—”
Whipping around, I lunge at her and knock us both to the ground.
Closing my hand around her throat, her eyes dilate and a coy smile plays about her lips.
She’s more deluded than I thought, and if I hadn’t already decided to never take her to bed again, this would have done it.
There are only so many fake orgasms I can moan into a pillow before I start reconsidering celibacy.
Her shrieking could raise the dead and kill them again in the same breath.
“Don’t approach me unless I specifically ask you to.
You play by my rules, or you can attend the Winterfest Ball alone.
Got it?” Klara nods with a wink and giggle that has me rolling my eyes.
Leaving her behind on the dampening grass, her friends dive in to help her up as I walk away.
Her giggle chases me, engrained in my damn ears, and her words float on the wind.
“He just can’t keep his hands off me.”
I halt with clenched fists, having to force the next breath to pass my lips.
Rage bubbles dangerously close to the surface, the image of Harper’s sympathetic look filling my mind.
Her condescending tone pointing out what no one else would dare voice.
My power is a fragile illusion. There’s an extremely thin line between who’s the puppet and who’s pulling the strings, and I haven’t questioned where I fit on that line before today.
This is ridiculous. I can’t let her crawl beneath my skin for a second longer.
I need to recalibrate, refocus. Scare her off so thoroughly she begs to transfer before midterms. Then I can get back on track.
Wipe out the charity cases, cripple the funding, tear down everything my father’s built with the investors he’s so smug about. One scholarship dropout at a time.
As if believing one into existence, I spot a grey beanie hat further down the pathway, heading directly towards the basketball court, most likely for his private afternoon session.
Taking off in the same direction, I struggle to keep to a regular pace as my mouth stretches into its usual smirk.
It feels familiar, safe. Like a mask I can conceal myself behind.
Then it doesn’t matter what is happening on the inside, as long as I remain cool and collected on the outside.
Clayton wants to act like Harper’s protector, and that’s fine with me.
He can take the brunt of my anger on her behalf.
The dull ache in my chest gives way, finally allowing my pulse to start thrumming with fury again.
Harper is far too comfortable questioning my life, mocking everything I’ve built.
But if she wants to declare a war and leave her stoic soldier behind to face the fiery wrath, then I’m more than happy to burn him alive.
Not that I’ve ever needed a reason before.