Chapter 3
Ifind her in the library on the second day because of-fucking-course that’s where Catherine O’Farrell would be.
Not in the dining hall performing fake little social rituals with the rest of the student body. Not outside on the quad soaking up the last of the September sun with girls who laugh too loud and boys who think polos make them interesting.
In the library, alone, in the back corner near the tall windows where the old glass warps the light and makes the whole place look haunted.
She’s reading. Actually reading. Not the fake kind of reading girls at this school do when they want to look deep. Not posing with a book cracked open while they wait for someone to notice how smart they’re pretending to be.
No. She’s buried in it. Shoes kicked off under the table. Knees bent up against the edge of the chair. Tucked so far into the corner most people would walk right past and never see her.
But I’m not most people.
I stop at the end of the shelf and watch her for a minute. That’s a thing I do—watch first, move second. Learn the rhythm before I fuck it up.
My father taught me that, though he uses it for politics and boardrooms and polished handshakes. I use it for people. For weak points. For pressure. For learning where to put my hands when I want a reaction.
Catherine turns a page. Glances at the window. Back to the page. Then the window again. Not daydreaming. Checking.
There’s a difference.
It’s small, but I know it when I see it. The inability to settle completely. The part of her that stays alert even in silence. Even alone.
There it is again. That thing in her I recognize.
My parents talked about her half the fucking night at dinner. The O’Farrells came over, and it was Catherine this, Catherine that—her grades, her future, how poised she is, how remarkable she is, how mature she is.
My mother called her “exceptional.” My father called her “impressive.” Neither of them said a goddamn word about me unless it was to ask me to pass the bread.
I pretended not to notice, but fuck did I notice.
And now I’m standing in a library staring at the reason why. I push off the shelf and walk toward her. She doesn’t look up. I stop beside the table.
Nothing.
She turns another page like I’m wallpaper. Something hot and ugly twists in my chest.
Fine.
I press my palm flat to the open book and drag it out from under her hands, shoving it off the table. It hits the carpet with a dull thud. Now she looks up. Those green eyes settle on mine, cool and steady, and the lack of surprise pisses me off almost more than if she’d jumped.
Not startled. Not scared. Just recalculating. Like she already had a fucking backup plan for this exact moment.
“Was that supposed to impress me?” she asks.
I sit on the edge of the table, close enough that my knee nearly brushes her arm. “You coming to the game this weekend?”
“I already told you no. Twice.”
She bends down, picks up her book, and this time puts it farther away from me. Deliberate. Smart. Annoying as hell.
“Is there something else,” she says, “or can I go back to my afternoon?”
“Your afternoon?” I glance around the empty library. “You mean sitting in a dusty corner alone on the second day of school pretending that’s a good time?”
“It was,” she says, “until you showed up.”
That should make me leave. Should. But she isn’t giving me what I usually get—flustered looks, nervous laughter, outrage. The usual shit. Charm doesn’t work. Intimidation only skims the surface. Any smart person would recognize the dead end and walk away.
Instead, I lean down and wrap my hand around her ponytail. Not hard. Not yet. Just enough to close my fist around all that dark red hair and tilt her head back until she has to look up at me.
The library is silent. Just us, dust in the light, old books, and that weak afternoon sun stretching across the carpet.
Her breath catches. Barely. A tiny hitch that would mean nothing to anybody else. But it means something to me. I’m watching for it. I’m watching for fucking everything. Goosebumps scatter down her arms. I trace them with my eyes. Wrist to elbow. And something in me goes tight.
Not satisfaction. Not exactly. Something darker. Hungrier.
I lean down until my mouth is right beside her ear. Not touching. Just close enough to feel the heat of her skin. “Come play with me, Kitty Cat.”
Her pulse jumps in her throat. Fast. Pretty.
Betraying the cool look on her face. I let go of her hair slowly. Strand by strand slipping through my fingers. Then I lean back and fold my arms like I’m not affected at all.
“Lacrosse is the biggest thing at this school,” I say. “Can’t be the good little genius and not support your team.”
I watch her put herself back together in real time. The straightening of her spine. The cooling of her eyes. The way she folds her hands in her lap like she’s locking something back down. Whatever I cracked open, she’s already trying to bury.
“I have better things to do than watch boys chase a ball around a field.”
“We’re not boys.”
I lean in again because I can’t seem to stop myself when it comes to her. My face is too close to hers. Close enough to count the freckles over the bridge of her nose. Close enough to see that her pupils are wider now. Close enough to smell something clean and expensive on her skin.
“And it’s not just a ball, Catherine.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lean away. Just stares back at me like she’s refusing to give me even an inch.
“Go away, Kaiden,” she says. “I have studying to do. Maybe you should try it sometime.”
That one stings more than it should. I hide it with a laugh.
“I study plenty. I’m valedictorian.”
Something shifts in her expression. Not surprise. Like another piece just clicked into place for her.
“Not for long,” she says.
Quiet. Certain. Like it’s already decided. The air between us tightens. Less than a foot apart and it feels like the fucking room knows it.
“You should watch yourself, Catherine. I run this school. If I decide you’re out—”
“You’ll what?”
She leans back in the chair and crosses her arms slowly, deliberately, like she knows exactly how much it pisses me off that she isn’t rattled.
“The poor little prince feels threatened by the new girl, the ice princess.”
My body goes still. “What did you just say?”
Her mouth curves. Not sweet. Not nervous. Sharp.
“I know about the nickname,” she says. “Ice princess.” She tilts her head. “It’s lazy, honestly. I expected more from the valedictorian.”
There it is. That hit. Clean and strategic. Not random. Not emotional. Calculated. She knew. She waited. And she picked the exact second to use it. Catherine O’Farrell isn’t a victim. She’s a fucking tactician. And somehow she just managed to outplay me while sitting barefoot in a library chair.
“Fuck you, Catherine.”
It comes out rough. Real. Not the polished version of me.
And then she smiles. Actually smiles. Not that perfect pretty social smile she uses on parents and teachers. This one is darker. Colder. Real enough to punch the air out of my lungs.
“You’re not my type, Monaghan.”
That lands worse than it should. So I grab her hair again. This time tighter. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her who’s standing over her. Her breath hitches again. Her pupils blow wide. But her voice is steady when she speaks, and that’s what gets me. Not the defiance.
The control.
“I know exactly who you are, Kaiden.”
That’s better. That’s sharper. Earned.
She holds my stare like she’s pinning me in place with it. “You’re the boy this whole school jumps for.” Her voice stays low. Calm. “The one who mistakes attention for power and fear for respect.”
Each word lands with surgical precision.
“And you keep touching me because you think if you get a reaction out of me, you win.”
My grip tightens without meaning to. Her eyes don’t leave mine.
“But I’m Catherine O’Farrell,” she says, every syllable deliberate, “and you are not the worst thing that’s ever put its hands on me.”
That one hits. Not just hard. Deep. Something cold moves down my spine.
I lean to her ear, close enough that my lips brush it when I speak. “You’ve got it backwards, Kitty Cat. You’re the one who’s nothing here. In this school. In this town.”
I let her hair go and shove off the table before I do something stupid.
Like touch her again. Like ask what the fuck that line meant.
Like admit that for the first time in a long fucking time, I’m not sure I’m the one in control of this conversation.
And then, because apparently the universe has a sick sense of humor, Pennington walks in.
Of course he does.
I slam my shoulder into his as I pass. Hard enough to send him off balance. He catches himself on the circulation desk and rounds on me with that self-righteous bullshit expression he’s been wearing since freshman year.
“You walked into me!”
“Debatable.”
He scowls. “Why are you even in the library, Kaiden? Shouldn’t you be somewhere forcing yourself on another girl?”
Everything in me goes cold. Not hot. Cold. Sharp. Controlled. The kind of anger that doesn’t shout. Doesn’t warn. It just acts.
Two steps and I’ve got him pinned to the table right in front of Catherine. Forearm across his chest. My face inches from his.
She’s still in her chair. Still hasn’t moved. Still watching with those unreadable green eyes like she’s observing a fucking experiment.
“Every girl who’s ever been with me,” I say quietly, “came to me. Wanted me. Asked for it. Begged for it.”
Pennington’s breathing goes shallow. I press in harder.
“I have never forced a goddamn thing. And if you ever say that shit again, they’ll be picking your teeth out of the carpet.”
His eyes go wide. He nods. Fast.
Pussy.
I let him up and smooth the front of his blazer with fake politeness. Then I lean in close enough that only he can hear me.
“And for the record—your girlfriend’s pulse went fucking crazy when I had my hand in her hair.”