She squeezed again, and I had to drop her hand from her mouth to prise her stinging claws from my ball or else I’ll fucking blackout. In the exchange, she managed to escape my grasp, but I grabbed her again. She fled, but kicked and spat.
“Settle the fuck down,” I yelled at her.
“No,” she snarled fiercely. “I know who you are,Warwick. The kingmaker who wants to be king.”
“No. We’re already kings,” I laughed at her screwed up face. If looks could kill…Luckily, I was stronger and larger than her, and she wasn’t armed. “Look around, Boleyn. Who do you think owns this fucking place?Us.” I pointed to my chest. “The Warwicks. You’re here because your daddy hates you.”
There was a flint of doubt in her eyes as I planted that seed in her mind, and it was starting to grow. But it was only for a moment before she pulled herself back into the present, “No, he doesn’t,” she hissed vehemently. “You know nothing, scumbag. And the Warwicks don’t own Castlehill, you liar.”
“This is our territory, sweetheart, so yes, we do own it. Sorry to break it to you,” I stated charmingly as she kept struggling against my hold on her, as I kept those naughty hands away from my balls and those teeth away from my skin.
“Don’t lie and let me go. We’re done here,” she seethed.
“We’re not done until I say I’m done,” I shot her a sharp, warning look, but she brushed it aside. It was getting on my fucking nerves that she wasn’t reacting the way I expected her to.
I pinned her against the wall again as every insult under the sun came out of her sultry mouth. “Single cell amoeba, oaf, ogre, camel spit…” and so on.
“Interesting style of flirting,” I chucked at her with a smile, and it only made her madder. “My favorite is camel spit.”
“I’m not flirting with you,” she shouted, outraged by my suggestion.
“Sure, you are,” I hit back smoothly just to stir it up with her.
“Of course, you’re unable to tell the difference between someone hating you and someone flirting with you, but naturally, you’d think everyone was flirting with you because you have such a huge ego,” she explained while trying to pull me off her, and I just started laughing because she was actually pretty funny.
“Not as large as other parts of me,” I hinted, but she faked a disgusted look on her face when I knew she was loving this exchange. “Listen, Boleyn,” remembering one of the reasons I wanted to talk to her, “stay away from Dirty ol’ Deano, won’t you?”
“Who?” she hissed back at me.
“Dean, he’s our Finance tutor,” I informed her, and her mouth parted in horror.
“Our? Our? Areyouin one of my classes?” she acted shocked, but I had already told her that we shared a class. Back when we first met on the train.
“Yes, just trust me, alright. Stay away from that guy. If he suggests that he should private tutor you after class, then decline his offer. Got it?” I explained, hoping she’d heed the warning.
“No, I’ll do what I want. I’m not going to be dictated by my father’s enemy,” she shrilled, looking at me as if I was recently spewed vomit.
Okay, good point. I shouldn’t expect her to trust me straight off the bat, especially since we plan to make her life a living hell while she is here. This brought me to the next topic.
“The train,” I started, only for three students to show up, taking a shortcut between the building and the next block.
I didn’t want the scene to seem suspicious to the students, so I released my grip on Boleyn. Before I could dictate my next demand, she was gone. Damn. She was in such a rush to leave that she forgot her cap and shades, which she left on the path.I picked them up, put the glasses in my sweatpants pocket, and crushed the cap in my hand.
In a rush to catch her, I cupped my sensitive ball with my hand and limped after her, probably looking like an idiot, but I didn’t care. She was running faster than I was hobbling, and it crossed my mind that maybe she was heading straight to the campus police station.
When I finally came to Dingle Street, where the cafes and grocery stores were, two pairs of narrowed eyes were staring at me from an outside table at one of the cafes.
“What’s up with you?” Sickle asked as Lev was frowning at me, as I gazed down the road at the police station searching for that dark-haired girl.
“Did you see her? Did she come out this way?” I asked them, chucking her baseball cap and shades onto the table.
“Who? Boleyn?” Sickle asked, bemused.
“Yeah, she ran this way,” I replied, frustrated. “I hope she didn't go to the cops, ‘cos that’ll fuck me off.”
Lev reached for the cap and brought it to his nose to sniff it. “What did you do to her?” His tone was accusatory, and I didn’t like it.
It told me he was catching feelings for the girl, and that wasn’t his job. Watch the girl. Stalk the girl. Torment the girl. But don’t fucking catch feelings for her. Not yet, anyway. It’s only day two. Fuck.
