Page 97 of Twisting Beauty

The rain kept falling.

“And don’t get them wet.”

I stacked his books against my chest with the ciggies and lighter on top, using my chin to hold them down, hoisted his bag over my shoulder, and shifted the umbrella higher so it covered him and his stuff as we walked.

The angle left my back completely exposed. Water ran down my hair and dripped down my spine.

He set an unhurried pace, the weight of his books growing heavier with every step. He spoke to Breezy over his shoulder. Nodded at a girl who called his name from the steps. Answered a question from Rafe about training. He never once looked at me or acknowledged that I was there.

Students parted for him. Their eyes stuck to me, landing like an additional weight.

I tried to brush off the humiliation, tried to keep my face effortless, like this was a choice I was making rather than something I was forced to do.

I hated him. God, I really fucking hated him.

By the time we reached the classroom, my arms ached and my shoes squelched.

In class, he made me take his notes while a puddle formed slowly around my chair and soaked into my socks. I stabbed the paper with my pen as I thought about everything I was going to do to him when this was over.

That night after I’d finally shut my bedroom door and peeled myself out of my wet things, my phone lit up on the bedside table.

A new contact name glowed on the screen.

My Liege.

The fury arrived so fast it blanked my vision for a full second.

Somehow, he’d gotten into my phone and changed his name in my contacts.

I opened the message.

There was only one line. One single command.

The mix of hatred and stupid anticipation sent a shiver down my spine.

My room. Now.

When I entered his bedroom, Lorcan was seated at his desk, barefoot, a pair of gray sweats sitting low on his hips, lamplight catching the hard line of his shoulders and the ink curling over his brutal body.

For a long time, he didn’t look up from the book open in front of him.

The bastard was doing it on purpose. Making me stand there. Making me wait.

I stood just inside the closed door and tried not to let it affect me. But my pulse climbed with every second of silence, hating him more with every passing moment.

When he finally closed the book and raised his eyes, his face had his usual cool, detached mask on.

He stood and crossed toward me, the firm muscles of his torso flexing as he walked, every step measured and unhurried.

I kept my eyes up and my face still and told my mutinous body to behave itself.

He stopped close enough that I had to tip my chin to hold his gaze, his violins flaring to life in my mind this time with a rough seductive edge.

Heat rolled off him, my breath catching stupidly in my throat.

The corner of his mouth lifted up.

“On your knees.”