Page 51 of The Darkest Note

The cafeteria falls into tense silence. Everyone is holding their breath for fear that the quietest cough will interrupt the drama.

Footsteps thud behind me. I’d know the sound of Dutch’s walk anywhere, not only because it usually hints of my coming misery, but because it’s a staccato rhythm.

Thud, thud, thud.

Cocky and measured, it inspires a haunting melody. The kind that would play inCount Draculajust before the vampire rises from his casket to feast in the night.

He’s closer now. I can hear it by his footsteps and feel it by the prickles surging over my skin.

I don’t move a muscle when I sense Dutch come up beside me. His energy is crackling with anger, but it’s not showing on his face. His gaze is calm, unbothered.

“Go on, Brahms.” Dutch reaches for the sandwich on my tray. He peels the clear plastic with big hands. “We’re all waiting for the show.”

I twist my head and glare at him.

Dutch arches both eyebrows and tilts his head, drilling in the point. I barely quell the urge to smack him with my tray.

“Or, and here’s a better idea,” Dutch casually nods at the jock, “why don’t you start stripping first?”

“Me?” The jock trembles.

“Who else could I be talking to?”

He stares blankly at Dutch.

Sandwich still in his hand, Dutch walks forward calmly. “You don’t want to?”

The jock comes to some kind of realization because he lifts both arms and fearfully backs away. “Dutch, man, I don’t want any trouble.”

Dutch’s stare hardens. His entire face has gone cold.

My eyes volley between the smarmy athlete who’s bowing his head and the tatted prince. Dutch hasn’t made any moves—he hasn’t even lifted his hands—and yet it feels like the jock just got a royal beating.

“See that girl behind me?” Dutch whispers.

The jock’s frightened eyes jump to me before swinging back to Dutch.

“You don’t mess with her unless you getmypermission.”

A rush of air leaves my lungs, and with it, the bit of gratitude I’d started to feel toward Dutch.

I scowl in his direction.

“Have I made myself clear?” Dutch places his hands on the jock’s shoulders and brushes the top of his football jersey.

“Y-yes.”

Jaw tight, Dutch strides back to me.

“What the hell was that?” I hiss.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he uncaps my orange juice and guzzles it down. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, caps my bottle and tosses it back into the tray.

Stupid jerk.

I whirl around, my nostrils flaring as two opposing forces war within me. On the one hand, he did put that jock in his place. Whatever his intentions, he helped me out.

On the other, he claimed me as his ‘property’ and basically admitted to being the only one who can mistreat me.