Page 15

If I do this, though, it means crossing him. Andthatmeans getting his attention. He may not know it's me when I dig up dirt about him and publish it on Legacies, but I'll have a target on my back. I won't be the snake in the grass anymore.

I'll be the snake rearing up to show my fangs and flash them at his ankle.

So be it. I can't stand here and do nothing; it would be humiliating to just walk away. And this little moment of defiance, this tiny chance to stop him from bullying someone like he bullied Silas, will feed the yawning pit inside me that demands revenge.

It's easy enough to approach the tree and find a knot low on the trunk. It protrudes just enough for me to stretch up and get my fingers on it.

Chrissy says, "You don't have to do this. It's just a stupid purse."

"I thought you said your mom gave it to you," Cole taunts. "Guess that was just another lie, like everything else."

"I'm getting the purse," I tell Chrissy, ignoring Cole entirely. "Just you watch. It's not the first tree I've climbed."

I try very hard not to think about what happened in the last tree I climbed. The live oak has thick, knotty branches with plenty of places for my fingers to grab and hang on. It takes some effort to climb up into the V of its trunk and scoot out towards the branch with the purse, but with a little stretching I manage to snag it.

Smirking down triumphantly at Cole, I jump out of the tree, land softly on the grass with my knees bent, and hand the purse back to Chrissy.

"There." I shoot Cole a glare, taking a deep breath and pushing a strand of sweaty hair out of my eyes. "It wasn't that hard. Next time you play a prank on a girl, you might want to try something a little more creative."

"Is that a challenge?"

He steps forward and looks down at me, the sun overhead catching sparks of gold in his eyes. I lift my chin to meet his gaze, my heart stomping like a marching band, heat pooling in my cheeks and chest. I tell myself it's all just from climbing the tree, but I know there's something else there too.

Because Cole Masterson looks like heaven and smells better than a kitchen full of recently-baked cookies. He has eyes that see right through you, challenging and bold, impossible to ignore. Like a spark to my flame, his presence alone is enough to make me simmer.

I'm afraid that if I look at him much longer, I'll catch on fire just so I can burn him to the ground along with me.

"Tell me your name," he demands.

For a moment, the truth sits at the tip of my tongue, a dangerous thing. A lie comes out instead. "Brenna Cooke."

"Brenna Cooke." I can feel Chrissy hovering, looking worried, eyes whipping back and forth between me and Cole. "Consider yourself marked."

I snort. "Marked?"

"Yes."

"You make it sound so serious. What, are you part of a secret society that's going to club me over the head and drag me into your secret basement to sacrifice me to dark gods?"

"It's not funny."

"It kind of is."

Irritation flashes in his eyes, creases his golden brows. Poor little rich boy; no one's stood up to him like this. No peasant like me, at least.

"Being marked," he growls, "means you're a target. We get to do anything we want to you, and no one will step in. No one will stop it or help. Because doing so means becoming a social pariah. You'll have no friends here–just enemies."

Like I have friends here anyway. Tilting my head, I point out, "You didn't say who 'we' is. So thereisa secret society. Do you wear black robes or red? Is it mixed gender or one of those homoerotic type of things? And what kind of incense should I bring to my ritualistic sacrifice?"

That does it—Chrissy actually laughs out loud, covering her mouth with one hand, looking mortified and afraid. Cole, for his part, seems to have given up on trying to look intimidating, and is now settling for just staring at me with a generally peeved expression on his face.

"You'll see. You'll regret this."

In a deep pitched voice I repeat back, "You'll see. You'll regret this.Very intimidating. Next time, try saying it in a foggy graveyard at night. A little camp would go well with all these theatrics."

He's still scowling as I hook my arm through Chrissy's, steer her towards the girls' dorms, and walk away.

I feel his eyes on me the whole way, like a prickle at my neck, digging in almost physically. I know, with a sinking feeling, that I will pay for this later. Boys like Cole don't let go and move on.