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I told him he had no power over me. I was wrong.

Anger burning inside me like a furnace, I knock his hands away.

"Let go!"

"Fine."

He lets go of me alright—suddenly and all at once, before I get the chance to get my feet underneath me. I fall to the ground in a heap, hitting the stool on the way. Ass thoroughly bruised, pride wounded, uniform stained, and the only thing I've cared about so far at this school ruined, I look up at Cole and wonder if it's worth it.

Maybe I shouldn't have some grand plan of taking down him and his friends. Maybe I'll never have enough dirt, or enough power, to ruin him. This might be the only chance I get to do what down and dirty country girls like me do: form a hand into a fist and punch him so thoroughly that he has to curse my name from a mouth that's missing teeth.

It would get me expelled, but I wonder if I care anymore. Rolling to my feet, legs aching, none of the other students in the class looking my way, I face him with my fingers curled towards my palms and my thumb on the outside of my fist just like Silas taught me. He smirks, and I imagine wiping that smirk from his pretty rich boy face. Like a train rolling off the tracks, I feel dangerous and unsteady, certain I should stop but unsure how to.

One moment. One shot. That's all I'll ever get—the instant I hit him it's all done. Every hope, every dream of revenge, dead as soon as my knuckles hit his face.

He's looking at me. I'm breathing fast, hard. The pain of my snake bite, of the ill-thought-out burn, makes my right hand throb. But the left will do just as well; Silas was a southpaw, and I imitated him so much as a little girl that I know how to use both hands when I want to.

"Look at you." Cole laughs a little, eyes skimming me from head to toe, heat following wherever his gaze touches. "You sure made a mess of things."

"And now you're gonna pay."

"For an accident?" Looking around, he surveys the class and asks me in a mocking tone, "The teacher's not here. It'll be your word against mine if you use those fists you've curled up so nicely." Stepping forward, he cocks his head at me and looks at me like I'm trash—like I'm nothing. "Think any one of these kids will help you if you get expelled?"

"It'll be worth it," I tell him—tell myself, really.

"Go on then. Do it."

He steps closer still, until I can practically feel each breath he takes, the very heat of the blood pumping through his body. Warmth pools through me, the fire of my rage and pain desperate to take action—and something more, a sinister desire that fills me with self loathing.

Cole asks, "What are you waiting for? It's not as if you're doing anything useful by staying here. You'll just fail out like all the other unworthies."

His last word snaps me out of my rage. That was a text Silas got, from an unknown number somewhere out in Oregon:You're just another unworthy. Coleridge is too good for you.He believed it, apparently, lost faith in himself and took the fast lane out of Dodge.

I won't let myself do the same. I have to live—for him, if not for me. And I have to prove that Wilders are good enough for this godforsaken shit hole.

So I let my fists uncurl.

Push down the anger I got from Daddy.

And echo his mocking smile back at him, tilting my head and creasing my brows in faux confusion. "Why would I hit you? It was just an accident—when you fell, and when you dropped me."

Laughing, I shake my head—and let my hair shake out a little, drips of dirty water flying to smack him right in his Coleridge button-up. "It's no big deal. I drew it once, I can draw it again—even better next time."

Then I crane my head to the side, peer at his easel, and cover my mouth as if I'm shocked to see what's there. And really, I am, just a little—I thought kids like Cole were supposed to be good at everything they try. But the perspective on his piece is off, the contour flat and lifeless, his watercolor barely contained to the lines he's made.

"Oh. I see now." I shoot him a pitying expression and murmur, in a voice loud enough for others to hear but soft enough to mock him, "You ruined my piece because you felt bad about yours. Don't worry—you'll get better." Smacking him on the side of the arm, I add, "We've all got to start somewhere."

He's looking at me in bewilderment, face wide open, every emotion on display. It's so beautiful I almost laugh.

I try not to let my hand linger on the side of his arm, feeling the tense muscle that lives beneath his skin.

I try not to think about what it would be like to send him to his knees, begging for me, telling me he wants me—only to refuse him and tear him down completely.

I've already got my sights set on Tanner, after all. It's not like I can seduce more than one of the Elites. Even one is too much to hope for.

"Here we are!" The unfortunately named Rainbow returns with the paper towels, pushing her wide round glasses up the bridge of her nose, long wild hair flying around her in bouncy curls. She holds out a single roll of paper towels towards me, even as I drip onto the ground. "This should help."

It won't do a damned thing.