Page 44 of Broken by my Bully (Lessons in Cruelty Dark Academia #1)

Haven

Teagan has no problem letting me leave early, but she’s nosy as hell about me missing a shift.

Takes a while to get a layer of mascara on my lashes that doesn’t look like spider legs. Clumpy makeup sucks. But an improvised shower in the diner restroom, a brush through my hair, more foundation over my throat, and I’m ready.

Teagan spots me on my way out. “Haven?”

I cringe. “Yeah?”

“Girl, you going on a date?” She has a hand on one hip, cocking an eyebrow like I’ve got some explaining to do.

My laugh is instant, and near falsetto.

This is definitely not a date.

Haven Lee doesn’t date. Haven Lee doesn’t even have sex with anything that’s not battery operated. Kai shattered Haven Lee’s heart into so many pieces that she’s never been able to glue it back together again.

But I wanted to look nice, because then I feel confident. That’s why I’m wearing my slightly faded black maxi dress, my boots, and my best underwear. Confidence always seems in short supply around Bastian.

Only when I’m almost in front of Bastian’s house do I realize I’ll be parking beside his Tesla. It felt shitty that first day of college. Especially after driving past a row of high-end Land Rovers, Mercs, and BMWs.

It feels even shittier now.

When he opens the door in an apron, I freeze. Not because it’s domestic, but because his eyes do that thing. A slow, possessive scan from my boots to my face that makes me feel like his prey. And I’ve just willingly walked straight back into his trap.

“You made it.” His smile is warm, inviting.

Wrong.

Everything about this is wrong.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d gotten lost.”

“Traffic,” I lie.

“At seven PM? In Agony Hollow?” He steps aside, and I catch his scent—expensive cologne mixed with something darker. “Come inside.”

I’d let him. He wouldn’t even have to ask.

Jesus, Haven! Mind out of the gutter.

He steps aside and ushers me in with a sweep of his hand. The symbolism isn’t lost on me when I step over his threshold.

I’m crossing a line tonight.

And, sure, I could argue this handsome man with his impossibly intelligent eyes and fleeting smile lured me here…but am I any less a victim for succumbing?

“Hard day?”

I shake my head, give him an awkward smile, and tread deeper inside his house.

He’s wearing a white dress shirt rolled up to mid-arm and moss green pants beneath the apron. Casual, but smart. There’s jazz playing on his home speaker system. The fireplace is lit. And I swear that vase of white lilies wasn’t here when I left earlier today .

Maybe this is a date.

“You’re frowning.” He closes the door behind me, then gives another wave of his hand.

“Please. Enough with the decorum. We’re well past the stage where you should feel uncomfortable walking through my front door.

” He makes a point of glancing toward the garden where he found me waiting last night. “Or the back.”

“Okay,” I say through a laugh, holding up my hand. “I need you to pretend that never happened.”

He tilts his head, curling one side of his mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s better.” I force a smile as I bend awkwardly to unzip my boots. He didn’t ask me to take off my shoes, but when he quirks an appreciative smile my way, it’s so worth it. Thank God I found a pair of socks that didn’t have any holes in them.

“So, what’s the news? My stomach’s in knots.”

“We’ll multitask. I’m starving.” He walks into the kitchen, and I follow.

I suppose if he was going to just blurt out what the hell was so important, he could have done it in a text.

Should I be mad? I want to be mad.

But then the smell of caramelized onions hits my nose, and it’s game over.

I don’t know who’s more surprised when my stomach lets out a ferocious growl—me or Bastian. Judging from the side-eye, probably him. Give me a break. My last meal was half a stale cheeseburger, and that was a couple of hours ago.

Bastian draws out a kitchen stool as he passes. “Sit.”

I slip onto the stool, sliding my car keys and phone away from me so I can stretch out my arms on the cool marble surface. The stone feels so milky.

“Glad to know you can follow instructions,” my professor says as he angles around the kitchen island and heads for a tall pot of steaming water on the range .

“Isn’t that Student 101?” I ask, trying not to drown in my own spit. I mean, the smell in this kitchen is…

Gourmet.

That’s the only way I can explain it, but I desperately wish I had the vocabulary to do better.

When my mom was still alive, the height of Lee family cuisine was TV dinners.

But things steadily regressed after Mom passed.

Still not really sure what happened. Something to do with her heart.

After that, it was spam and eggs most meals.

The cheapest cereal on the shelf, the one that tasted like wood shavings and sugar.

Eventually, PB & J sandwiches for dinner, if there was any dinner at all.

If my dad had given a fuck, he might have applied for a food subsidy from my school, but, well, he didn’t. And I was too young and naive to even know things like that existed.

“Not everyone who’s in college should be in college.”

He wasn’t aiming that jab at me, but apparently the wave of panic that rifles through me doesn’t know it.

“Yeah?” I say, casually knotting my fingers together in front of me. “Like who?”

“Hm. Get us a drink and maybe I’ll elaborate.”

There’s sparkling water, wine, and bottled water in the fridge.

“No soda?”

“Stop poisoning your body with garbage.” He doesn’t look up from stirring.

“Yes, Daddy ,” I mutter.

The spoon stops moving.

“What was that?”

I hide my burning face back inside the fridge. “Nothing.”

“Say it again.” He leans back far enough to catch my eye. “I dare you.”

“I said yes, Professor.”

He studies me a moment longer. “Sure you did.” Relief washes through me when he finally breaks eye contact.

I want to pour myself a glass of sparkling water. Fuck knows why I just grab the bottle of wine instead and close the fridge. Maybe because it feels more mature to be sipping wine than gulping down sparkling water like a kid.

Maybe because talking to Bastian feels like playing poker. Blindfolded.

Or because he’s right—it’s been a hard day, a hard week…fuck that, a hard goddamn life, and I’ve deserved some R&R. Maybe I’m just curious about what all the fuss is about. I mean, everyone else in the world seems to love alcohol. I should give it a second chance, right?

Now that my tequila hangover is a distant—yet still slightly unpleasant—memory, having a drink doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, especially if it will loosen me up like it did at Melissa’s sorority. I definitely don’t want to get drunk again. Ever.

I set the wine down on the counter, going onto tiptoes to get a glass from the cabinet. I’m taking the second wineglass down when Bastian speaks.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“God!” I fumble the glass

He’s right behind me.

“Pouring a drink!” I sound much too defensive.

“A dash of bourbon in your cocoa isn’t the same as a glass of wine.”

“Just one glass? Please?” I feel like I’m asking him to extend my curfew to ten. He searches my face, and I guess he finds enough responsibility there to satisfy him that I won’t get drunk and puke all over his nice white carpet.

“I reserve the right to cut you off when I see fit.”

“Whatever you say, Professor.” I keep my back turned as I twist off the screw-top and pour a glass.

“Don’t you mean, Daddy?”

It feels like my face is going to melt right off my skull. I say nothing, focusing on getting my hand to stop shaking as I pour the second glass.

He appears in the corner of my eye, going to stir the saucepan where his delicious concoction is brewing.

I take a glass to him, setting it down near him on the marble counter. As I turn to leave, he grabs my wrist.

His fingers don’t just grasp—they shackle . His thumb finds my pulse point and presses.

“Two blocks of ice.”

“Sure thing, Prof?—”

His grip tightens. My pulse hammers against his thumb as he tuts at me.

“Bastian.”

“Good girl.” He releases me slowly, fingers dragging along my skin.

I plop two cubes of ice into his glass, holding my hand over the top to minimize the splash.

“None for you?” he says as I’m about to put the ice back in the freezer.

Is this a test? Are you supposed to drink wine with ice? Dad only had ice in his drink on special occasions…like the day after he got his disability check.

“Silly me.” I toss two cubes in my glass, hesitate, then add a third. I suppose it will water it down.

I wander into the living area and give Bastian’s house another slow scan. Despite how many times I’ve been here, I can always find something new to appreciate.

Like that painting above the fireplace? I’ve seen it before, but I never really looked.

“You like fucked up art, don’t you?”

Bastian chuckles. “You’re admiring my Bosch?”

“Um…admiring it isn’t quite the right word. More like examining it. Is this supposed to be hell?”

“Limbo, actually. ”

“Looks pretty hellish to me,” I mutter as I take a sip of wine.

It’s dark, the only specks of light those of tormented figures being harassed by demons. There’s a freaky creature near the top that’s all arms and legs, holding open its mouth.

It looks like a working-class demon is pushing damned souls into its gaping maw.

“Hungry?”

“This guy certainly is,” I mumble.

I shake off my creeps and go sit at the kitchen counter. Bastian is busy serving up the pasta, and I wish he’d hurry the hell up, because I’m dying to know what it tastes like. He sets a bowl down in front of me and takes a seat opposite me at the island.

I’m stabbing my fork into the pasta like a heathen when he holds up his glass. “A toast.”

Damn it. This pasta better be good.