Page 51 of Broken by my Bully

Oh, fuck, Haven.

The things I’m gonna do to you.

“Imagine an ordinary day in your life. School, sports, dinner with the folks or with your friends. Day in, day out, on repeat, ad nauseam. One day you’re sipping on your pumpkin spice latte, and the next, you’re waterboarding an enemy informant because someone in a uniform is telling you it’s your duty.”

I’m only paying half a mind to what Rooke’s going on about. I’dbe more into his lecture if I weren’t trying to bore a hole into Haven’s skull with thought alone. But I’ve heard this all before, and honestly, I’d rather be trying to trigger Heavenly into a panic attack than listen to Rooke.

“…triggers that switch in our brain? The one that transforms us from man to monster? Is that monster always there, fully grown and ferocious, biding its time until you open its cage? Or does it start out as something kind and innocent that life pokes and prods until it has no choice but to evolve into a brute, if only for self-preservation?

“That’s something Zimbardo addressed in his Stanford Prison Experiment. Unfortunately, his study was cut short, but in the few days…”

Rooke arrived in Agony Hollow three years ago and quickly became a legend. I was already a junior, but his class sounded interesting enough that I took it. And thank God I did, because he insists his TAs complete his class before applying to work for him. He shouldn’t have such high standards. From what I heard, I was one of only two students to apply.

“…college students just like you and randomly assigned them to the role of inmate or guard. Then he sat back and watched the fireworks.”

Little Miss Heavenly doesn’t look at me for the entire lecture.

Not once.

Not when I find my stick and start chewing on it, swiveling my chair side to side with my legs stretched out.

Not when I lean back to stretch halfway through.

Not even when I’m the only one to laugh at some obscure reference Rooke makes that goes over everyone else’s head.

But the touch of color in her cheeks says she knows I’m staring at her. The way she shifts uncomfortably in her worn, faded clothes. She’s in a knee-length denim skirt, pastel yellow leggings, and an oversized black sweater.

Perfectly fine for community college, I guess, but wedon’t do it like that here. Maybe she’s too busy being poor to notice the designer threads around her. Even my joggers are Versace.

Rooke’s tweed jacket? It’s a bespoke piece, probably custom-tailored by the boutique in Ashwood Crossing.

Haven’s sad clothes don’t stop me checking out her legs. Wishing her sweater was tighter so I could see the swell of her tits. When she starts toying with her pen, pushing it in and out of the cap between her teeth, it takes me right back to the library.

God, her eyes. That fucking mouth. I’ve only had a handful of blow jobs—a fact that will die with me—but hers was the hottest. So wet, and sloppy, andangry.

Fuck. I tug at my joggers, hurriedly looking away from Haven as I try to control the semi stirring in my lap.

Down, boy.

The professor’s voice drops low, causing my ears to prick up in anticipation.

“We choose how we treat our monsters,” he purrs as he scans his captive audience.

There’s this ripple as students shift whenever his gaze falls on them. It’s fucking awe-inspiring to watch from my seat behind the desk. I almost feel like the prison warden in Zimbardo’s Stanford experiment. Watching these interactions play out with no intention of stopping it until it’s run its course.

“Do we keep them caged? Or do we let them out to play?”

So is Rooke her bodyguard now? Is that why she dared to come back? Guess I’m gonna have to track down her dad’s phone number and get Mr Meth Lee himself down here for a chat.

There’s a sick feeling in my stomach, but it’s got nothing to do with Haven’s dad. Okay, maybe a little. That guy’s been winning Druggie Dad of the Year awards since Haven was five.

What if she told Rooke what had happened?

I snort softly tomyself.

Doubtful.

The dean would have suspended me already, and the sheriff would have swung by for ‘a quick chat’.