Page 42

C hrist, this class is duller than a rusted fencing foil. My eyes glaze over as the ancient harridan at the front drones on about proper soup spoon etiquette or whatever fresh hell we’re being subjected to today. Do these posh bints actually give a solitary fuck which spoon is meant for bisque versus consommé? Half of them can’t locate their own quims without a speculum and hand mirror, I’d wager.

Slouching further in my chair, I let out an overt groan and roll my neck until it cracks satisfyingly. The offended titters from my simpering classmates earn a contemptuous sneer—like they’re ones to talk about decorum, the vapid little Stepford Wives-in-training. At least I’m not putting on airs and feigning an interest in whatever antiquated codswallop spews from Professor Huxtable’s withered lips.

“Miss West!” The shrill rebuke slices through the fog of my disinterest, beady eyes zeroing in on me from behind those insufferable pince-nez spectacles. “Do try and remember where you are and mind your conduct! Slouching about like a Whitechapel guttersnipe ill-befits a woman of your standing.”

Oh, piss off you dusty old crone.

I resist the urge to audibly snort, settling for an exaggerated eye-roll as I lazily straighten in my seat. “Keep telling yourself that we have any true standing, yeah?” I drawl, unable to resist jabbing the wasp nest with a stick. “Not just glorified broodmares being trotted out to spread our legs for the first toff with a fat purse and raging case of the clap, eh?”

The deathly hush falling over the chamber speaks volumes more than any gasp of outrage from my peers. Even the dusty old bat at the lectern appears momentarily gobsmacked, beaky jaw working in soundless indignation.

I almost want to shove the words back down my own throat, already anticipating the scathing dressing-down sure to follow. Just keep your bloody trap shut for once, Bri. But of course, that isn’t in the bloody cards for—

The classroom’s rear door creaks open, cutting off whatever histrionic harangue was no doubt inbound. Every head swivels as one entity, blinking in surprise as the scrupulously polished figure of Arius strolls through the breach with hands tucked casually in his trouser pockets. For one thrumming heartbeat, I envy the insouciant confidence radiating off the arrogant prick in waves.

By contrast, I feel like a scruffy little chav who missed her cue to scuttle back to the dank, forgotten hole from whence I doubtlessly sprang.

“Terribly sorry for the interruption, Professor,” Arius intones with a smoothness that makes my bloody toes curl. His chin dips politely, lips curving in that half-smile which perpetually fills me with equal parts revulsion and reluctant longing. “However, I’m afraid I must conscript Miss West away—official business, you understand.” A dark brow arches a fraction, silently daring the shrivelled crone to defy him.

Huxtable works her jaws like an irate muppet, clearly torn between her affronted sensibilities and the clout Arius wields by merit of his bloodline and position within this institution. Finally, she releases a long-suffering exhalation and waves one mottled hand in resignation. “Very well, Mister Whitlocke. Miss West, see yourself out and pray you conduct yourself in a more decorous fashion henceforth—I shan’t abide lack of decorum in my classroom!”

Fat bloody chance, but I bite my tongue. Shoving away from the table with ill-concealed alacrity, I snatch up my battered rucksack and laptop—the sole valuable possession to my tarnished name. Without sparing my smug classmates another glimpse, I scurry after Arius’ retreating form as he pivots and retraces his path back into the corridor beyond. Mercifully, the heavy oaken door closes behind us with a soft thunk, muffling the fresh swell of tittering chatter in our wake.

“Much appreciated,” I manage once we’re alone, sarcasm coating every syllable. “Can’t imagine how I’d have survived one of Huxtable’s tongue-lashings without a big, swarthy knight in tarnished armour riding to my aid.”

Arius doesn’t even look at me as we amble along. “Yes, well, we all make sacrifices on the path to greatness, . Some more regrettable than others.”

I snort derisively as we move further away from the etiquette classroom, adjusting the strap of my ratty rucksack digging into my shoulder. “So what’s this big bloody emergency then, your lordship? Hansley need her favourite little attack dog to go put someone else’s eye out on the sly?”

Arius doesn’t so much as spare me a sidelong glance, those glacial eyes fixed straight ahead as we stride down the corridor. “No emergency,” he murmurs, casual as you please. “I was simply outside waiting for your lesson to conclude when I overheard Huxtable’s outburst.”

Pausing mid-step, I bark out a cracked laugh and shake my head in disbelief. “Oh, so you did swoop in to play the big damn hero and rescue the wee damsel from the scathing tongue-lashing she rightfully earned, eh? Christ, and here I thought chivalry was dead.”

Finally, Arius halts and pivots to face me fully, those eerily pale eyes raking over my features with an inscrutable expression. “Does that upset you?” he inquires, tone unreadable. “My intervention?”

I open my mouth to unleash an instinctive scathing retort before hesitating. Gnawing on my lower lip, I actually consider his query for once instead of simply reacting on reflex. Does it bother me that this arrogant prick cut me loose from Huxtable’s impending tirade?

No, not really. If I’m being honest with myself, escaping that mind-numbing tedium early is hardly an inconvenience worth griping over.

But… the fact that Arius apparently felt some perverse need to play the gallant knight errant in shining armour? That smug assumption I couldn’t handle my own messes without his privileged arse inserting itself?

Yeah, that part sticks in my craw a smidge.

“Undecided at the moment,” I hedge at length, folding my arms beneath my breasts. Straightening my spine, I quirk one brow in a pointed challenge. “You never do or say what I expect, Whitlocke. Keeps me on my toes, I suppose.”

One corner of Arius’ lips twitches ever-so-slightly, like he’s suppressing a smirk. “Such a simple creature, yet you remain a fascinating paradox all the same,” he murmurs in a tone I can’t quite parse. Is that approval lurking behind the words, or something more inscrutable?

Before I can ponder that particular enigma any further, his attention shifts to my battered rucksack with a minute frown creasing between those aristocratic brows. “That bag…” Arius trails off, apparently searching for the right phrasing. “Is it… sentimental to you? Some manner of keepsake?”

My own face scrunches in confusion at the non sequitur, gaze dropping to the fraying canvas clutched in one fist. “Er… no? It’s just my knackered old rucksack. No sentimental value or anything, I don’t really do keepsakes.”

“Hmm.” Nodding once, Arius seems to consider my reply for a beat. “Well, that’s easily rectified. I’ll purchase you a new one better-suited for—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I splutter out the interruption before he can finish the thought, stamping one foot in indignation. Pursing my lips, I level him with my most scathing glower. “I don’t need your fucking charity. Keep your bloody money.”

If anything, my vehement outburst only serves to bewilder the insufferable prick further. Pale eyes blinking owlishly, he cocks his head in askance. “Charity? , I simply meant—”

“That you’re gonna be such a fuckin’ generous patron buying his future little wifey some new accessories, right?” My lip curls in a sneer even as my own insolent words strike a dissonant chord somewhere deep inside. An ember of wistfulness flickers to life as my mind drifts back to his room, recalling the shockingly tender way Arius had cradled me in the aftermath.

This arrogant, dismissive prick is a far cry from the sort of bloke who’d ever…

“Listen,” I grit out through clenched teeth, “you aren’t obligated to walk on eggshells or parade around playing the doting bloody Romeo on my account, Whitlocke. I’d probably prefer you refrain from pretending to give a solitary fuck about me or my ratty belongings, yeah?”

The defensive barb flies from my lips with reflexive scorn—a nearly Pavlovian response by now to protect whatever shreds of composure and dignity I can scavenge in Arius’ smothering presence. But even as the bitter syllables rasp out, a traitorous voice whispers that it’s all a lie.

Because some reckless, idiotic part of me actually hopes this arrogant golden boy treats me like I’m something more than a charity case or a fresh pivot in his machinations. That perhaps, just maybe, he enjoyed our heated tryst as much as I did, despite my determination to convince myself otherwise.

My taunting jab hangs in the stale air between us, acidic and cruel.

, you stupid bitch—what the fuck is wrong with you?

I brace myself for the inevitable flash of anger contorting Arius’ striking features, the withering glare promising retribution.

Instead, something far more unsettling twists those chiselled planes into an unguarded expression of raw hurt before the shutters slam down once more. He blinks rapidly, swallowing hard as a muscle ticks in that austere jawline. For a heartbeat frozen in time, Arius seems smaller than his usual towering presence, stripped bare in a moment of disarming vulnerability.

When at last he straightens to his full, intimidating height, the familiar impassive mask is firmly back in place. A slight clearing of his throat is the sole tell betraying whatever turmoil roils beneath that stoic exterior.

“My deepest apologies, Ms. West,” Arius murmurs, each word carefully measured. “I was unaware my regard for your wellbeing caused such personal offence. It won’t happen again, you have my word.”

The genuine contrition in those softly spoken syllables throws me for a loop, whatever scathing rejoinder I’d prepared withering on my tongue. All the righteous fury fuelling my scornful outburst splutters and gutters out, leaving only ashes of uneasy regret smouldering in the aftermath.

Mercifully, Arius spares me from further floundering by pivoting on one polished heel. His broad shoulders stiffen beneath the crisp lines of his blazer as he stalks away without a backwards glance, each measured footfall carving out the silence billowing in to fill the void in his wake.

“Christ…” The hushed exhalation slips from between my lips unbidden, chest constricting.

What the bloody fuck was that?

I barely register the sharp trill of a familiar voice calling my name over the rushing white-out static roaring in my ears. It isn’t until warm hands clasp my upper arms from behind in a comforting squeeze that the fog parts enough for me to blink and refocus.

“Whoa there, hun! You look properly rattled—everything alright?” Sid appraises me with a quizzical frown puckering those full lips, brow furrowed in concern.

“I—” My voice cracks on the single syllable, throat abruptly parched. Licking my lips, I try again without much improvement in coherency. “I don’t… He just…”

Sid’s forehead furrows deeper, scrutinising my obvious inner turmoil. “Was that wanker giving you grief again?” One hand lifts to cradle my cheek, the tender gesture such a stark contrast with Arius’ earlier rebuff. “Want me to sick the lads on his poncey arse for a kickin’?”

A ragged chuckle punches out at that, the lingering knot of tension in my chest easing by a fraction. Shaking my head, I loop my arm through Sid’s and cling to the lifeline of her steadfast presence as we begin ambling forward.

“Nah,” I manage at last, working some moisture back into my mouth. “Just… the bloody pretentious tosser acted all weird—weirder than his usual brand of tosser-ish wankery, that is.” Sparing a glance in the direction Arius departed, I nibble my lower lip uncertainly. “You didn’t catch the end there, but… I dunno. He got all stroppy when I accused him of being charitable with his fancy new bag offer.”

Sid snorts, squeezing my bicep as we emerge into the courtyard, rays of afternoon sunlight gilding our path. “Man’s got a massive stick lodged up his tight arse, love.”

I nod, appreciating the reminder even as my mind churns over Arius’ reaction. “Right? I think my smart mouth got ahead of me, though…” Trailing off, I reach to rake errant strands of hair away from my face in agitation, fingers snagging on tangles. “When he turned to go, Sid, I swear his whole face just… crumpled, like. Not anger though—he looked bloody gutted for a second. Did you see him before he walked off?”

Sid considers this with pursed lips, guiding us towards a wrought iron bench shaded beneath a gnarled oak tree. Students in their crisp uniforms mill about the gardens, textbooks cracked and thermoses steaming. Her gaze tracks over the obliviously bustling scene for a beat before cutting back to me.

“I only saw him walk away. Could just be my faulty radar, but I didn’t clock any steely disdain from the marble prick.” Settling onto the bench with me huddled beside her, she leans in conspiratorially. “If anything, you seemed to get to him on a deeper level than his usual sneering contempt.”

“I accused him of faking any decent human emotion or care, that his offer was just forced charity,” I mutter, the words feeling like lead weights on my tongue.

Christ, I really am a fucking cow sometimes, aren’t I?

Just because the arrogant tosser’s overtures managed to pierce the cynical armour I’ve shored up over the years, I lashed out on reflex. And now… what? I’ve made the posh git feel guilty for daring to be nice, or to actually give half a toss about my wellbeing?

Pathetic fucking hypocrite, that’s what you are.

A frustrated groan gurgles up from my throat as both hands lift to rake through my hair. “I’m such a stupid fucking bitch,” I rasp, angling a pleading look in Sid’s direction. “Even if every instinct screamed that whole bag offer was some weird power move on his part, he didn’t deserve me ripping into him for it, yeah? Not when…”

Not when some traitorous part of my psyche craves the vulnerability he so fleetingly exposed, I realise with a sinking sensation in the pit of my gut. Wants to believe the posh prick might actually view me as something more than a convenient fuck, or another pawn in this fucked up game.

Sid regards me steadily for a long moment, plump lips pursed in a considering moue. “Bri…” she begins, then pauses as a gaggle of passing coeds glance over and begin whispering behind cupped hands. Her nostrils flare before she drapes an arm around my shoulders, tugging me into the curve of her side protectively. “Screw them. Listen, Bri—you’re allowed to have a minger of a day and snap at the odd bellend, alright? Not your fault if that Whitlocke bloke can’t grow a thicker hide and some perspective when dealing with those of us who didn’t inherit a bloody diamond spoon up our arses, yeah?”

My answering chuckle feels frayed around the tattered edges, but genuine all the same. Sid’s steadfast bluntness manages to undercut some of the festering guilt and self-recrimination roiling in my gut, for now. Squeezing her in a grateful side-hug, I nod and slump back against the ornate bench ironwork with an exaggerated groan.

“Fuck perspectives and bloody spoons, Sid—what I need right now is a fat burger and chips drenched in enough vinegar to strip the enamel off teeth. I’m bloody starved.”

She cackles at that, planting a loud smacking kiss against my temple before shoving off the bench to her feet. “Now there’s my girl. C’mon then, let’s rustle up some swag from the caf and you can bitch more about pretty rich boy’s emotional constipation.”

Levering myself upright with a grunt, I elbow her playfully in the ribs and allow Sid to wind our arms together for the jaunt across campus. Behind the wry grin quirking my lips, my mind can’t help but flicker back to that naked expression of anguish on Arius’ face, just for an instant. What the fuck was that about?

If nothing else… it’s now abundantly clear I need to figure out why the arrogant prick got so twisted in knots by a few careless barbs from my smart mouth. One way or another, I plan to get to the bottom of whatever’s really crawled up that marble prick’s arse and taken up residence.