Page 101 of Ruthless Chaos

“You know what they say. The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else,” she says with a laugh. Though I can’t figure out how that statement could be truthful, I laugh along with her.

“Thank you, by the way,” she says. “What you did for me yesterday. It was really kind of you. It’s rare to find that sort of thing here. My last roommate was a bitch.”

I smile. “That’s what friends do, right? They look out for each other.”

“Yes, they do.”

She reaches up to hug me.

While I hug Tara, my mind wanders.

The past twenty-four hours have changed my perception of things.

Tara and I are friends now, friends that look out for each other. Friends that share secrets and giggle about the way we spent our night apart. She’s become the kind of friend I dreamed I could make during those lonely nights in my bedroom, the kind of friend I’d hoped to make at Harvard.

I see Alexander differently too.

Whatever we have has changed a lot since that night by the lake.

He almost killed someone to protect me—even though killing Liam would get him expelled. He saw my scars and cared enough to ask me, wellbegme to stop.

He promised to protect me, always.

Though I’ve experienced different forms of “protection” all my life, Alexander's promise feels different—like he cares about who I am as an individual.

Not just what I represent.

Whenever I’m around him, it’s like the world has stopped spinning, and all that matters is just the two of us. He’s pain and pleasure, heaven and hell.

He’s my chaos and my calm.

Alexander Duke is still a monster, but that doesn’t scare me like it used to.

These feelings are a risk.

I’m supposed to lay low. Being tethered to Alexander will bring me attention. If my cover is blown, I’m going to die—either at the hands of the students here, or the people hunting me because of my father.

Still, I can’t deny I’m drawn to him.

Alexander feels inevitable. It might be a mistake.

But I want him, nonetheless.

TWENTY-FIVE

ALEXANDER

I slammy fist into the punching bag hard, gritting my teeth against the pain that shoots from my bruised knuckles. I’ve been at this so long I’ve reopened the cuts the House doctor stitched up.

There’s blood all over the punching bag and the floor.

I don’t stop, though. I can’t.

The mid-afternoon sun streams through the stained-glass windows of the attic-turned-gym, casting multi-colored patterns on the black foam floor. My body’s slick with sweat and my muscles ache, but I keep pushing myself harder.

This is supposed to clear my mind.

It’s not working.