Page 16 of Stormbringer (Tracthesian Academy #1)

W ell, that turned out rather nicely, Marc mused as he carried Wayla.

Every couple of steps, she gave the tiniest whimper that shot straight to his cock, but Marc could control himself for now.

She clung to his neck and waist and seemed to give zero fucks at the glances, glares, gasps, and whispers that followed them. In fact, she cared less than he did.

Lucky for some idiots, he’d rather hold her in his arms than go around knocking some boneheads together. Still, he memorized the faces and names that came to him. It wouldn’t hurt to let the rest of the group know.

At least one of the loudmouths was in Grant’s stave class, and Marc would make sure he regretted his remarks about Wayla and her morals. If that prick thought he was laying one finger on her, he had another thing coming.

“Hold tighter,” he grunted at Wayla and hefted her up a bit to get to his phone. He snapped a picture of the idiot and sent it to Grant with the caption, ‘ you beat him to a pulp or I will’ . His phone vibrated before he had time to put it back in his pocket.

An emoji salute was the reply, and Marc grinned.

“What?” Wayla asked when she saw his expression.

“Nothing,” he replied. Wayla whipped her head around and tried to figure out what he had done, but everyone was pointedly not looking at them when she was watching. “So, what parties have you been to lately?” he asked to distract her.

“Parties?” She looked completely baffled.

“Yes,” Marc said. “Parties. You know, those things where students gather, drink themselves stupid, and make memories. Or lose them. Parties .”

“Uh…”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t been to any! It’s the start of the semester. There’s a party going on every day somewhere.”

“Well, I’ve been working after school, and then there’s all the reading and…” Wayla drifted off when he stared at her disbelievingly. “I don’t do parties,” she finally huffed. “Besides, I promised Chrissy to never wear my old sneakers, and she would kill me if someone threw up on the new ones.”

“Shoes. Your reason for not going to a party is shoes?”

Now Marc had to stop to look her over again. Was she kidding? This had to be a joke, right? Slowly, he tried to look past her mesmerizing eyes and magnetic pull. She was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, clean but with no logos. Her jeans were well-worn, molded to her frame.

The shoes she was talking about were behind his back so that he couldn’t say anything about those, but his forehead wrinkled. As soon as he opened his mouth, Wayla hissed.

“Don’t you dare!”

“I was just—”

“I don’t need your, or anyone else’s, pity.”

Marc glared. “I wasn’t—”

“Going to suggest that you’ll buy me a pair of shoes?” Wayla quirked her brow accusingly.

“What if I was?”

“I don’t need anyone’s handouts. I have a full scholarship and a part-time position to work. If I want a fucking pair of shoes, I’ll get them myself.”

“Well, get them, then.”

“No.”

Marc shook his head and started walking again. “You can’t claim shoes as your reason then.”

“I can do whatever I want,” Wayla huffed.

“Clearly,” Marc agreed easily. “I don’t want to argue with you, Wayla. None of this makes any sense to me. Shoes or no.”

She glared at him, but he got a feeling it was more of a defense mechanism than true irritation. So, she didn’t come from money. He could live with that. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“What?” she snarled.

“I’m just imagining the heart attack introducing you to my stepmother would cause. No trust fund, no sports cars, or a thick stock portfolio. She’d have an aneurysm just thinking about us hooking up.”

“And that’s funny to you?”

Marc nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, hell yes. She’s a harpy. Please, can I tell her we’re dating? I’ll give you anything if you come to my house during the next mandatory holiday appearance.”

“You… want to use me to spite your family? And me being poor is enough?”

“Did you miss the part where I called her a harpy? Well, she’s not an actual harpy, but you know what I mean. If I could avoid the house altogether, I would, but my little brother still lives there. I can’t leave him to suffer the madness alone.”

Wayla softened against him and then went so far as to nuzzle his neck. “Oh,” she sighed softly.

“Mm,” Marc hummed. “I would ask you to date me for real, but I’m getting a feeling that it would send you running for the hills, so I’ll settle for official fake dating. As long as the sex is real.”

What. The. Fuck. Was. Wrong. With. Him?

Wayla giggled against his throat. “I think we may be able to negotiate something that works for both of us.”