Page 15 of The Villain's Beast

“Mr. Sinclair turned the paper in before class today,” Dean Malcom said, and the floor dropped out from under me. I had to brace myself against a table to stop myself from falling over. “He advised Mr. Smith that you’d made yourself unavailable to him for the duration.”

I dug my phone out of my pocket, ready to show him Fletcher’s name in my call log, to prove whatever he’d heard was a lie. My lips were dry, though, the wet heat of Fletcher’s mouth long gone.

“We worked on it together,” I said again.

“Can you prove it?”

“You can ask Fletcher!” I raised my voice, fisting my hands at my sides.

“I’ve heard his side and I’ve seen the work he did on his own so he didn’t fail. What canyoushow me, Mr. North?”

This was absurd.

Dean Malcom was lucky I wasn’t one of those “you’ll be hearing from my father” kind of kids, but I did take the time to remind him who’d just paid for their new library while I foughtmy way into my bag to pull out the notebook Fletcher and I had been working out of for the last two weeks.

It wasn’t there, of course. And somehow, in my bones, I knew it wasn’t going to be in my room either.

“I can’t,” I said through gritted teeth.

“I’m going to personally review the rest of your coursework, Mr. North, and then I’ll determine if you pass or fail this class.”

I didn’t have anything to say to that, so I slung my bag back over my shoulder and headed for the door. I was going to find Fletcher and find out what the hell had happened from the kiss to now.

“And Mr. North?”

I stopped, not turning around.

“Your family might have paid for the library upgrades, as you so kindly reminded me, but my office isn’t in the library.”

I bit the inside of my cheek until it bled and stormed off toward Fletcher’s dorm. He was there, because of course he was, leaning against the closed door with his legs crossed at the ankle and his arms folded in front of his chest. His backpack sat at his feet, zipped up neatly and undoubtedly housing the notebook with all of our work in it.

“What did you do?” I asked.

Fletcher looked up at me, eyes red-rimmed and expression heavy.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he drawled.

“You’re outside your room waiting for me,” I said. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Oh.” He tried to look casual, straightening his spine. “Are you talking about our little group project?”

“Oh, so you admit itisours?”

“I didn’t turn in our work,” he said.

“Right. You told them it was yours. You got the Dean involved?” My voice lifted to an embarrassingly high octave, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“I didn’t get the Dean involved. Would you calm down? You’re making a scene.”

“The Dean escorted Mr. Smith out of class this morning so you didsomething.”

A flash of—something—lit up Fletcher’s face, but just like so much between us, it was gone before I could get used to it, let alone make sense of it.

“What did you do, Fletcher?” I asked again. “Why did you do it? I thought…”

He huffed a sad laugh, mouth twisting into the cruelest smile I’d ever seen on anyone, including my father.

Fletcher leaned down, bringing our faces close together and my first reflex was to kiss him. I could still feel his lips on mine, his hands in my hair.