Page 11 of Wicked Little Darling

“You know, there’s a gate down at the other end. You didn’t need to do all this.” His head tilted to the side as he studied me, the indifference in his eyes and posture only adding to my discomfort.

“Good to know,” I said. My stomach twisted in discomfort, and I was so embarrassed that the first possible student I was interacting with here was seeing me in such an embarrassing situation. It was bad enough that I was shy and didn’t like being around people in general, but to now have a witness to this humiliating set of circumstances was just the cherry on top.

When his gaze slid to my birthmark, a horrible flush crawled across my cheeks and I knew what he was going to say before he spoke.

“What is that?” he asked, and unlike before, there was intrigue in his tone. A true curiosity in those gravelly words that cut me straight to the bone. “A bruise?”

So he was just another asshole bully?

Great. At least life was staying consistent.

“It’s a contagious disease, so you might wanna fuck off before you catch it,” I said, my face burning for a different reason now. Humiliation and anger smoldered in my chest, and the light sweater I’d put on this morning felt too itchy and warm.

When I got uncomfortable around people, my anger usually got the better of me and I snapped and snarled until they left mealone. I hated that about myself, and as much as I’d tried to work on it over the years, it still happened from time to time.

It was embarrassing and shameful and I wished I didn’t have such a temper.

The laugh that burst from him startled me. My stomach tightened at the sound of it, the deep harshness scraping against my insides. He brought a hand up to cover his mouth, his eyes sparkling with humor as he stared down at me.

“God, you people are all the same,” I muttered, then flicked my hand toward his face. “Would you like it if I asked you how you got that scar?”

“Yeah, actually, I would. Nobody’s ever asked me before. It’s kinda wicked, right?” He smiled a little, a tiny, self-deprecating thing that only made him look somewhat unstable. “And holy shit, that accent. Are you from Boston? I love it.”

Was he fucking with me? He had to be.

I was used to being messed with. Used to being bullied and picked on and ridiculed because of my appearance. I was used to having to defend myself against people like him.

I studied the horrible slash across his face again. Whatever happened must’ve hurt, and part of mewascurious how he’d gotten it. That wasn’t just a scar…that was a moment of suffering branded on him for a lifetime. And that didn’t bother him? I wished I could be that indifferent to my port-wine stain.

I brought my gaze back to his and scowled at him. “Did your parents never let you out of the house or something?”

His lips twitched. “Yeah. Or something.” His gaze dragged down my neck, then over my torso. He kept looking down, down, down, until he’d reached my feet and I felt thoroughly violated by those dark eyes.

He said, “You’re pretty small,” in a nonchalant tone, and a flash of rage blinded me for the briefest moment.

I took a deep breath and held it, my hands shaking as I squeezed my eyes shut.

God, this was exhausting.

Of course the very first person I met upon moving to Ashbrook was a complete bastard. It was just par for the course in my life. A beautiful bastard, sure, but it was rare to find beauty that didn’t have even a little bit of rot underneath.

When his eyes lifted to mine again, the intensity that had filled the void there made my heart slam against my rib cage.

“So…you don’t know who I am?” he asked.

I sat up, ignoring the fresh pain that brought to my ribs. “What? Why the fuck would I know who you are?” I turned my attention toward my leg, which was caught about a foot off the ground.

“Everybody knows who I am.”

I turned to stare at him. Was he seriously that arrogant? “Cool. Really happy for you, but I’ve never seen you before and I honestly hope I never see you again.” I shook my head and focused on my leg again.

I saw him step closer to me out of the corner of my eye. “You really don’t know who I am?”

“No!” I said, exasperated. I turned to glare at him and wished he would leave so I could figure out how to get this fucking wire off my leg.

Then he smiled, and my breath caught in my throat. It was a genuine smile this time, no hint of self-deprecation or smugness. It transformed his face completely, lighting up those dark eyes until they were burning into me with an intensity that made me feel like I’d just been stripped to the bone.

He took a step closer, his gaze locked on the wire around my leg now, then shook his head. The rain had started to let up a bit, but my clothes were soaked through to my skin, and so were his. The dark material of his shirt was plastered to his chest andstomach, clinging to lean, rangy muscle that shifted as he moved closer.