Her mouth opens as shock registers on her face. It may not be expressly forbidden, given we were all dumbasses when the Rules were written, but I will have hell to pay if Aurora finds out about this.
“Are you out of your mind?” she hisses, and given her explosion of anger, I am surprised she isn’t yelling at me, but then she finishes the thought, and I understand why she is whispering—embarrassment. “Does that get you off or something, Beckett? Is seeing me cry your ultimate fantasy?”
My patience cracks like the ground tearing open at the force of an earthquake. It’s ground-shattering, tide-changing, building-tumbling, and it demolishes the world around us until all I see is her face. Does she think I’m a freak? A monster whose enjoys the idea of dipping his cock in the unwilling? Apparently.
It’s everything I can do not to scream, to bridle the rage that threatens to consume me.
I wrap a trembling hand around the back of her neck, under her hair, and pull her closer. At least if Ivy and Blythe look, my expression is downright deadly. She should be afraid.
I am afraid of what I might do.
“All I want,” I breathe, and it’s a miracle the words are even discernible given the roar in my ears, “all I’ve ever wanted is to protect you. I am not the monster here, Harlow.”
Her eyes flick to my lips, and the pain in the pit of my stomach coils tighter and erupts. She is splitting me apart, and the shards left in her wake are ugly and ragged and fucking dangerous.
She says nothing. I hold onto the last thread of my patience like it’s the only thing preventing my fall off the cliff. Maybe it is.
“Are you colorblind?” I snarl after she continues her silent treatment.
“What?” Her eyes widen in surprise and then narrow like she knows I’m about to drop a truth bomb on top of her skull.
“Are you fucking colorblind?” I demand.
She shakes her head, and it’s like the word is pried from behind her teeth with a crowbar. “No.”
“Then stop seeing the world in black and white.”
My words wash the color from her face. I should let her go. I shouldn’t continue to touch her because touching her and not having her is the purest form of agony.
Looking at Harlow is like watching the moment a bomb detonates. I wish I could look away. I wish I could run. But I am helpless as the ash cloud rises and the debris falls, destined to stand there and do nothing even when I know I’m about to get demolished.
She regards me for a long, excruciating moment. A layer of ice now covers the churning tide in her irises.
“You refuse to tell me why you hate Molly, why you bully her,” she says. “You refuse to give me answers, yet you want me to see it your way?” She scoffs. “I’ll give you a hint, Beckett. I don’t give a shit what your reasons are. No one deserves torment, no matter what they’ve done.”
“Even if they committed murder?” The words are stolen from my throat before I can stop their theft.
Harlow stares at me, her eyes bulging. I want her to ask more. I want her to push me right now because I’m hanging onto my self-control by a fraying thread and if she asks, I will probably spill every secret I hold like a gutted fish. But Harlow saves us both from the wrath of Aurora when all she does is stare at me for a long moment.
Her breath escapes her in rapid bursts, fanning my face with the scent of that lemon zest tea she is always drinking. I let my eyes close for a moment and breathe in deeply.
I am a star, helpless as I float in her universe and she pushes me away.
Then, as if she comes to her senses and remembers her words, she sneers at me, and I know she’s about to hit me with a smart-ass remark. It’s like she can’t help herself, but like a freak, I crave the slap of her words.
“You’re like a Christmas Tree, Ian Beckett,” she says finally.
My words are dry, just like my mouth. “I should only be allowed out of the attic one month out of the year?”
She shakes her head slowly, the back of her neck twisting in my grasp. “You are devastatingly pretty on the outside,” she says, “but on the inside, I’m convinced you’re dead and rotting.”
“If I’m a Christmas tree,” I hiss, leaning in close and letting my gaze linger on the swell of her bee-stung lips, “then you are a goddamn woodchipper.”
I’m going to kiss her.
I’m going to devour her.
I’m going to...
Sense comes plummeting down from the heavens and lands smack dab on my head. I realize I no longer hear Blythe laughing like a hyena, meaning she’s left the room. My gaze snaps, and I find Ivy gaping at the two of us.
I release Stormy and reach around her to snatch a notebook off her desk. She’s old school that way, refusing to bring a laptop or tablet to class like the rest of us.
I rip the thing in half in front of her face.
Her nostrils flare, panic bleaching the color from her face as she realizes what I’ve done.
I am shaking. The monster inside me roars in ugly satisfaction.
“Mr. Beckett!” Ms. Edmonds shrieks as she walks inside the room.
Perfect. Fucking. Timing.
“Yes?” I seethe, the halves of Harlow’s notebook clenched in my fists.
“Headmistress DuMonte’s office now.”
The class snickers as I throw the notebook on Harlow’s desk, sending pages scattering and floating down to the floor, and storm out of the classroom.
— Harlow —
My phone dings, and I reach for it out of habit. I should be translating middle English to modern English, but I am exhausted after a third battle with my Calculus homework.
I can’t seem to concentrate. Everything is taking way too much time—time
