lesson.
CHAPTER 9
TINSLEY
My head pounded as I stared at the laptop, the screen growing blurry with each heavy blink. I snapped it closed. After three hours of test-taking, I could barely keep my eyes open.
I stood from the desk and extended my arms toward the domed ceiling, stretching in a yoga upward salute, trying to wake my muscles.
Father Magnus’s classroom had been empty all morning, save for the man himself. For the past three hours, he sat in the row behind me, working on his laptop. He was so eerily quiet, so stock-still, I might’ve forgotten he was there. But that was impossible.
His presence overwhelmed the very air, smothering it with his dark masculinity and the echo of his promise.
It’ll be unpleasant.
He was really playing up my impending punishment, drawing out the suspense and dread. It was working. I envisioned a physical beating with some kind of dungeon-like implement, one I would fight tooth and nail. I would do everything in my power to make him regret keeping me here.
But deep in my gut, I was scared.
Pulling in a breath, I turned to face him.
“You finished?” His low, rich timbre vibrated through me as he lifted his eyes from his work.
“Crushed it.”
I’d considered not crushing it. If poor test scores meant more one-on-one time with Father Malicious, it would give me more opportunities to land a spot on his banned-from-Sion list.
But I couldn’t do it. I didn’t care if I was perceived as disobedient, entitled, or promiscuous. But I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone thinking I was dumb.
My pride could only take so many hits.
He looked at his watch. “You still have forty minutes left. Most students run out of time during these tests.”
“I don’t know what you want from me. I answered all the questions.”
“If you didn’t do your best—”
“Yeah, I know. More strikes. Geesh.”
“Head to the dining hall. After lunch, I expect you back in this room. I teach two classes in the afternoon. You’ll sit through those, and by tomorrow, I’ll have your test results and class schedule.” He returned his attention to his laptop. “Dismissed.”
As I treaded out of the classroom, his gaze burned a hole between my shoulder blades, and I knew. I just knew he was counting down the minutes to whatever punishment he had planned for me.
At the doorway, I peeked back, and sure enough, his eyes were waiting, watching, glowing with anticipation.
With a shiver, I bolted down the hall.
Down the stairs and around a few bends, I found the dining hall easily enough. Starving, I made a beeline for the serving line. If the food was anything like the gooey, homemade cinnamon roll I’d grabbed from here after Mass, I was in for a treat.
Around thirty students and teachers sat at round tables scattered throughout the room. Their conversations quieted when I entered, their eyes tracking my path to the food counters.
I hated that. It didn’t matter where I went or what I was doing. There were always spectators judging me, picking out my flaws, and looking for ways to use me for my family.
Tuning them out, I filled a plate with organic fruit, warm baked bread, and vibrant green salad with grilled chicken. Everything looked so fresh and high quality, made from the best ingredients. Given the outrageous tuition, it made sense that first-class meals would be included.
I grabbed a bottle of water and began the arduous task of finding a place to sit.
Every pair of eyes in the dining hall watched me waffle over where to go. Yet no one offered a seat at their table. Not even Nevada and her redheaded sidekick. They looked away as I approached. Whatever. I didn’t want to be friends with them, either. I just wanted to eat my lunch without having to introduce myself to another group.
“What are you doing, Keaton’s sister?” Nevada asked as I took a seat across from her.
“Don’t be an asshole. You know my name.” I tucked into my salad.
“Everyone gets a nickname. That’s how this works.” She looked at something behind me and raised her voice. “Isn’t that right, Droopy Daisy?”
I twisted in the chair as the girl in question entered the dining hall. Her shoulders drooped. Her hair hung in stringy brown strands. But it was her disfigured face that had likely earned her the mean nickname.
Skin sagged from her eye sockets, pulling the outer corners of her eyelids downward as if there were no bones to hold the flesh of her cheeks in place. At first