Nightfall (Devil's Night #4) - Penelope Douglas Page 0,10

he meant.”

Huh. Not an entirely poor assessment. And I thought Kai would be the only one of them who’d actually read the book.

Townsend shifted, flipping to another page and read, “She says, ‘He broke my heart. You merely broke my life.’ What is she telling him?”

Everyone kept silent.

The teacher scanned the room, looking for a flicker from any of us. “You merely broke my life,” he repeated.

Needles pricked my throat, and I dropped my eyes. You broke my life.

A student sighed from a seat near the door. “She willingly indulged him,” he argued. “Yeah, it was wrong, but this is an issue today. Women can’t just decide after the fact that they were abused. She was willingly sexual with him.”

“Minors can’t consent,” Kai pointed out.

“What, so you magically become emotionally and mentally mature when you turn eighteen?” Will replied, suddenly entering the conversation. “Just happens overnight, does it?”

“She was a child, Will.” Kai turned in his seat, debating his friend. “In Humbert’s head, he demands sympathy from us, and most readers give it, because he tells them to. Because we’re willing to forgive anyone anything if they’re attractive to us.”

I stared at my desk, not blinking.

“He doesn’t have a thing for Lo,” Kai continued. “He has a thing for young girls. It’s not an isolated incident. She was abused.”

“And she left him to go shack up with a child pornographer, Kai,” Will spat out. “If she were being abused, why didn’t she have the sense to not put herself back in that situation?”

I rubbed my thumb over the paperback cover, hearing it skid across the gloss. My chin trembled, my eyes stinging a little.

“I mean, why would she do that?” Will asked.

“That’s what I’m saying,” another student chimed in.

Words hung on the tip of my tongue, telling them that they were oversimplifying. That it was easier to judge a girl you knew nothing about than to allow someone the dignity of their process. That it was more convenient to not consider that there were things we didn’t know and things we’d never understand, because we were shallow and entitled and ignorant.

That you stayed, because…

Because…

“Abuse can feel like love.”

I blinked, the voice so close that my ears tingled. Slowly, I raised my eyes to look at the side of Damon Torrance’s face, his shirt wrinkled, and his tie draped around his neck.

The whole class fell silent, and I glanced at Will next to me, seeing his eyebrows pinched together as he looked at the back of his friend’s head.

Mr. Townsend approached. “Abuse can feel like love…” he repeated. “Why?”

Damon remained so still it didn’t look like he was breathing.

He looked at the teacher, unwavering. “Starving people will eat anything.”

I stilled as his words hung in the air, and for a second, I felt warm. He wasn’t completely devoid of brain cells maybe.

Feeling eyes on me, I turned my head, seeing Will’s gaze focused on my leg.

I looked down, finding my fingers curled around the hem of my skirt, the scratches and part of a bruise visible on my thigh. My pulse quickened, and I yanked my skirt back down to my knee.

“Flip to the last chapter, please,” Townsend called. “And take out the packet.”

But the bruise pounded with pain, and I suddenly couldn’t breathe.

Don’t you know you can have anything you want? I’d hurt anyone you asked me to.

My chin trembled. I had to get out of here.

Abuse can feel like love…

I shook my head, stuffing my materials back into my bag, standing up, and hooking it over my head as I charged down the aisle and toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

I turned my head toward the teacher. “To finish the book and the constructed responses in the library.”

I kept walking, blinking away the tears hanging in my eyes.

“Emory Scott,” the teacher called.

“Or you can explain to my brother why my SAT scores will be shit,” I said, walking backward with my glare on him, “because they’re dominating ninety-eight percent of every conversation in this class.” I gestured to the Horsemen. “Text me any additional assignments, if we have them.”

I pushed the door open, hearing whispers go off in class.

“Emory Scott,” the teacher barked.

I looked over my shoulder at Townsend, seeing him hold out a pink slip.

“You know what to do,” he scolded.

Strolling back in, I snatched the referral from his fingers. “At least I’ll get some work done,” I retorted.

Dean’s office or library, it made no difference.

Walking out of the room, I couldn’t help but glance back at Will