RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,19

revealing the black waistband of his underwear. No, no way was I checking that out.

I’m hot all over and flooded with unexplained shame. If I inspected that shame up close, then I’d discover that there is a reason for it, and that reason has an awful lot to do with the way Wren’s mouth had looked yesterday when he said the word fuck in Doctor Fitzpatrick’s class.

A deviant shiver runs down my spine, and I shake my head to dislodge the memory. I’m quickly making new memories, though. The stubble on the back of his neck, short and black, where his hair’s been cropped so close to his skin is perversely fascinating. I stare at the base of his skull, like I might be able to pierce through the skin and bone and see right into his mind, and all the while, my hands grow clammier and clammier. I nearly leap out of my skin when he angles his head down and to the left, barely showing his features in profile for a brief second as he says, “You’re throwing in with Carina, then.”

“Throwing in with her?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something else. “You’ve chosen her as a friend,” he clarifies.

“Yeah, I suppose I have.”

“Interesting choice.”

This is the kind of leading comment that invites someone to ask questions: what do you mean by that? Is Carina a sociopath or something? Should I stay away from her? Unfortunately for Wren, I’ve spent an awful lot of time figuring people out, as well as uncovering their intentions, and he’s got another thing coming if he thinks I’ll give him what he wants so easily. He has something he wants to tell me about my new friend Carina? Then he’s going to have to offer the information up all by himself.

I say nothing.

Wren Jacobi says nothing.

Down the hallway we go, Wren walking ahead of me, his tall frame solid, his shoulders drawn back in the same over-confident way kids who are born into money all seem to have. He takes a left, and then another left, and then a right, and before I know it, I’m completely turned around, and I have no clue where I am.

So much for remembering the way…

Wren stops abruptly, spinning around, and I almost walk straight into his chest. Applying the breaks as quickly as possible, I pull up just in time, a mere eight inches between us. This close, I have to crane my head back, pointing my chin at the ceiling in order to look up at him. “What’s she told you about Riot House?” he demands.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sure Carina’s mentioned Riot House by now. I wanna know what she’s said.”

Lord. He gives his orders uncompromisingly, as if it’s never occurred to him that anyone might deny him the information he’s seeking and tell him to go fuck himself. As far as Wren’s concerned, there is no reality or parallel universe in which he isn’t unquestioningly obeyed by all. Those eyes of his, the brightest jade, swirled through with flecks of amber and glorious gold, are so surprising that they almost have me blurting out the answers to questions he hasn’t even asked me.

Dark chocolate.

The Beatles.

George Orwell’s 1984.

My suspicious nature keeps me firmly glued to the tracks, though. It pokes at me with a question of my own: Why does he want to know what Carina said about Riot House? Was she supposed to keep her mouth shut about the place? Is Wren’s home a forbidden topic of conversation, punishable by…fuck, I have no idea what kind of punishment Wren might subject a person to if they were dumb enough to displease him. I already know it wouldn’t be pretty. Going back over the few words Carina uttered about Riot House, I decide it’d be harmless to just give in and tell him. Not that he deserves the explanation. “She told me that that’s where you, Pax and Dashiell live. That’s it.”

He narrows his eyes. I don’t think he believes me. “Did she tell you what we do there? Did she tell you about the rules?”

“I don’t know anything about any rules. And whatever you get up to in the privacy of your own home is really fine by me, man. It’s absolutely none of my business.”

He blows out down his nose—a long, unhappy exhalation. I’ve said something wrong, apparently. “Okay, dude. Well, tell her that she needs to keep it that way. If we find out that she’s filling