RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,20

people’s head with shit, then—”

“Ah, there you are. Mr. Jacobi, what are you doing, loitering out here? Straight to the office and straight back to class. That’s what we agreed, isn’t it?” A tall, reedy woman with frizzy blonde hair and weak blue eyes stands in the hall behind Wren, holding an open textbook in her hand. Her eyes meet mine and she smiles.

A muscle tics in Wren’s jaw—a sign of annoyance if ever I’ve seen one. “We were just coming,” he says tightly. Nudging me with the toe of his brown leather boots, he urges me to go ahead of him, toward the blonde woman, who beams.

“You’re my first ever French student, Elodie. I’m Madame Fournier. I can’t tell you how excited I am to have someone in the class who can speak the language fluently.”

“She doesn’t know a lick of French,” Wren mumbles, pushing his way past the woman. “Turns out our little French whore isn’t so French after all.”

Madame Fournier reels at Wren’s statement. “Mr. Jacobi! Apologize to Ms. Stillwater immediately!”

Wren pauses alongside Madame Fournier—long enough to lean in close, bringing his face close to the French teacher’s. He peers at her through his impossibly dark eyelashes, a look of quiet contempt on his face. “What’s my other option? Because I’m currently maxed out on apologies.”

Madame Fournier turns a brilliant shade of crimson. “Aller en enfer,” she spits.

Wren smiles. “Convince the old man to cut me loose and I’ll head there directly. In the meantime, I’ll be in the back row of your class every Tuesday until the end of fucking time.” He straightens, standing at his full height—a monster wearing a black long-sleeved t-shirt and a vicious smile—and casts a bored look back at me. “Come on. There’s a seat open right next to mine.”

He grabs hold of me by the wrist.

Shock jitters up my arm, echoing around the chamber of my chest. It booms like a struck bell in my head, roaring in my ears louder than a raging ocean battering against a shoreline.

He has me by the wrist.

“I’m perfectly capable of walking,” I say in a clear, calm voice. “I don’t need to be dragged anywhere.”

If he doesn’t let go of me in five seconds, I’m gonna wrench myself free. I’m gonna kick him in the balls. I’m gonna break one of his goddamn fingers.

Five…

Four…

Three…

Wren releases his hold on me, smirking infuriatingly. “I don’t know what got into me. I guess I’ll see you in there.” He goes, leaving me standing next to Madame Fournier, who flusters and chatters incessantly about manners and how boys will be boys, but the whole time I can see the nervous edge in her eyes. She can’t hide the fact that her hands are shaking as she snaps her textbook closed and tucks it under her arm.

Inside Madame Fournier’s room, massive French flags hang from the walls. By the blackboard at the head of the room, the obligatory shot of the Eiffel Tower hangs, framed, on the wall next to pictures of Edith Piaf and The Louvre. I do a quick appraisal of the desk/chair situation and quickly calculate that Madame Fournier is very low on the pecking order at Wolf Hall. Doctor Fitzpatrick gets a lofty, light, massive office with enough room for a miniature library and an open fireplace, and the French teacher gets a standard box room with only two windows, no personality and desks with lids that look like they date back to the thirties.

And…yep. Just fucking great.

There is only one open seat available, and it just so happens to be right next to the brooding, dark-haired asshole who’s burning hand I can still feel cuffing my wrist. He didn’t tighten his grip on me. He didn’t pull me after him. He did nothing but close his fingers around my skin, but it feels like he fucking branded me with his touch, and now I’m forever doomed by his mark.

His tall, ridiculous frame is too large and unwieldy to fit behind his desk; his legs stretch out into the aisle, his body set at an angle as he leans back in his chair, his eyes sparking with curiosity, tinged with the faintest suggestion of malevolence as I walk toward him.

He doesn’t breathe a word—way worse than if he was openly hostile. Slinging the straps of my backpack over the back of my chair, I grab my notebook, trying to override the churning dread in my stomach. My classmates have all been learning French for