RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,21

years now. I haven’t even heard the language spoken since my mother died. And I could never understand it even when she was alive.

“Alright, students,” Madame Fournier projects from the front of the class. “Where were we? Simone, if you could continue—”

The teacher directs a girl on the front row to continue reading or conjugating a verb or something. I can’t pay attention, because I’m suddenly accosted by a pungent, overpowering odor that hits the back of my nose and my taste buds all at once.

Oh…

Oh my god. It’s disgusting.

What the fuck is that?

I can actually taste it.

Musty, rotten, and vaguely fishy, the smell is so rank I have to fight the urge to lean over the edge of my desk and vomit.

How is no one else reacting to this stench right now? Quickly, I look around at the students sitting closest to me. None of them are paying attention to Madame Fournier. They’re all tensed, looking at the floor or at their hands, or sightlessly staring at their worksheets in front of them, unusually tense. The girl sitting to my left looks like she’s about to explode, her cheeks and the very tips of her ears burning a bright red.

Another wave of the fishy bouquet hits me, and…

Oh, for god’s sake.

It’s coming from inside my desk.

Everything falls perfectly into place. Obviously, someone’s put something disgusting and fetid inside my desk to fuck with me, and I know precisely who is responsible. Of course it was him. He knew I’d be sitting here. I wouldn’t be surprised if he forced whoever normally sits beside him out of their desk, so he could have the pleasure of a front row seat when I lifted up the lid of said desk and discovered whatever rotten thing he’s dumped inside.

Mother…fucking…asshole.

What am I supposed to do now? Am I supposed to sit here and tolerate the reek coming from inside of my desk? Am I supposed to get angry? Cry?

I don’t think Wren really cares, so long as I do something. He just wants a reaction, and preferably a violent one, if I’m reading this situation correctly.

Well, fuck him. He isn’t getting shit out of me.

I lean against the lid of the desk, breathing through my mouth, listening to Madame Fournier. Scribbling away at a mile a minute, I take notes of all the exercises I need to catch up on and all of the chapters I need to read if I want to have a hope of catching up with the already advanced class.

Colonel Stillwater knows I don’t speak French. My mother always wanted to teach me, she tried to speak French at home when I was little, as well as English, but my father beat her senseless for even suggesting such a thing. And now he expects me to learn the language from scratch and attain an excellent grade, otherwise there are bound to be horrific consequences. It’s this thought that distracts me from the putrid smell that assaults my senses every few minutes and keeps me focused on the task at hand.

And all the while, Wren Jacobi stews.

I feel his displeasure like you might feel a hand on the back of your neck, pushing down on you, trying to force you to your knees. He’s not happy that I’m avoiding his little gift. Not happy in the slightest. He wants me to open up the desk and recoil in horror. He wants me make a scene, and all I’m giving him is a serious case of hives.

The minutes tick by painfully slowly. Outwardly, I’m single minded, focused only on Madame Fournier and the complicated, confusing nonsense she writes down on the board. Internally, I am a mess. I’m so angry, I’m vibrating with rage. Every time Wren twitches or shifts in his chair, it’s all I can do not to flinch away from the bastard.

I’m not afraid of him.

Maybe I should be.

I intend on taking my time and figuring out if he really is the enemy before I decide if I should treat him as a threat, though. By the time the bell rings, my gorge is rising despite breathing through my mouth. Carina promised to wait for me by the main entrance between periods, so I grab my papers, my pens, notebook and my bag and I bolt for the door without looking back. As I tear out of the door, my heart a clenched fist in the hollow of my throat, I can still feel Wren Jacobi simmering away