RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,42
“I assume you’re okay with breaking a few rules, Stillwater. If you’d rather toe the line, I can take you back to the academy. I’d just need a moment to grab my things.”
He can’t hear me growling under my breath. I trust that he can read my annoyance from the scowl on my face, though. “Open the door, Jacobi. I’m turning blue, for fuck’s sake.”
He seems pleased. It’s hard to tell with him, though. He could also look like he wants to murder me. I can’t really make up my mind. Twisting the knob, he shoves the door open, standing back and sweeping his arm in front of him, gesturing for me to go inside.
I eye him suspiciously as I sidle past him into the gazebo.
Grateful that I’m no longer being lashed at by rain, I lean against the wall, sighing with relief. The interior of the gazebo is surprising to say the least. I was expecting a couple of peeling wooden benches and some empty soda cans rolling around on the bare concrete, but I’m dead wrong. The décor—because the place actually has a décor—is stunning. Polished parquet flooring around the edges of the room gives way to a plush, thick cream carpet. A sofa and two overstuffed armchairs have been arranged in front of an unlit open fireplace on the far side of the room. Around the curved wall opposite the door, a low three-shelved bookcase bows under the weight of countless thick, heavy tomes with leather spines and gilded edges. Potted plants sit on every flat surface: vines, and ferns, and rubber figs, all jostling for space and light at the windows, which are patinaed with grime on the outside but clean from within.
“What is this?” I whisper. This isn’t just some forgotten place. This is someone’s hideaway. A secret, well-loved sanctuary.
Wren kicks off his muddy boots, discarding them by the door. He isn’t wearing any socks, which makes me shiver for no good reason. The sight of his bare feet, as he pads across the thick rug toward the fireplace, makes me so unexpectedly uncomfortable that I don’t even have the decency to look away. He bends at the waist, grabbing a piece of chopped wood from a wicker basket next to the fire, and he looks down at it, turning it over in his hands. “It’s supposed to be for the faculty. We commandeered it when we first came here, though. Fitz is the only one who knows we come here, and he turns a blind eye.”
Nothing about this place feels like it belongs to Wren. It’s too…too grown up and simple, and too…I don’t even know how to explain it. I’ve never considered what Wren’s personal space might look like. Not even for a second. Knowing he has a bedroom somewhere is very different to being able to imagine what it would look like. It’d make more sense if he crawled out of a coffin in the ground at night. Or if he materialized out of a cloud of black smoke.
He tosses the piece of wood into the grate in the fire, his mouth twitching; he wants to don that ruinous smirk of his, I know he does. For reasons known only to him, he decides to restrain it this time. “No need to look so uncomfortable, Stillwater. Take off the jacket. There’s a blanket on the back of the couch. You can wrap yourself in that while it dries.”
I remain motionless, hugging the wall. “Why am I here, Wren?” I ask in a cold voice.
He grabs more wood, crouching down to arrange the pieces to his satisfaction, before he tears pages off an old newspaper at his feet, balling up the sheets and poking them into the gaps at the base of his unlit pyre. He doesn’t say a word.
“Wren. I’m serious. The message. What was the point in sending it? Why the fuck am I here?”
“When I was a kid, my father used to send me messages in Morse code. He used to drum his fingers against the table at breakfast. Tap his pen on, well, anything… It was our secret thing. My step-mother used to hate it.”
“Thanks for the heartwarming story. Now answer the question.” It has to be three in the morning by now. I may be young, but I still require a lot of sleep. I like sleep, and Wren’s depriving me of my rest for no apparent reason.
He looks back at me over his shoulder, his lips parted,