RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,8
through his teeth in the weirdest display I’ve ever seen, his ice-blue eyes drilling into Carina. There’s something overtly carnal about the energy rolling off him, and it makes the skin on my arms break out in goose bumps. I don’t like it, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from him. To his right, the friend Pax was sitting with groans loudly, getting to his feet.
Where Pax looks like an ex-convict with his tattoos, his shaved head, and his bizarre attitude, this guy—who can only be Dashiell—looks like a librarian. Dressed in a white button-down shirt and tight-fitting grey pants, the guy took care in getting ready before coming to class today. The thick black-rimmed glasses he’s wearing give him the air of someone who likes to read—a sweeping, nonsensical generalization, but the quick intelligence in his tawny hazel eyes seems to back up this theory. Like his eyes, his hair is more than one color: light brown from one angle, but when he turns his head to look at me, it transforms to dirty blond.
“Sorry, ladies. Pax doesn’t know how to behave himself around such beauty. He drank a little too much coffee this morning, too, so you’ll have to understand if he’s acting out a little.”
Oh, wow. English accent. Smooth as silk, Dashiell’s voice is immediately soothing. He holds himself with confidence and certainty, as if he’s sure of his place in the world and precisely how he fits into it. It’s a neat trick—the confidence thing. In a weird way, it makes him feel safe, whereas Pax feels entirely the opposite.
Carina squirms, eyes fixed on a stack of books on the other side of the room, carefully avoiding Dashiell’s gaze. Her reaction to Pax was open hostility, but now she seems to have shrunk in on herself, shutting down altogether.
“Carrie? You’re not going to introduce us to your new friend?” Dashiell purrs.
My new friend’s stiff as a board. She looks like she’s about to topple sideways off the couch, so I save her from replying. “You already know who I am. Wolf Hall isn’t exactly a big place. Plus he just called me by my name,” I say, eyes darting over to Pax. “I’m Elodie Stillwater. I transferred in from Tel Aviv. Father’s an army man. Mother’s dead. I’m into painting, music, and photography. I’m allergic to pineapple. I’m an only child. I’m terrified of thunderstorms, and I love flea markets. There. That enough information for you?”
I list off these random facts about myself with a smile on my face, but it’s saccharine sweet and false as all hell. Pax huffs out a breath of derisive laughter, while Dashiell’s response to my big speech is to turn his full attention on me, a slow, calculating smile spreading across his face. He’s quick and clever, this one. You can practically see the cogs whirring in his head as he files away the data I just supplied. Why, all of a sudden, does it seem like a huge mistake that I handed over those unimportant facts about myself?
“Pleased to meet you, Elodie Stillwater. It’s always nice to make a new friend. Maybe you’d like to come over to Riot House some time? We’d love to extend our hospitality to you.”
At the same time, two voices speak out, one rushed and urgent, the other audibly bored.
“She can’t!”“Not happening, Dash.”
The owner of the first voice, sitting next to me, flinches. I don’t think Carina meant to blurt out her objection so loudly. She looks sheepish as she takes my hand, lacing her fingers through mine. “You know she’ll get in trouble if Harcourt finds out,” she says.
On the couch, with his face still buried beneath a cushion, Wren Jacobi growls. “She’s not invited.” The way he says it makes it sound like a decree, an order passed down from on high that is expected to be observed.
Dashiell lets out a morose sigh; he sounds honestly disappointed. “Don’t worry, Stillwater. Jacobi changes his mind like he changes his socks. His current state of attire notwithstanding, of course. He’s usually very good about changing his socks. I think that’s the thing I like most about him.”
“All right, class! Asses on a flat surface! Move, move, move!”
At the front of the room, a tall guy wearing a tight black dress shirt and a black pencil tie kicks out the wooden wedge that was holding the door open and boots the door closed behind him as he whirls into the room. In