Ruthless (Black Mountain Academy) - Mila Crawford Page 0,2

pastries behind me. I paused at the massive staircase and then began climbing it slowly, gliding my hands along the smooth carvings on the wood railing. This house felt more like a museum than a home. I wasn’t sure how anyone could actually live here. At least, that's what I was thinking until I saw the large room stashed wall to wall with books.

The library was a paradise, it smelled of leather and rich, oiled wood. All the walls, covered with bookshelves, thousands of leather bound works, and just whispering the pads of my fingers along the spines made my heart flutter. A desk sat in the corner, and comfortable seating consisting of large chocolate-brown leather chairs, decorated the space. It looked like it belonged in a showroom more than someone’s personal residence. I crossed the formal space, touching each book I passed as if saying hello, until my hand found an old copy of Pride and Prejudice, my all-time favorite. I flipped through the pages and picked a random one. I began to read, and then all of a sudden a deep voice read the words before me.

“There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more I am dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters,” the voice deepened at my ear, “and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.”

I jumped, turning around to face the voice that’d interrupted me. There stood the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen. He leaned against one of the bookcases, dressed in black jeans and a t-shirt, his jet-black hair falling in his face, piercing blue eyes mesmerizing. My gaze settled on his full lips, adorned with a silver loop on the right side.

My eyes trailed down his lean yet muscular body, and I couldn’t help but notice his thick arms and neck, covered in tattoos. He didn’t look like he belonged in a house like this, or in a town like this one. He looked like someone who didn’t want anyone to notice them, but I noticed.

I noticed so much that I couldn’t yank my eyes away.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked, his voice deep and demanding. I was stunned.

I stood frozen, not sure what to do.

The way he looked at me was like he was trying to set me on fire. His eyes looked to be filled with hatred and I wasn’t sure why. Those hard eyes traveled down my body and made me feel exposed and vulnerable. His index finger came out and he trailed the top edge of the leather bound book in my hands, his fingers slender just like Monica’s.

I noticed the letters tattooed boldly.

H-A-T-E.

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“She was more than human to me. She was a Fairy, a Sylph, I don’t know what she was - anything that no one ever saw, and everything that everybody ever wanted. I was swallowed up in an abyss of love in an instant. There was no pausing on the brink; no looking down, or looking back; I was gone, headlong, before I had sense to say a word to her.”

- Charles Dickens, David Copper-field

Kyler

What the fuck is she doing here?

The little mouse stepped back, but she wasn’t going to get away that easily. I liked that she was uncomfortable; it made me want to be the cat.

I caught how she looked at me, it’s how most people saw me. I was a scary looking fucker and I liked it. I didn’t want anyone in my life, it’s why I looked the way I did: one look at me and most people turned away. My appearance made mothers cross the street with their small children, just to avoid breathing the same air as me. I knew the piercings and tattoos made people uneasy, they didn’t know what to make of me.

The only son of Edward Sinclair, looking like a prison inmate.

I smirked at the mouse, arching my eyebrow when she didn’t answer me right away. She took a clumsy step back, losing her balance and falling into a wingback chair, the old copy of Pride and Prejudice falling out of her hand and hitting the floor with a thud. I don’t know why I smirked then, but my lips curled up as I just stood there watching her, leaning back on the bookcase.

She looked up at me, her eyes pretty