Saint (Angelview Academy #1) - E.M. Snow Page 0,33
and put up with your shit a second longer.”
I turn, intent on storming away, but his hand grabs my arm again and he spins me back around. The next thing I know, I’m pressed up against his chest and his hand is tangled in my hair, forcing my head back so I meet his gaze. A little gasp escapes my lips before I can stop it, and I’m paralyzed by fear and desire as I stare up into his cold eyes.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he snarls. His other arm is around my waist, his fingers splayed on my lower back. Too low. And inching lower. “You do have to put up with my shit, because you don’t get a choice. This is my school, and I make the rules. I choose the games, and how we play them, and I’m not done playing with you.”
“You’re a sociopath,” I hiss and focus on breathing as his fingers go further south. “You make me sick. I know what you did to Nick, you sonofabitch. Is hurting people really so much fun for you?”
To my surprise, his features darken. He was mad before.
But now? Now, he’s furious.
“You really are a dumb bitch if you believe I had anything to do with that.” His voice is low and dangerous. I can’t help but think of a predator growling in the darkness, warning its prey that its time is running short.
“Of course you’d deny it,” I retort. “But it’s not much of a stretch to imagine you assaulting someone like that. Just look at the hell you’re always putting me through!”
“That’s different.” He tugs on my hair to emphasize his words just as his fingers drift down to rest on the curve of my butt. I want to wiggle away from him but I’m too scared that I’ll like feeling him against me. Instead, I stay perfectly still.
Still is safe.
Still means I won’t have to acknowledge the horrible truth of what Saint Angelle does to me.
“How’s it different?” I narrow my eyes and bare my teeth. “Torture is torture, though mine has been far more mental than poor Nick’s.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Nick Reynolds, only that my name isn’t associated with shit I didn’t do.”
His angry confession catches me off guard.
Does that mean he gives some kind of fuck about me?
For a long moment, I can’t look away from him, and I don’t bother to fight his hold. Silence falls between us, heavy with our angry words and burning glares. His fingers have stopped their descent, but he’s not removing them. It feels like a magnet is trying to pull me into him, and when he lowers his head, I don’t say a word to dissuade him.
A sudden clattering noise down the hall snaps me out of my self-destructive stupor.
“Fuck,” he growls, loosening his hold on me so that when I push away from him, I escape easily.
I hear the squeaking wheels of a mop bucket and realize a janitor’s heading our way. Pivoting away from him, I’m ready to make a break for it, but his next words stop me in my tracks with their threat.
“Don’t think this is over, Ellis.” When I glance back over my shoulder, his eyes are locked on me. “We’re far from finished.”
His expression frightens me as much as it arouses me. He looks like he wants to swallow me whole and spit me back out again. I don’t think I’d survive being at his mercy.
Without a word, I give him my back and run from him and the dark promises in his eyes.
11
I double down on my efforts to ignore Saint after our unfortunate encounter at the pool. I pretend I don’t see him when I pass him by on campus and act as though I can’t hear when he calls my name or insults me. As far as he’s concerned, I’m an impenetrable fortress, immune to him and his sharp words.
In reality, I’m not immune at all.
The more I ignore him, the harder it is for me to get him out of my mind. I should be furious that he touched me, but I can’t forget how strong his fingers were—how good it felt to have them pressed into my sensitive skin. I hate myself for thinking this way, but I can’t help it. Saint’s like a bad rash that I just want to get rid of but is, at the same time, so satisfying to scratch.