Archie stares at him in a completely new way, all of that shiny joy at being around the best student in school wiped clean. Frankly, Dad looks like he hates him now.
“Thank you. If you could please stay with Chuck while I'm otherwise occupied. I don't particularly like the idea of you two being alone, but I like the idea of him being by himself even less.” Archie takes off in full headmaster mode, moving down the path toward the front entrance.
Church and I exchange a look.
“You don't really think he's involved, do you?” I ask, because the thought that my dad would turn against me is impossible to fathom. We've always butted heads, but then we've always been together, too.
“In some capacity, I do,” Church says, amber eyes dark. “But I don't think he's trying to kill you. More like he's involved with Mr. Murphy and Mr. Dave somehow. He knows more than he's letting on.”
He holds out a hand, and I hesitate just a split-second before taking it.
An enigmatic smile curves over Church's lips, his eyes sparkling.
“Come, Chuck. I don't bite—not unless you want me to.”
Tentatively, I place my hand in his, and he yanks me forward. I nearly trip over the edge of my yukata, stumbling into his arms, and finding myself gazing up into that handsome face and wondering what it'd really be like to be engaged to someone so perfect. Church Montague is smart, accomplished, handsome, and a member of one of the richest families in America. Basically, he's a dream.
A dream … who stabbed someone that's now currently missing.
Trusting him is a gamble.
Not trusting him, that could cost me something even greater: a friendship. Or even a romance. A relationship that could last for life.
“You're still afraid of me,” he says, but not like he's angry, more like that's expected.
“I'm not,” I protest, but maybe I am. Just a little. “But it would be the ultimate prank, to draw me in, and then finish me off after I already, you know, sort of like you guys and stuff.”
“Sort of?” Church asks, and then he leans down and hovers his lips just above mine, that lilac and rosemary scent we share mingling in the cool air. His breath is minty and fresh, and I realize that as much coffee as he drinks, he never has coffee breath. Never. See, he really is perfect.
Almost too perfect though, right? Is there such a thing?
“Wow, look the faggot has a harem of gays all to himself.” Mark sneers as he walks by, and Church's face flashes with this dark energy. He pulls a fan from his pocket, one that's all folded up, and then he chucks it with two fingers hard enough to hit Mark right in the throat. The idiot gags and starts choking, grabbing at his neck. “Did you seriously just throw that at me?!”
“Prove it,” Church says with a dreadful looking smile. “You've been uppity lately, Mark. Tell me: are you up to something the Student Council should know about?”
“Eat some dick. Clearly that's your thing, right?” Mark storms off, rubbing at his neck, and Church releases me, sauntering over to pick up the fan and tucking it back into his pocket.
“Come, let's try to enjoy the rest of the trip.” He turns and heads back in the direction of the lodge and, with a deep breath, I follow along behind him.
Later that night, I'm sitting in the room I share with Church. Dad and I had another fight about where I'd be sleeping tonight, but the stress of the day must really have gotten to him because he gave up without a win for once.
So here I am, with my assigned roommate, in the room where he stabbed our teacher …
A lantern flickers on the low table near the door as I sit cross-legged on my sleeping mat, surreptitiously watching Church as he browses on his phone. After a moment, he looks up at me.
“You don't have to take a turn on watch, you know. Just wake Ranger up.” Church pokes his friend with a bare toe, and our favorite naked baker grumbles in his sleep. They're all in here, by the way, the entire Student Council.
The twins started off bickering, but now that they're asleep, somehow Micah's arm is over Tobias. It's pretty cute actually. Spencer is all tangled up in his sheets, and Ranger is curled up, like he's trying to protect something.
“I'm fine taking a watch,” I say, shrugging a shoulder, all nice and casual like. Church pauses and sets his phone down on the table, next to a pot of tea and a set of cups with saucers.
“Are you worried? Sleeping in here with all of us?”
“If I were, I would've just let Dad win the argument and padded over to his room.” I scoot over to the table and pour myself some tea. It's still warm, the steam rising in a white cloud. “So, where do you think Mr. Dave went?”
“No clue,” Church says, relaxing back against the shoji screen and watching me as I bring the tea to my lips. It's some sort of green tea, very earthy, with a grassy kind of smell. I'm surprised to find that I actually like it. “Maybe he is guilty, and he made a run for it?”
There's a long pause as we both consider that. It's a possibility, that's for sure.
“I'm sorry I ran away,” I repeat, and Church lifts his head, golden hair feathering across his forehead and catching the light. He's absolutely stunning in that yukata, with the fabric sliding down one shoulder and exposing his skin to the candlelight.
I wonder if he’s wearing any underwear beneath his robe?
I facepalm for even thinking that.
When I look up, Church is raising a single, skeptical brow at me.
“Did you just literally facepalm to your own thoughts?” he asks, and I grimace. I have a bad habit of wearing my heart on my sleeve. He smiles at me before I get a chance to respond and sets his teacup aside, leaning forward and putting a hand between my legs. My robe catches under his palm, giving me absolutely zero chance of escaping. “I love how animated you are, Mr. Carson.”
“Animated is one way of putting it,” I hedge as he leans in even closer, and I smell that familiar lilac-rosemary scent we both share. I've just been using the cherry blossom stuff they stock the bathroom with here, but I'm pretty sure Church must've brought some of the Adamson stuff with him. That, or I'm just, like, super attuned to his scent. My cheeks flush red, but I refuse to accept that last idea as fact.
Church's smile gets a little wider, just enough that the emotion finally glints back at me from his beautiful amber eyes.
“See what I mean?” he whispers, leaning in close enough that I think he's going to kiss me again. Instead, he moves past my mouth and plants a kiss on the side of my jaw instead. “You're blushing. Pray tell: what thought’s just skittered through that pretty little head of yours?”
“Pretty little head … that's kinda sexist, don't you think?” I murmur, flushing even harder, and Church laughs again. It's a low, soft sound, almost dangerous. I can't believe I ever thought he was a sociopath (or psychopath, whatever, I can't remember the difference). He's just bottled up, full of emotion he refuses to submit to. Me, I'm a slave to my emotions.
Church just pulls back slightly, leaning over and turning the gas down on the lantern, plunging the room into darkness. My breath catches, and I have to throw a lasso around my heart to keep it from beating so furiously that it escapes out of my gently parted lips.