Part I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Part II
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Part III
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
Alaric
Echo
Soccer Nation
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Acknowledgment
About the Author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely
coincidental.
Hey, Mister Marshall © 2022 by Saffron A. Kent
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover Art by Najla Qamber Designs
Editing by Olivia Kalb & Leanne Rabesa
Proofreading by Virginia Tesi Carey
June 2022 Edition
Published in the United States of America
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The Unrequited
At eighteen, Poe Blyton’s life is in shambles and the reason is Alaric Marshall.
After her mom’s death, he appeared out of nowhere and became Poe’s controlling guardian. When she protested his tyranny, he had the audacity to send her away to an all-girls reform school. A school full of iron-clad rules and regulations.
But at least she’s graduating soon.
Until Alaric himself arrives at the school as the new principal and takes that away from her as well.
That devil.
He’s really asking for it, isn’t he?
And Poe is going to give it to him.
It doesn’t matter that her sworn enemy has the prettiest dark eyes she’s ever seen. Or that he looks really, really good in his boring tweed jackets. So much so that she wants to rip them off his body and see what’s underneath.
Because scorching hot or not, her new principal or not, Poe is going to ruin Alaric’s life.
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Alaric & Poe
St. Mary’s School for Troubled Teenagers
For every troublemaking, chaotic and wild soul out there. May you find peace in your complexity. And for my husband, who loves all parts of me, troubled and otherwise.
(n; as defined in the dictionary)
One who causes mischief or difficulties
Synonyms: Rabble-rouser, mischief-maker and Poe Austen Blyton
(n; as defined by Poe and not the dictionary)
History expert; or, a scholar who studies the Renaissance era and wears tweed jackets with elbow patches
Synonyms: Alaric Rule Marshall
If there is one thing I know how to do well it is to plot.
I know how to make a plan. How to work out the details.
How to align all the stars and fit all the moving pieces together.
Which means it’s going to be a very bad day for him.
My victim.
Well, victim sounds sort of ominous. Murderous even.
I promise I’m not going to kill him.
I’m only going to make him wish that he were dead. Or at least wish that he’d never heard my name or allowed me to set foot in his mansion.
In his very stupid and ancient-looking mansion that’s been my home for the past week.
So here I stand, at the second story window, hiding behind the heavy cream-colored drapes as I keep watch over the looming wrought iron gates that mark the entrance of this massive property.
Waiting for him.
Black clouds are gathering up in the sky, and the very air seems hot and heavy, swollen, ready to burst open any second now. And just as lightning flashes across the sky, those hell gates open and I go on the alert.
A sleek black car enters and travels steadily, silently over the graveled pathway, right up to the marble steps where it comes to a stop. My heart thumps in my chest as I wait for my victim to emerge.
And when he does, I move too.
Because it’s showtime.
I collect everything that I need from the foot of my bed and walk out of my room, slowly and silently.
To listen.
Just when I hear a door slamming shut below indicating that he’s in place – in his study specifically; which is where he goes after he comes back from work – I take off.
I go down the stairs and turn left at the landing, rushing toward the kitchen.
Stopping at a storage room, I go inside. I find a stepladder and climb up to the vent. I pop the grill thingy out and hoist one of the things — a cage — that I brought with me and put it inside, before pulling up and getting inside myself. I crawl through the short space and when I reach another grill thingy, I stop and look through the slats.
Into the grand kitchen.
Usually it’s bustling with activity but right now, at seven in the evening, everyone has gone home.
Except Mo.
The head housekeeper with a mop of silver hair and a warm smile.
Who lives here and is currently busy warming up dinner for him.
For a second as I watch Mo, scooping out spaghetti and meatballs and pouring that creamy red sauce over them, I hesitate. What I have planned for him also involves Mo, and I like Mo.