This is relaxed alright. I’ve never even seen a sofa in a teacher’s classroom before, let alone planted my ass on one.
“Hey, Carina? Who’s that?” I jerk my chin in the direction of the guy who gave me such a warm reception last night; he’s taken one of the floral print cushions from the couch he’s lying on and has placed it over his face.
Carina stills, arching an eyebrow at me in a way that makes me feel like I’ve made yet another faux pas. “Uhhh, yeah. That is Wren Jacobi. He’s more feral dog than human being. I…honestly…” She sighs heavily, making herself busy by pulling a large notebook out of the bag at her feet. “I’d tell you to stay away from him, but it’s kind of impossible to avoid anyone in this place. Plus, Wren has a way of bullying his way into your business whether you like it or not, so…”
Wrinkling my nose, I tilt my head to one side, squinting at him. “Y’know…I’m pretty sure he’s wearing the same clothes he was in last night.”
This earns me a brittle laugh. “Yeah. He is.”
How the hell does Carina know what he was wearing last night? Unless…she said a few of the girls waited up for me. She was obviously waiting with him; he said he’d drawn the short straw and had to stay awake until I arrived. I don’t know the first thing about the guy other than he smokes, but somehow I can’t imagine Wren hanging out with a bunch of girls, waiting to greet a new Wolf Hall student.
“Wren and his guys, they like to fuck with people, Elodie. And when no one’s willing to play their stupid games, to live by their stupid rules, they’ll fuck with each other instead. Pax bet him he couldn’t bag ten girls before Christmas break. And when he failed the challenge, his friends told him he had to wear the same clothes for an entire month when we came back. So yeah. Wren’s definitely wearing the same clothes he was wearing last night. He’s wearing the same clothes he was wearing two weeks ago. I think they let him wash them every couple of days. But you can bet your ass he’ll be wearing that same black shirt tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, right up until February first. Because the only thing worse than losing a bet to a Riot House boy…is failing to settle the bill when they lose. No matter what it costs them or who gets hurt along the way.”
“Riot House boy?”
“Yeah.” Carina scowls. “Those three idiots have a house halfway down the mountain. They call it Riot House. Everyone does. They’re allowed to live there, for some unknown fucking reason, while the rest of us have to shiver our asses off here during the winter months and cook during the summer.”
“The academy has off-campus housing?”
Carina’s bemused by my confusion. “No. Wren’s loaded. His family owns the place. Or he does. I’ve never been clear on the details. All I know is that they can do whatever the hell they want down there and the rest of us have to stay up here and toe the line.”
There’s a bitter note in Carina’s voice. She’s plastered a sunny smile on her pretty face when she looks up from her bag, though. “Anyway. Pax, Dashiell and especially Wren. Watch out for them is all I’m saying, girl. You’ll wind up regretting it otherwise, I can promise you that.”
“Pretty speech, Carrie. Glad to see you’re giving lovely little Elodie Stillwater the lay of the land.”
Neither of us have noticed the guy who was sitting on the floor get up and walk over to us. He’s handsome in the same dangerous way that snakes, and spiders, and wolves are beautiful to look at. His hair is shaved back to dark stubble. Tattoos peek out from beneath his long-sleeved white t-shirt. His blue eyes spark like they’re brimming over with live electricity; when they home in on me, pinning me to the back of the couch, I feel like I’ve wrapped my hand around a live wire and I can’t let go.
“Go fuck yourself, Pax,” Carina hisses through her teeth; it’s the first time I’ve heard her sound anything other than friendly, and the venom dripping from her words takes my breath away. She doesn’t just dislike this guy. She fucking hates him.
Pax rakes his bottom lip 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.