Total pages in book: 206
Estimated words: 207638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1038(@200wpm)___ 831(@250wpm)___ 692(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1038(@200wpm)___ 831(@250wpm)___ 692(@300wpm)
I even bang my hand on the table and they both look at me.
Wyn is slightly startled, but Reed is all relaxed and casual.
Out of the two, I only have eyes for one of them though.
The villain who’s just promised to keep me safe. Who I really, really hate to admit looks gorgeous right now.
Even more gorgeous than he did last night.
At night, Reed looks like a gorgeous, otherworldly creature.
In the daylight though, he looks untouchable. His vampire skin appears indestructible.
Like even the sun can’t touch him or his moon-kissed skin.
Like even the ball of fire up in the sky pales in comparison to the glow in his animal eyes.
And he’s wearing my most favorite thing in the world: his white hoodie.
All soft and cozy and so familiar that I feel something lodge in my throat.
Lodge and hurt.
Even so, I manage to sound stern as I say, “She’s not going anywhere. But you’re leaving. Because I don’t wanna talk to you.”
Obviously, he settles himself at our table even more.
I should’ve known.
This is what he used to do back at Bardstown High, when I’d tell him to go away. Either from the auditorium or the dusty closets that he was so fond of locking me in.
Right now, he slides down the booth seat — pretty pink leather —and widens his thighs. His boots inch forward on the floor and almost touch my black Mary Janes.
Resting his hands on the white table, he says, “That works out then. Because I don’t want you to talk. I just want you to listen.”
I sigh sharply. “What are you even doing here? I thought this store was too pink for you.”
That’s another one of the things he said to me that night. And shadows move across his features, making me think that he remembers.
He remembers all the things he said to me that night.
All the awful, terrible, true things.
“It is.” He threads his fingers together. “But as I said, I’d like to talk to you. And I’d rather not talk when we have company —”
“She’s not going anywhere,” I tell him, cutting him off. “Whatever you wanna say to me, you can do it in front of her.”
I don’t know why I’m so adamant about that.
I don’t know why I need Wyn here but I do. I do need her to be here.
I need one thing to go my way. One thing.
Because ever since I saw him at the bar last night, I’ve been praying and wishing and hoping.
I’ve been praying that I don’t see him again. That I never see him.
That last night turns out to be a coincidence.
Because I’m still reeling.
I’m still reeling from the fact that I saw him after two years.
That I heard his voice and smelled his scent.
I’m still reeling from the fact that even now he stares at me like he did back at Bardstown High. That even though I had decided that I wouldn’t dance, I did — just to show him that his presence didn’t affect me — and he tracked my every move like I belonged to him.
So I want my friend with me, period.
“If you insist,” he agrees as he sweeps his eyes all over my face, my body — or whatever he can see of it — without saying anything else.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Well, what is it?”
He lifts his eyes and a hint of a smirk appears on his full lips. “Nice skirt, by the way.”
My fisted hands in my lap unfurl and rub against the fabric at his words.
Another perk of going to St. Mary’s.
It follows you everywhere.
Like a scarlet — or rather mustard — letter.
Meaning even though we get to go out and be free for a few hours, we’re not really.
Because we’re only supposed to wear our school uniform: white blouse, mustard-colored skirt and knee high socks with black Mary Janes.
Unless it’s visitation week and you’re accompanied by a parent or a guardian.
So everyone you come across on your outing knows who you are. They know that you’re from St. Mary’s, the all-girls reform school in the woods.
“Is this what you wanted to talk about?” I ask.
“I especially like the color,” he goes on as if he didn’t hear me, his eyes on my skirt, the little portion of it that’s hanging off the side of the seat. “Mustard, is it?”
I jerk the fabric toward me, hiding it away from his predator eyes. “Of course you think that. You’re deranged.”
He doesn’t mind the insult though. “Actually, I like the whole get up. That ribbon in your hair. Your knee highs. Those schoolgirl flats.”
This time, his eyes travel down to rest on my legs.
And I feel my skin heat up.
So much so that I have to curl my toes inside my flats and jerk my legs away from his eyes as well.