Little Bishop.

Suspicion forms in the pit of my stomach, and it feels a lot like disappointment, which annoys the shit out of me.

I scoff to myself.

I should have known.

I’ve got to admit, she almost fooled me, acting all ordinary and genuine and shit, or as ordinary as a kind of odd girl who was robbed of... everything can manage.

But a text in the middle of the night?

Fuckin’ please.

I guess she’s no different than any other girl after all, but looking to entice with some late-night pillow talk, probably hoping I didn’t already cut out of her bunk ass town and will offer to bring her to my hotel for what she really wants but hid well.

She acted all unaffected, like I wasn’t her type or something.

Yeah, okay.

I’m everyone’s type and here she’s proving it.

This is good shit, though. I nod to myself.

Real good.

Now that the curtain’s dropped, I can forget about everything else.

I roll over, flipping my pillow in the process and close my eyes.

I toss and turn for another hour before curiosity eats me up inside and forces my hand.

I pick up my phone.

Let’s see how quick, harmless little Bishop faded, allowing her true colors to ring through now that she realizes her opportunity to bag a Bray did to.

I open the text and read it.

My face falls, my phone right there with it.

Fuck.

I glare at the ceiling.

Shit.

I flip over, growling into my pillow as something that feels a lot like thrilling frustration stirs in my gut.

I ignore that shit, but I can’t ignore the rest.

I jump up, reach for my phone and shoot a text out to Mac, my head falling back after it’s good and sent.

I guess it’s fuckin’ settled.

Brielle

I rush into first period with a minute to spare, a half-eaten yogurt hidden at my side, and throw myself into my seat, Micah already in his beside me.

Micah nods his chin in welcome, but focuses on his phone while I try to catch my breath.

The bell rings not a second later and the teacher wastes no time taking roll. As he does, my phone begins to vibrate in the front pocket of my backpack.

I set the yogurt down and pull it out, my eyes freezing on the screen once I see the name flashing across it.

What the hell?

I hold it in my palm, staring at it until it stops ringing, and then it rings again.

Micah chuckles at my side, but the sound is one of shocked amusement, the kind of laugh that leaves you when you’ve witnessed a bad decision and the person making it is unaware.

My eyes fly to him and narrow as I blindly set the thing on my desktop.

Micah grins. “Bad fuckin’ move, girl.”

“Excuse me—” I cut off when the door is thrown open with a loud bang.

All eyes fly to the front of the room and oh. My. God!

Shock, cold and quick, spreads through me at the rate of a falling star, stealing my thoughts.

My breath.

My ability to move.

All I can do is stare at the tattooed hellion... who, kill me now, is headed right for me.

Dressed in a stark black hoodie and fashion faded jeans, Royce commands attention with his slow and eerie steps, darkening the brightly lit room with his presence alone, and creating a chill in the air that has the teacher frozen as solid as the rest of us. And we’re all frozen. Stuck.

Staring.

He stops right in front of me, and not a peep escapes me when he yanks, spins, and repositions the cheap plastic chair I’m sitting in.

Royce holds my eyes, leisurely trailing his to the screen of my phone that sits face up on the desk beside us and back.

His large hands come down, gripping onto the edges of my chair near my upper thighs, and he bends until we’re eye level.

His brows are plunged so low, his eyelids lay against his lashes, and his thick brown hair, while faded nice and clean on the side, is a wild mess of untamed strands along the top, and nearly creeping into his vision.

His chin is tucked a bit, head tipped an inch to the right.

He’s every bit of dark and displeased.

“Little Bishop.” His voice is a firm mix of bored and brash.

“Royce.” I shake my head. “What—”

“I gave you one rule.”

I blanch. “Rule.”

Rule?

“I told you when I call, you answer, and guess what?” He dips a little closer. “You didn’t answer.”

I gape at him, and then a not so quiet laugh escapes, my hand coming up to cover it as I stare wide-eyed at the guy in front of me.

The crazy thing is he’s not joking, and my laughter is far from amusing to him.

And then I remember I’m in class.

The teacher is in class.

He is in my freaking class!

I chance a glance around the room, at the teacher in the front of it, and as if I woke him from his frozen state, Mr. Lin jerks forward.

“Young man, what do you think you’re doing?” he asks.

“Talking,” Royce snaps, and my cheek burns with his stare.

Mr. Lin pauses his advance. “Well, that will have to wait until later.”

When Royce doesn’t move or show any sign of listening, I face him again.

“Royce,” I hiss.

Mr. Lin heads toward the class phone. “You need to leave my class.”

Royce’s eyes burn into mine and he nods. “Yeah, you’re right. I do.”

He lets go of my chair and pushes to his full, overwhelming height.

I breathe a sigh of relief... that lasts a whole three seconds, on the fourth, Royce is behind me, bends and lifts my chair off the floor... with me still on it.

A light scream leaves me, but I quickly cut it off because there is absolutely nothing I can do about it... nothing but hold on for dear life.

Once we’re in the hall and around the corner, he sets me down only to grab me by the hand, tug me up, and out the double doors.

I stumble to keep up with his quick steps but he makes sure I don’t lose my footing, and then we’re standing in front of a fancy town car, the back door wide open and waiting for someone to climb inside it.

He lets go and turns to me, but before he can say anything, Micah is beside us, handing him my backpack.

“That everything?” He takes it without looking.

Micah nods. “She doesn’t have a locker.”

I frown between the two, my face pulled tight with confusion.

Were they not about to fight two days ago?!

Royce nods, and Micah disappears as fast as he showed.

It’s just the two of us again.

He shifts closer, grips my wrist and lifts it between us, inspecting the small strip of gauze wrapped tight around my palm.

“Me versus a broken vase,” I feel the need to explain. “The vase sort of won.”

His fingers flex against my skin, near the hints of super glue I couldn’t get off, and those dark eyes flick to mine.

He releases me, tossing my backpack onto the black leather seat. “Get in.”

I suck my stomach in, cutting a quick glance at the driver in the front seat. “Why?”

“Because you want to.”

My eyes fly to his, and his head falls back lazily, almost daring I challenge his statement, yet somehow confident I won’t.