Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
It is.
Only I’m not sure why but it hurts me.
It stings.
That he hates me.
Which is ridiculous.
Because it shouldn’t matter if he does or does not. I don’t even know him. So I shouldn’t care.
But for some reason, I do and I don’t understand why.
“No.”
“What?”
He takes a final look at me — at least that’s what it feels like — before he steps back. “Have a great rest of your night. If you get the flu, stay away from the staff.”
Then he turns around and I’m so shocked that I don’t even stop him when he begins to walk away.
Not until he’s about to disappear.
“Wait. What… Did you hear what I said?”
No response and no stopping him either.
I run after him. “What are you doing? Are you listening to me? I made the perfect argument here.”
He keeps walking.
“Hey, stop, okay?” I call out again. “You can’t walk away from me. You can’t…”
I breathe out sharply because it’s not working.
He’s not stopping and he’s not responding.
So coming to a stop in the middle of this huge fucking balcony, with the rain beating down on the ground, thunder rolling up in the sky, I almost scream, “This is kidnapping, you hear me? You are keeping me here against my will. It’s illegal. It’s a crime. You’re a fucking criminal. I’m calling 911.”
Finally, finally he stops.
At the threshold of the door, protected against the rain, he halts in his tracks and faces me. “Tell them I said hey.”
I clench my teeth and tighten my fists. “You’re an asshole.”
“Tell them that too. May make your case stronger.”
“You know what, no. You’re not an asshole. You’re the devil.”
“You sure you want 911 then? Maybe we should call the church.”
I shake my head at him. “You don’t know what you’re starting here.”
“And what is it that I’m starting?”
“War,” I tell him. “You’re starting a war.”
“War.”
“Yes. Because if you think you’ve won, then I want you to think again. I’m not going to take this lying down. And let me tell you something about myself, my reputation that you’ve heard about? It’s all true. I am a troublemaker. A problem child. A harpy. And I hold a mean grudge. Very, very mean.”
At this, his eyes flash. They shine and they take me in.
They take in my heavily breathing form, my clenched fists, my glaring eyes before he murmurs, “Noted.”
“Good.” I breathe in sharply. “Because I’m about to burn down your life and turn it into hell, Mr. Marshall.”
As soon as I say it — Mr. Marshall — a shiver, much like the one I felt when he called me his, runs down my body. I’m not sure why. This isn’t the first time I’ve said it.
In fact, that’s what I’ve been calling him because Mo told me to.
Mr. Marshall.
She told me that this is how Mr. Marshall likes to be addressed. Or Dr. Marshall because of his PhDs. I picked Mr. Marshall because there’s no way I’m calling him Dr. Marshall.
But anyway. I feel like I should’ve called him by his first name just to piss him off and I’m about to do that when he does something… unexpected.
And astonishing.
His lips twitch before they pull up on one side. Into a small lopsided smile.
Which hits me in my belly.
Like his voice.
Because I swear to God, it makes him even more beautiful. Like that was even possible or needed.
“Ah, but I’m the devil, remember? My life is already hell and I’m used to burning.” Then, “And if we’re going to go to war, then we should at least be on a first-name basis. Don’t you think?” He pauses, and another shiver rolls down my body. “Poe. So feel free to call me by my name.”
And then he leaves.
He disappears right in front of my eyes.
As if he really is the devil.
As if he didn’t just make my body shake. My heart. My world.
And then I make a promise to myself.
That I will forever hate him and do everything to make his life hell.
That I will never — not ever, not in this life — call him by his name.
Alaric.
A knock comes at the door and I look up from an article about humanism, a fourteenth-century cultural movement, that I was reading.
Or trying to read.
“Come in.”
The door opens to reveal Mo. She nods at me in greeting and says, “She’s out. Finally went down.”
My fingers tighten around the papers.
My whole body tightens but I manage to nod. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
With sheer willpower, I go back to my article, hoping to finally focus enough so I can get through this paragraph. But Mo says, “She looked tired.”
Despite myself, I say, “Can you make sure to check up on her? In case she develops a temperature or something.” Then, “She got caught in the rain.”
“Sure, of course.”
I begin reading. “Thanks.”