I can’t help but smile. I want to be mad at him for manipulating me into sitting with him, but I can’t. Even if I don’t know his reasons, and I don’t trust him, that doesn’t mean I have to spend the whole class being miserable or angry. I can keep my guard up and still have a little fun flirting with a cute boy. It’s not like I ever got to do that back home.
Hm, I don’t like our chances.
I push the paper back to him. He cracks a smile and leans over the paper to scribble an answer. I try not to admire the broadness of his shoulders, the plane of his back as he bends to write.
If you don’t want to die young, we’ll rewrite the ending.
I snort and send back a quick response.You can’t rewrite the end of R&J. That’s what makes the story.
He scoots down in his desk and squints at the teacher for a minute, seeming to think. Then he smiles to himself, straightens, and begins to write. I find my heartbeat picking up just a bit, anticipation building as he formulates his answer. I watch the smile twitching at the corner of his lips, and I find myself holding back a goofy grin of my own. The high of flirting with him is heady and intoxicating. A dangerous thrill goes through me when I realize my brothers won’t know. No one at this school is going to run and tell them if a guy is flirting with me. Especially not a Darling.
But his cousins might know. He might tell them.
The thought sends a shot of adrenaline charging through me. Half of me is terrified he’ll tell Devlin. The other half thrills at the thought of what he’ll do if I disobey him. Will he come through my window again, shove me up against the door? Will he do more than threaten this time?
My heart is hammering, and I feel my face flush at the image.
Stupid heart. Stupid body. Stupid imagination.
Colt folds the paper in fourths and slides is back, pushing it under my hand. His fingers brush my skin and linger until I look up and meet his eye. He winks and retracts his hand.
We’ll write our own story. We can call itHomey-O and Drooliet. Totally fitting right?
I roll my eyes.Let me guess. Because you’ve all decided I’m a dog.
No. Because you drool a little every time you see these guns.
When I snort with laughter and look up from reading that gem, Colt is leaning his elbow on his desk. He flexes and strokes the bulge of his bicep sensually.
This time, I can’t help but laugh out loud. The teacher shoots me an irritated glare. “Mind joining us, Miss Dolce?”
“Yes, sorry,” I mutter.
Colt lounges back in his chair, a gloating grin on his face. I slowly crumple up the paper we’ve been writing on, watching his face as I do it. A flicker of something passes through his gaze even as his smile remains firmly in place. It’s gone so fast I can’t tell if it was anger, insult, or interest.
I manage to ignore him for the rest of class, but my curiosity is piqued. I can’t stop thinking about him. Wanting to know more about this boy who smiles so casually, so easily. The twins are the same way, flirty and fun, but there’s something more about Colt. Something darker under that sunshiny surface.
I make it through the rest of class, and then through the rest of the day. At home, I tell my brothers that maybe we should just leave the Darlings alone. We had our time at the top. If they really need it again, maybe we can make a truce with the Darlings.
Royal laughs at that. They wrecked his car. He’s never going to forgive them. Royal is my rock. He’s loyal and protective and good. But forgiveness is not a word in his vocabulary.
Still, he promises that if he cooks up any revenge schemes, I’ll be far away when he enacts them. Whatever they do, I won’t be involved in any way. The Darlings can take it up with my brothers and leave me out of it. My brothers are suspiciously quiet after that, and I don’t pry. I don’t want to know what they’re up to. Ignorance is bliss and all that. If I don’t know, I can’t be held accountable for anything they do.
At school the next week, I hang out with Dixie, giving her tips on makeup, boys, and fashion. I settle into my classes. A few subdued woofs and snickers are the only indication that people remember the first day of school. No one gangs up to bark at me, and the Darlings pretty much leave me alone, except Colt, who forces me to sit with him in lit. Devlin doesn’t come storming into my bedroom, so I guess Colt is keeping his mouth shut.
Every day, we leave the house ridiculously early so we can arrive at school and park in the primo spot before the Darlings get there. At home I study, ignore the midnight football noises from next door, and keep an eye on Daddy to make sure he’s not thinking of entertaining Mrs. Darling again. The first weekend passes quietly. Too quietly. I’m starting to get nervous about my brothers. Since the mailbox incident, we’ve been taking two cars to work—King’s Evija and Duke’s Hummer. The Range Rover sits in the garage with new tires, but with the side all bashed in, reminding me every day that retaliation is brewing.
The next Friday morning, even though we arrive early, the Bel Air is parked in our spot again. My brothers don’t say a word, which makes my blood run cold. I know better than to think they’ve stopped fighting. My brothers will never stop. Once they get something in their heads, it’s impossible to convince them of anything else. Even I can’t persuade them, and they’d do anything for me.
Royal walks me to my first class, but he keeps glancing around as if distracted. As if waiting for something.
“What’s up?” I ask. It’s not like my fight-happy brother to be jumpy.
“Nothing,” he says. “But maybe you should stay home tonight.”
I swallow hard and nod. As much as I want to go to the game and scope out the competition with my brothers, if they’re brawling tonight, I don’t want to be part of it. Staying home from the game altogether is the clearest way to let the Darlings know that even if I’m loyal to my family, I’m not on board with the escalating pranks. I’ve survived two weeks at Willow Heights, but every moment of this dance has been done on eggshells.
The bell rings, and I wave and head to first period, grateful to see that Devlin’s absent. He seems to only attend first period when he feels like it, which is about half the time. I’m not complaining. I slide in at our lab table and let out a breath. I’m not sure how to explain my feelings about Devlin even to myself. When I sit next to him in class, it’s hard to breathe. My body is electric when he’s near, my skin aching to move closer, to press against his. But as soon as he speaks, I want to punch him in the nuts. I hear him throwing the football at night, and I’m drawn to my balcony, hoping each night I’ll catch a glimpse of him as I did that first time. And then he smiles that cold, dangerous smile that makes him as terrifying and hypnotic as a snake.