Page 40 of Breaking Rosalind
“Get cleaned up before you pick up the girl, and don’t screw up this second chance.”
He doesn’t need to tell me twice.
An hour later, I’m sitting in my Lamborghini outside Tourgis Academy’s grand entrance. It reminds me of an old British manor house with its climbing ivy, impressive outbuildings, and manicured gardens. The campus is surrounded by ten-foot-high iron gates that create the illusion of exclusivity, privilege, and safety.
Rosalind and I have unfinished business, and I’m not just talking about the missing information. Thanks to her, Leroi and my brothers think I’m a bumbling fool.
She’s an enigma in a beautiful little nutshell. I want to crack her open and spill her secrets. I want to watch her break. I want to taste her fear, dine on her desperation. I want her at my feet, crying tears of blood, begging for another chance to suck my cock.
Arousal shoots straight to my groin as I imagine the possibilities.
The phone rings, ruining my fantasy. But it’s not Rosalind calling me for a rematch, it’s Roman.
“What?” I say.
“Are you in place?”
“Right outside the gates,” I reply.
“And you’ve made contact with the girl?”
“We’re still texting. She thinks I’m taking her to big sis.”
Roman pauses for a heartbeat. “Don’t mess this up.”
My muscles tighten and my gut roils with frustration. Everyone talks as though Rosalind is a bratty sub I’m not man enough to control, when she’s actually a trained assassin skilled enough to fool even Leroi.
“I’ll take care of it,” I snarl.
“No excuses. We’re counting on you.” He hangs up before I can utter another word in my defense.
“Fuck.” I slam my fists on the steering wheel. “Fucking bitch.”
My phone buzzes with a text from Rosalind’s sister:
They just let me out of detention. Be down in a minute.
I pull down the mirror and check my reflection. My eyes are still a little bloodshot from Rosalind’s cocktail of drugs, and I’m probably still concussed, but I’ve looked worse.
Beyond the gates, a set of doors open, letting out a group of kids in white shirts and black blazers. The boys wear pants and the girls wear plaid miniskirts that barely reach their knees.
My lip curls. How can Rosalind approve of this for her little sister? Whoever designed this uniform needs to be on some sort of register.
As the small group filters out of the gates, one of the boys pulls on the arm of a girl with the same heart-shaped face as Rosalind’s. Only she’s sweeter looking and likely infinitely less infuriating. Her eyes widen, looking almost too big for the rest of her features.
The girl yanks her arm out of the boy’s grip, making me chuckle. She’s just as feisty as her sister. When the boy slams her against the iron railings and sticks his hand up the girl’s skirt, I’m out of my car in an instant.
“Hey,” I yell. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
The boy turns around, his mouth gaping open with shock. He takes one look at my scowl and backs away with both hands raised. “Hey, man. We were just talking.”
“Since when did boys talk to girls like that?” I ask, my voice low.
The boy’s face pales. “I-I was just kidding around. It wasn’t that deep. I was just trying to be funny.”
I grab him by the collar and slam his head against the iron railing. “Then you won’t mind telling me your name.”
He gulps. “T-Toby.”