Page 102 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

“How…?”

“I pay attention, princess. First it was to fuck with you. There were opportunities to exploit. Andi being in one of your classes was something Ollie was particularly fascinated by. I think he was going to get his hands on your writing, but then she transferred out. Something about the professor being prejudiced against her.”

I roll my eyes.

“But there’s that cute little notebook in your desk…”

I narrow my eyes. “That’s private.”

He meets my gaze. “Is it?”

“Of course it is!”

“They’re pretty good. The poems. I like the one about you being swallowed by the sun.”

I gape at him, my face slowly getting hotter and hotter. Being swallowed by the sun right now would be less painful than listening to this conversation.

He shrugs. “The drawings are good, too. Dark. You’ve got some demons. Carter’s well aware of that, too, obviously.”

I scowl.

He tugs me along again.

We reach the front steps of the brownstone, and he points to another across the street. “I’d guess one of the higher ones. Third or fourth floor at most.”

“And you’re not going to retaliate?”

He appraises me. “Are you going to pick me?”

“What?”

“If I just wait it out, you’ll get sick of him,” he reasons.

My mouth opens and closes. He smirks and taps my nose. He doesn’t come up with me, but he stays there until I get inside.

Only then do I blow out a long, slow breath.

Because what if I don’t want to choose?

What if I can’t?

thirty

sydney

Beautiful, fragile thing

And the monsters that sing

In the dead of night.

Inevitably, the two clash

An explosive, glittering flash.

Fragility only survives with spite.

I drop my pen. My case of charcoal pencils are open in front of me, and I reach for them automatically. I don’t know if it’s any good, but I have the urge to draw a monster lurking behind the words. Maybe a light monster will be on the other side, like a good-and-evil battle.