by Hart, Callie
Nothing about this place feels like it belongs to Wren. It’s too…too grown up and simple, and too…I don’t even know how to explain it. I’ve never considered what Wren’s personal space might look like. Not even for a second. Knowing he has a bedroom somewhere is very different to being able to imagine what it would look like. It’d make more sense if he crawled out of a coffin in the ground at night. Or if he materialized out of a cloud of black smoke.
He tosses the piece of wood into the grate in the fire, his mouth twitching; he wants to don that ruinous smirk of his, I know he does. For reasons known only to him, he decides to restrain it this time. “No need to look so uncomfortable, Stillwater. Take off the jacket. There’s a blanket on the back of the couch. You can wrap yourself in that while it dries.”
I remain motionless, hugging the wall. “Why am I here, Wren?” I ask in a cold voice.
He grabs more wood, crouching down to arrange the pieces to his satisfaction, before he tears pages off an old newspaper at his feet, balling up the sheets and poking them into the gaps at the base of his unlit pyre. He doesn’t say a word.
“Wren. I’m serious. The message. What was the point in sending it? Why the fuck am I here?”
“When I was a kid, my father used to send me messages in Morse code. He used to drum his fingers against the table at breakfast. Tap his pen on, well, anything… It was our secret thing. My step-mother used to hate it.”
“Thanks for the heartwarming story. Now answer the question.” It has to be three in the morning by now. I may be young, but I still require a lot of sleep. I like sleep, and Wren’s depriving me of my rest for no apparent reason.
He looks back at me over his shoulder, his lips parted, a strange look in his eyes. The brief moment of eye contact we share makes me want to hide behind the fucking bookcase. Turning away, he strikes a long match and holds the flickering flame against the paper until each one of the scrunched-up balls is alight. “Your father taught you Morse code, too, right?”
“Yes.” I don’t want to relinquish this or any other piece of information about myself, but it’s a simple enough question. I have no reason to withhold the truth.
“It wasn’t a game for him, was it? It was a punishment.”
A shockwave of panic detonates in my chest. It ripples out, sending adrenalin chasing through my veins, spreading through me like that lightning that fired across the sky before. He can’t know anything about my father. He can’t know shit about my past, or about me. Anything he thinks he knows is wrong, so why do I feel like he’s just cracked me open and rifled through all of my ugly secrets? It makes me feel suddenly dirty. “My father’s irrelevant,” I say tightly.
“Our fathers shape us,” Wren says, standing up to his full height. Behind him, the fire he built roars to life, like the infernos of hell just leapt at his command and obeyed his summons. “I’ve read a lot about your old man. What else did he teach you? Muay Thai?”
“No.”
“Oh right. Israel. He probably taught you Krav Maga.”
I do not like that he’s able to deduce so much about me. It’s unfair that he’s armed with information that I don’t know about him in kind. There are things…things that he can’t know. Things that have been buried so well and so deep that even he couldn’t have dug them up. “I don’t see how any of this is important,” I say.
He pouts. “Do you still practice? I know a little Krav Maga myself. We could spar.”
“No.”
“No, you don’t practice anymore, or no, you don’t want to spar with me?”
“No, I don’t practice here. Why would I when I don’t have to? And can we stop talking about my father, please? That stuff’s private.”
Wren shrugs off my cold tone. “Your wish is my command.”
Quiet and as leonine as a panther, he crosses the small room, coming to a stop in front of me. Flicks of his hair hang down into his face, creating a dripping curtain that shields his eyes. I still feel the intensity of them, though, burning into my skin. He licks his lips, his hand reaching up, making me flinch.
He pauses, an inch away from my face. He has pianist’s hands, with long, dexterous fingers. I’m riveted by the sight of them. By the thought of what he might do with them if left unchecked. His nails are still covered in that same chipped black nail polish I noticed on my first night at Wolf Hall. “You’re a flighty little thing,” he rumbles. I resent the way his voice makes my skin break out in goosebumps.
“Forgive me for being cautious, but I don’t know anything about you. We’re not friends,” I volley back at him. “I’m not accustomed to people thinking they can touch me uninvited.”
He drops his hand back to his side, a slow smile spreading across his damnable face. “I’ll be sure to wait until I’m invited, then. You have a rose petal in your hair. I was just gonna get it out for you.”
I automatically check my hair, finding the petal and disentangling it. Wren sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, his eyes full of an emotion I can’t rightly decipher. It’s a dangerous look. Sharp. The type of look that could cut if administered correctly. Retreating a couple of steps, he shrugs, grabbing hold of the hem of his black long-sleeved shirt.
“If you want to stand there in your soaking wet clothes, that’s your call, Stillwater. I’m not one to suffer discomfort willingly, though.”
Before I know what he’s doing, he’s pulled the sodden material of his shirt over his head and turned around, walking back to the fire, where he hangs the item of clothing from the rough-cut mantlepiece for it to dry. I’m left staring at his back—a naked expanse of muscle and flawless, tanned skin that makes my throat pulse and throb. That shirt, the same shirt he’s been wearing day in and day out since that very first night when I met him outside Wolf Hall, has been hiding a multitude of sins: strong arms, a broad, strong back, and a chest that would make Michelangelo weep. His body’s nothing short of divine.
He faces me and just stands there, letting me shamelessly take him in. I should have some self-respect and look away. I can’t, though. I’ve never seen anything like him before, carved and sculpted, magnificent in his perfection. I refrain from counting his abs. It’s enough that they’re there, and they’re defined. From the crown of his head to the low-slung waistband of his jeans, Wren is the stuff of sweet, heavenly dreams, and twisted, terrifying nightmares.
His eyes burn, feverish and fierce, as he uses them to pierce me to the core and gut me with a practiced ease. How many girls has he brought here and pulled this shit on? How many students at Wolf Hall has he dragged out here in the middle of the night and stupefied by stripping down to his bare and glorious skin? His list of casualties must be too long to comprehend.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to take off the shirt,” I mutter, finally looking away.
“Oh, I could have taken it off all I wanted,” he muses. “I just wasn’t allowed to wear anything else. It’s past midnight now, though. February first. I’m released from my punishment.”
“You’ll be wearing bright red tomorrow, then.”
He laughs quietly. “I’m not a very colorful person. Black suits my demeanor best.”
“Hah. Yeah, I can see that. Black like your heart? Like your soul?”
“Ouch.” He slaps a hand to his chest. “I’m hit. Let the record show, I’m officially hurt.” He sinks down onto the couch, kicking out his long legs in front of him. With the light from the fire casting a warm glow across the solid expanse of his stomach and his chest, as well as across his face, he cuts a frustratingly handsome figure.
“I can find something to put on,” he says. “If I’m making you uncomfortable.”
This is all so pointless and irresponsible that I’m furious at myself all of a sudden. He’s playing me, and I’m letting him, allowing him to manipulate me and pull at my strings. He knows what he looks like. He also knows how his looks must affect members of the opposite sex. By clinging to the wall and choking on all my words, I’m feeding
his need for attention. “You know what makes me uncomfortable?” I snap, stalking across the room. “Coming back to my room to find a bowie knife sticking out of my mattress and my belongings in pieces. That makes me really fucking uncomfortable indeed.”
From the couch, Wren looks up at me with a subtle, convincing frown pinching his brows together. “Bowie knife?”
“Don’t give me that shit, Jacobi. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You trashed my room and slashed up my mattress. If you were trying to put the fear of god in me, then it didn’t work, okay? So just…stay away from my room.”
The frown deepens. “Your room was trashed.” He’s deadpan, the words flat, devoid of emotion. He repeats the words as a statement, not a question. “I didn’t have anything to do with that. Not my style. Breaking and entering is pretty…pedestrian.”
“Cut the shit. I know it was you. Who else would bother?”
He smirks. “Why would I bother?”
“You were looking for something in there. And you wanted to scare me.” I proceed with my accusation, trying not to second guess myself now that I am looking into his clear green eyes and I can find no hint of a lie within them. He’s an excellent actor, I’ll give him that.
“The best butchers don’t scare the animals before they take them to the slaughter, Elodie. The fear taints the meat.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Wren sighs, looking into the fire. “Why would I try and scare you, Little E? What would I have to gain from petrifying you half to death?”
I’ve asked myself this already. There are plenty of reasons why he’d want to intimidate me, and I’ve considered them all. Now that he’s posed the question, all of the reasons I came up with seem ridiculous. He doesn’t need to frighten women into his bed; they probably fall over themselves in their rush to go there willingly.
There is no good explanation why Wren would have messed up my room.
“Don’t fret, Little E. Again, I assure you, I didn’t enter your room without your permission,” he says, toying with the seam on the back of one of the couch cushions.
Do I believe him? Hell no. It’s pointless going back and forth with him, though. “Whatever. It’d be great if you finally spit it out and tell me what I’m doing here. I’d love to get back to bed, and—”
“I’ll answer your question but not until you come and sit down,” he interrupts. “With you standing over me in that giant fucking coat, this is starting to feel like an interrogation.”
I want to go. The weather hasn’t improved in the last five minutes, though. The chances of me finding my way back out of the maze are slim at this point. It won’t do me any good to get lost out there again, and I don’t think Wren’s going to help me back to Wolf Hall unless I humor him.
Swift jab to the throat.
Knee to the balls.
Elbow to the solar plexus.
I have a few self-defense maneuvers already prepped and ready to go in my head, as I skirt around the small coffee table and reluctantly sit myself down in the armchair. At least here I’m close to the fire; the warmth radiating from the flames feels amazing.
Satisfied, Wren runs a hand back through his hair, sweeping the wet curls out of his face. “I wanted you to come here because you’re smart,” he says. “You’re observant, which means you’ll have noticed me noticing you. You must know that I’m interested in you.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why do I get the feeling that being the subject of your interest is bad for a girl’s health?”
The boy with the black hair and the vivid eyes looks bemused. “Maybe I’ve been bad in the past. I’m sure Carina’s told you plenty about that.”
“She’s told me some. Mostly about your failed plan to fuck half of Wolf Hall before Christmas. A bet, right? Between you and your Riot House buddies? Or are you gonna tell me that she made that up?”
Wren’s hand stills, a tassel from one of the cushions trapped between his long fingers. He looks at me—into me?—unmoving and unblinking. “There was a bet,” he confirms. “I was supposed to sleep with ten girls between Halloween and Christmas, and I didn’t. That’s how I got stuck wearing the same shit for a month.”
Huh. I’m surprised he actually admitted it. “What happened?” I ask. “The girls start talking and comparing notes? You failed at the last hurdle after putting nine extra notches on your belt?” The comment sounded cool and indifferent inside my head. Out of my mouth, it sounds sour and silly.
“Let’s not fuck around with any of that.” Wren leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “Petty quips will get us nowhere fast. Does it bother you that I haven’t been saving myself for marriage or something?”
Heat rises in my cheeks. “Why would it bother me? Your sex life has nothing to do with me. It’s none of my business.”
“And yet, from the judgmental tone in your voice, it sounds like it bothers you very much.”
“Really. I don’t care. If the girls you sleep with are consenting, then—”
“I’m not a rapist, Elodie. I’ve never done anything without a girl’s consent. Usually, I only ever indulge a girl with my affections if she’s on her knees, begging for it.”
“Oh, and I’m sure you just love that, don’t you? The begging. Must do wonders for your over-inflated ego.”
“Begging leaves no room for misunderstanding.” He rests his chin in the palm of his hand, propping up his head as he looks at me intently. “I don’t like uncertainty. I like things to be very black and white. Clear cut. What about you?”
“Yes, I like when things are clear cut. Which is why I’ll let you know here and now that I will never lower myself to my knees for you. You’re a monster, who loves to treat women like shit—”
“You don’t know how I treat women. You don’t know anything about me, remember?”
This motherfucker. He has an answer for everything. “Appearances would indicate that you chew women up and spit them out like they’re a disposable commodity. I’m sure you were furious that you lost that bet, weren’t you? It must have stung that you weren’t able to convince ten poor girls to dive into bed with you.”
My heart’s pounding in my chest, but Wren just sits there with his chin in his hand, the light from the fire still playing across the elegant, masculine frame of his body, completely impassive as he watches me rant. He seems pensive as he says, “You’ve figured it all out, haven’t you? You wanna know the truth? The truth is that I didn’t have to try and win that bet. The moment Pax told Damiana about it, it was all over the academy by the end of the day. And then I had girls tripping over themselves to fuck me. I could have tripled my quota twenty-four hours in. Not even I have that kind of stamina.”
“Oh wow. Big man. So, you won the bet after all. You just accepted the punishment for the sheer hell of it?”
“No. I didn’t screw any of those girls. They wanted to throw their hats into the ring for the hell of it. To say they danced toe-to-toe with one of the Riot House boys. My dick doesn’t get hard for that kind of shit. A girl’s gotta earn me, not think she’s doing me a favor.”
“Whoa. Careful. That ego’s bordering on ridiculous now.”
“It’s not ego. It’s just a fact.”
“So, you’re a good little boy after all. A saintly virgin. Is that what you brought me here to tell me?” Preposterous. If he legitimately tries to convince me that he has morals and has never slept with a student at Wolf Hall, then I’ll know him for exactly who he is: a bold-faced liar.
Wren wiggles his toes in front of the fire, baring his teeth in a wolfish smile. “I’m about the furthest thing you’ll find from a virgin here,” he says. “I was deflowered a long time ago.”
That choice of word—deflower—is laughable. It implies that Wren was once innocent, before he was plucked and sullied at someone else’s hand. Wren was never innocent. He came out of the womb corrupt and depraved, I’m certain of it.
“And no. I can already see
it on your face. You know the truth. I’m the furthest thing from good you’ll find here, too. Don’t you want to know what I lost by not playing along with Dashiell and Pax’s bet?”
“No. I don’t really care. It’s so predictable, this whole thing. Bored rich boys placing bets to stave off boredom, not caring how their stupid bullshit affects the people around them. Don’t you care about anyone else here? Don’t you feel bad about hurting people?”
Wren weighs his response quickly. He barely has to think about the answer at all. “I care about Pax. I care about Dashiell. But not in a traditional way that most guys in high school care about each other. They’re not my bros. They’re not my homies. They’re oxygen. Daylight. Warmth. Familiarity. Shelter. Home. Safety. The other people wandering around the halls of this godforsaken shit hole? Do I care about them? No, Stillwater. I don’t. I don’t give a fuck about a single one of them, and I’m not afraid to admit it.”
I’m cold in spite of the fire. It’s as though there’s a block of ice sitting in the pit of my stomach and it will not melt. I’m weary down to my bones. I should never have left my bedroom. I’m a fool for coming all the way down here in the blowing wind and rain to sit here and listen to this. He did trash my room. He’s not ashamed of who he is in the slightest. Fool that I am, I guess that I was hoping I’d discover a few redeeming qualities that Wren’s been hiding from the world, but there’s nothing to redeem here. Wren’s a barren wasteland, and I have no intention of wandering that wasteland, knowing I won’t find anything to nourish me there.
Urgh. It’s really gonna suck walking back out into that storm. I get to my feet, already shivering at the prospect of the driving, icy rain slapping me in the face. “I’m going back to my room. This is a waste of time. I—”
“For some reason, I care about you, though,” he says, clenching his jaw. He’s not looking at me now; his eyes are fixed on the rug in front of the fire. From the expression on his face, I can see that this admission has cost him something. He doesn’t like whatever it is he’s feeling right now. “I’m cursed with this bewildering fascination over you, and it’s really becoming…inconvenient, Stillwater.”