Page 15 of Raise Hell

“Tradition is pretty important to us around here. Havoc House has been around for almost three hundred years. As president, it’s my job to make sure we’re set up for even more,” he continues as if I hadn’t spoken at all. His posture is relaxed, but I can sense the barely restrained violence in his body. “Just so we’re clear, I will do anything to protect the reputation of Havoc House. Anything.”

I risk a glance at him out of the corner of my eye. To my surprise, he isn’t even looking at me. He stands far enough away that a casual passerby might not realize we’re talking to each other.

It makes me wonder if these barely veiled threats are a risk for him, too.

Interesting.

“You almost make it sound like I’m a threat. You Havoc Boys might not be as tough as you think, if you’re this worried about one girl.”

“I’m not worried, but you should be.”

His foot shoots out, and he catches my boot with his heel. Before I can react, my body pitches forward too quickly to stop the momentum. My hands come up just in enough time that my face doesn’t hit the ground, but I land hard on my knees.

“What the hell—”

He grabs both of my arms and yanks me back up. The movement is hard enough that I don’t stop moving once I’m on my feet. My body ends up pressed against his.

Rock hard abs meet the quivering flesh of my belly as he looms over me.

I hate that the first thing I notice when he pulls me closer is how good he smells. His scent is a mix of dark musk and sea salt with just a hint of something deeply fruity, like plum. The cologne was probably created specially for him, because I’ve never encountered anything like it.

Instead of pulling away, I freeze.

That is precisely the reaction he wants from me.

Drake leans forward. For a split second, I think he’s going to kiss me. Instead, his cheek presses against mine so I feel the rasp of his five o’clock shadow against my cheek.

“Just remember,” he whispers harshly in my ear. “The next time you fall, there won’t be anybody there to pick you back up.”

Releasing me so abruptly that I stumble, he stalks away in the direction of the lecture hall.

My body is shaking. Electric shocks run down my arms in the places where he touched me. I can’t follow him, even though it’s the same direction I need to go. If I don’t take a minute to pull myself together quickly, I’ll fall apart completely.

If I go back to the dorm, Anya might be there. I veer to the right without conscious awareness of where I’m going.

Stained glass windows sparkle in my hazy vision like a desert oasis in the distance.

The cathedral is a gothic affair with towering spires stretching up toward the clouds. It’s taller than any of the other buildings on campus, as if everything else has been designed to be subordinate to it.

Fighting back tears, I burst through the doors and let them slam shut behind me. No one can see me cry — that would undo all the hard work I’ve already put in.

This is so much harder than I thought it would be.

I thought I’d have more time to get my bearings, but I’ve already got the undivided attention of the person most likely to break me.

Lying low is officially out of the question.

Drake Van Koch has blown my plans completely out of the water. And it isn’t just him — all the Havoc Boys will be watching every move I make.

Why did I think I could do this?

The cathedral is dark and quiet. Despite the bright sky outside, light in here is diffuse and eerie through the stained glass.

The confession booth is an old-fashioned affair made of dark wood and lattice-work. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it’s been here since the cathedral was erected.

Inside, the booth is claustrophobic and smells like furniture polish.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.”

I’m a lapsed Catholic at best, but I’ve always loved something about the act of confession. The practice feels ancient and settling, like a glimpse into a completely different era. Even when I didn’t have a home, I always managed to find a church to slip into for an hour or so.

A vaguely man-shaped outline shifts on the other side of the wooden screen.

The priest makes the sign of the cross.

Maybe you can blame it on my body’s surprising reaction to Drake and the subsequent mental turmoil. Just thinking about him makes my belly clench tight with equal parts desire and hatred. But what I say next isn’t the admission of lustful thoughts I intend or even a description of how many times I used my vibrator this week.

Instead, I say the last thing that should ever come out of my mouth at St. Bartholomew’s College.

“I’m not Olivia Pratt.”

---