Page 29 of Reign

Chase doesn’t react, preferring to observe my performance with cold disdain.

My eyes skate to the side where a large trash bin nestles circumspectly underneath an old painting of some benefactor or another. Chase follows the movement and arches a brow of careful disinterest.

That’s all it takes for me to storm to the bin, throw off the lid, pick it up, and hurl the contents at Chase.

Crumbled paper scatters across the floor.

Half empty coffee cups splatter against his shirt and pants.

An open ketchup packet hits him in the chin, leaving a trail of red under his lip.

The empty bin makes a hollow, clanging sound as it hits the floor at my feet, followed by my heaving breaths.

Chase doesn’t move. Doesn’t twitch.

As the trash floats, then settles around him, the clocktower bell clangs some distance away.

We remain in a brutal lock of eyes, his smoldering, mine alight with rage.

Doors crash open as students sprint out of classrooms, their first taste of freedom since the semester began, but shoes skid to a stop almost instantly. Cries and hollers die out in favor of ogling the Briarcliff prince covered in trash. Some search for hidden phones in their bags and blazers.

A few dare to come closer.

I expect Chase to unleash. To unhinge his jaw and punish me for daring to malign his perfectly pressed appearance. Or at the very least, to drag his hand through his hair and shake off the used tissues and cold noodles dangling there.

He does none of those things.

Just looks at me coldly. Brutal and haunted.

Haunted?

No way. I have to be hallucinating the fragments of misery in his eyes. Misery he caused. Happiness he refuses to consider.

We can beat this together, I tried to will his way in the Nobles’ crypt, but Chase refused, considering me a weakness, an unnecessary accessory to his plans to overthrow his father.

I’ve never wanted to punch someone yet wrap my arms around them at the same time. The ache is real, and it sits right at the base of my ribs.

Chase parts his lips, his tongue coming dangerously close to the stains I put on his face when it darts out to suck on one of his canines. “You will come to regret this day, possum.”

“Do your worst,” I retort. “I guarantee it’ll never be as bad as watching the guy you loved bow to a woman who brutalizes and kills.”

This time, I step all the way up to him, raising my chin one notch. Then two. “All because he’s scared.”

Chase’s mouth twists into a snarl, but I don’t wait around for the mushroom cloud of consequence. I turn my back on him and stride down the hall, my quaking limbs for once shrouded and protected by a Briarcliff uniform.

12

Callie

I told him I loved him.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Sitting back in my seat on the train, I watch the afternoon swirl into greens and blues as we chug toward the city, my duffel squished between me and the window as I pretend not to smell the pastrami sandwich a businessman eats beside me.

My stomach rumbles in protest. I mentally remind it that these vicious swings between nausea and starvation can’t be good for it, so could it kindly shut up?

The snack cart comes by and my stomach shows no signs of quieting down. I cave and buy a bag of mini pretzels. As soon as the salt hits my tastebuds, my stomach revolts.

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