Page 50 of Devious Knight

I straighten as the answer dawns on me, shooting through my brain like a meteor shower.

Really, Isabelle? Did you actually have to ask?

Who hates me this much?

Kade.

Kade Gurkovsky, that motherfucking asshole, hates me so much that he would wreck my life’s work and fuck up my chances to go to Cambridge.

The clear thought dancing around in my mind makes me see red. Fiery streaks of red. The kind psychos talk about seeing before they go on a murderous rampage.

Enough is enough.

Kade is going to pay for this.

Chapter Twelve

Isabelle

I heard he calls this motorcycle the lone wolf.

Maybe Kade named it after himself. I’ve also heard that he refers to himself as the wolf and the other guys in the pack also have their own special names.

I actually don’t give a shit what they call themselves. All I care about is that this particular motorcycle is valuable to Kade Gurkovsky.

I circle the beast of a thing, taking slow, languid steps as if I’m walking around in a dream. The bike looks like it should belong on the set of one of The Terminator movies.

It’s parked in the VIP area outside Erebus House next to three other bikes that I’m assuming belong to Dmitri, Logan and Alek.

I straighten the motorcycle. It’s heavy, too heavy for me, but I heard that when you’re in a state of rage heavy things suddenly seem lighter. I can attest to that. I’ll also add that people in this state only care about the thing that placed them in this mindset. They no longer worry about other earthly concerns like weight or right and wrong.

I straighten the handlebars on the motorcycle and retract the kickstand, then I push the bike forward. That’s when I catch the attention of two guys walking across from me on the quad.

They’re third-year Knights who live here. They stop and watch me.

I catch the stunned expressions on their faces, then the stares of disbelief that follow when I reach the middle of the driveway and allow the bike to crash onto the pavement. The mirrors crack and I laugh off-key and unhinged without humor, channeling my inner Harlequin from the Suicide Squad. I certainly feel as demented as her.

More students join the guys watching me, and the same expressions of disbelief fill their faces.

That disbelief is twofold. One, they know who this bike belongs to, and two, they know me and can’t believe what I’m doing. Me, good old sweet little Isabelle—Lolita. She would never do a thing like this, so I understand why they look the way they do.

I keep saying I’m not weak, yet I’ve never stood up for myself. There’s an excuse for everything in my book:

Can’t talk back to people who treat me like shit for no reason because it will make things worse for me.

Can’t investigate my mother’s murder because it will upset the Knights and they might come after my family.

Can’t report Kade for stalking me and fucking with me because he’ll be spiteful and do worse things to me.

Can’t be allowed to live the way I want and dress the way I want and just be myself because people don’t like it.

Those excuses have made me weak and pathetic. So yeah, I’d be watching, too.

But I’m not done yet.

Apparently this motorcycle is worth at least fifty thousand dollars. Kade doesn’t ride any motorcycle unless it’s vintage, or modern with high-tech shit and state-of-the-art this and that and blah, blah, blah.

It’s also a limited edition. Just like my sculpture. Except my sculpture was one of a kind.

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