Page 11 of Wicked Dreams

“Wolfe.”

“Asher.”

“How’s class?” he asks.

Everyone is pretending I don’t exist or coughing mean names behind their fists—but I’d rather swallow my tongue than say that to him. Being a wallflower isn’t going to fly at this school, I don’t think. Not if the king of hockey is going to make a point of drawing attention to me.

Hockey. What a weird sport. I don’t remember him playing when we were kids, but I was so young… It’s violent, isn’t it? Maybe he grew into the violence, too.

“Classes are going great. It’s good to be home,” I lie.

“We missed you at lunch.”

I snort. “Yeah, okay.”

He puts his hand on the back of my neck, his fingers soft for a second before they dig into my skin. I glare at him, but he ignores it. He uses pressure to steer me down the hall, into the throng of students waiting to head for their classes.

It’s like everyone has congregated here, with the two sets of double doors closed and probably locked.

In the middle of everyone, he gives me a light shove.

Not expecting it, I lose my balance. My new shoes create an awful squeak on the tile, and momentum sends me to my knees.

Mortification rings through me, while the conversation around us stops.

Caleb leans down. For a sad, sorry second, I think he’s going to offer his hand and help me up.

Instead, his lips twist. Disgust coats his features. “This isn’t your school.”

I’m pretty sure he’s amplifying his words on purpose, because now everyone is turned in our direction. His friends join us, circling around. They’re sharks, every one of them.

But it’s Caleb I have to pay attention to, because he isn’t done. “Why don’t you go back to the trash family that raised you? Leave the rest of us alone. Oh, I forgot. Your mom’s probably high out of her mind in a gutter, and dear old Dad is getting ass-raped on the regular in prison.”

His words hit their intended target, and I am ill-prepared to hear them. Each one stabs into me.Coke-whore’s daughter. Dad in prison. The whispers around us pick up, and if anyone didn’t know who I was, or my past—they do now.

It’s so different from every other school I attended. Anonymous foster kid, while still bullied, is a hundred times better than this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask him. I’m still on my fucking knees, unable to move. My legs would’ve given out anyway.

He leans down, grabbing my arm and hauling me back up. “Why? You don’t really know anything, do you?” He sneers. “You’re not a wolf. You don’t pose any threat at all.”

Do not fucking cry.

“Run along now, little lamb.”

I bristle, but my eyes are burning. Theflightinstinct rears up, and as soon as he releases my arm, I bolt. My shoulder hits one of his friends, and it’s like slamming into a wall. It sends me off-kilter, stumbling away. I get my bearings and push through the crowd.

People are staring, whispering.

The one from class, Ian Fletcher, makes a sheep noise at me.

I move faster, and the farther away from Caleb I get, the easier it is to breathe.

I duck into the nearest bathroom, and tears break loose. I fumble my way into a stall and lock it, leaning on the side wall and burying my face in my hands.

I didn’t do anything to deserve this. Hell, all I’ve done today is walk into a firestorm—one that my departure seven years ago apparently created.

“Margo?”

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