Page 171 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

“Would you have gone to the cops if we’d left you alone?” he asks quietly and, for once, like he’s genuinely interested in my answer. He even sends that scowl my way when I don’t answer immediately, prompting me.

I look away, tease my bottom lip with my teeth. I guess it doesn’t matter how he knows. I guess it doesn’t even matter that I finally got up the courage to report them. That’s why Thatcher left so suddenly. That’s why Di Toro told me it was a “police matter” now. I’m guessing police matters around here very rarely affect the public good.

“If I’d known it wouldn’t have mattered, then no. I wouldn’t have bothered.” I hug myself hard, my scrambling mind going blank. What’s the point of trying to fight these guys when I’m so obviously outgunned?

“I wouldn’t say it doesn’t matter,” Silas says, sounding grumpy about it. But I can’t tell if that’s because he’s miffed or because he always sounds like that.

I hate how he’s so in control when he’s driving. Like he could close his eyes and we’d still get to our destination in one piece.He lifts his hips off the seat and hunts around in the back pocket of his jeans.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him without his school uniform or camo gear on. He’s wearing dark jeans, a dark brown leather field jacket and white sneakers that, while clean, look like they’ve been walked to death.Yet he’s driving a car like this? People with money are so fucking weird.

He hands over a piece of paper. “You were very thorough.”

I already know what it is before I fold it open, so my heart only sinks marginally when I recognize the statement I’d signed in Thatcher’s office. I smooth it out over my thigh, and then wonder why the fuck I’m treating it like it’s worth even the paper it’s written on. I crumple it up and toss it out the window.

Silas slams on the brakes so hard, the seatbelt cuts into my chest as I’m thrown forward. I gasp, my head snapping forward, hair flying in my face. I’m still recovering when Silas gets out of the car, walks down the road and retrieves the piece of paper.

If my fucking seatbelt hadn’t locked, I’d have been out of that car and into the woods already. But either he did it on purpose—stopping fast enough to keep me in place—or he’s the luckiest son-of-a-bitch I’ve ever known.

“You fucking piece of shit,” I snap when he slides back into the car seat.

“Do you treat everything in your life with such disrespect?” he asks, venom on his words as he turns to study me. The balled-up report is still in his hand, but he starts working at it, opening it up, smoothing it out as he watches me.

“Garbage like that?” I cut my eyes to the worthless police statement. “Like you?” I glare at him. “Sure.”

His slap catches me off guard. Hair flies into my face, sticking against my wide-open mouth as I gasp in pain.

“It’s time we taught you some fucking manners,” he says.

My stomach flips over at the cold fury in his voice. I unlatch my seatbelt, but when I tug at the door handle, nothing happens.

Silas ignores me. He puts the car into drive and carries on down the rutted path for all of three yards before he presses another button on the console and methodically ramps the BMW between two fir trees. I don’t know how the fuck he does it—and I’m too busy trying to escape to really pay much attention—but a minute or so later we’re parked between the trees, the road out of sight.

Alone.

Trapped.

When I try to scramble into the back seat, Silas shoves me so hard between my shoulders that I end up sprawling into the footwell behind the passenger seat. I knock my knee against the console going over, but I desperately push away the pain so I can keep a level head.

It doesn’t help.

Silas’s long legs slide easily into the back, and before I can attempt to fend him off, he grabs the front of my shirt and yanks me onto the back seat with him.My heart clangs in my chest the instant my ass hits the leather seat. I try to scramble up, but suddenly there’s a switchblade pressed to my throat.

If I thought I felt shock before, when I saw my signature on that police statement, it’s nothing compared to what I’m feelingnow. Panic rolls in hot-cold waves through my rigid body as my fingertips and toes go numb.

“No,” I whisper. “Please.”

“This is going to go one of two ways, princess,” Silas says. Fury turns his blue irises into thunderclouds. “You’re going to learn how to show someone respect, or you’re walking back to the Academy dressed in nothing but that tangled hair of yours.” He glances up, his expression turning even stonier. “Youarea fucking mess, aren’t you?” he adds, as if quoting someone.

I lift a trembling hand. “What do you want?” I murmur as evenly as possible, which in this situation isn’t saying much.

He studies me for a minute, and then purses his mouth. It’s wide, pale, but when he’s not openly scowling there’s a curve to the edges of his lips. Maybe that’s why he always pulls such an angry face—he doesn’t want people to think he’s smiling at them.

“Take off your clothes.”

“Silas, please.”

There’s a flinch in his eyes when I say his name. I won’t lie, it feels fucking weird calling him that to his face instead of “piece of shit”.

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