Page 20 of Twisted Promise

It drowned out the screaming from downstairs.

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SEVENTEEN

What was a tax bracket ten times higher than hers doing at a university campus tour?

He was a walking advertisement board, dollar signs in the carbon dioxide residuals, and the crushed cement particles under his shoes seemed like refined gold dust.

The dean nearly folded himself in half, with his back bent so far as to cater to a universally respectful worship pose. The other administrators weren’t much better at pretending to save their dignity yet bowing intuitively to someone with more influence.

She leaned on the windowsill, her hand under her chin as she stared at them through the tip of her nose. Her tailbone pinched in pain from the distressing posture.

The group she was in for the tour had a bunch of rowdy boys roughhousing every chance they had, so when she saw a purple soda can propelling out the window, it didn’t register in her mind that anything too awful could happen.

It did and bounced off Alessio’s head.

Anya felt her breath catch as he lifted his gaze. Her brain was already conjuring up her obituary, and he glared like a soul burdened with centuries-old vengeance.

Spring caressed the distance between them, the crisp raindrops dripped from plump green leaves, and her heartbeat bloomed more beautifully than the hyacinths by his side.

It felt lovely but also frightening.

She dodged his scathing stare and found two of her classmates cowering under the windowsill. They frantically gestured for her to turn around and admit to being the culprit.

Even though he saw her, she still dropped to her knees and sneered at the boys.

“Why am I the scapegoat?”

“You were right there!” one of them defended.

“Take one for the team.” The other pumped his fist as reinforcement.

“I will sacrifice you,” Anya hissed as they sheepishly laughed.

One more glare at them before she turned away and crab-crawled toward the stairs, thankful for the free roaming period just after lunch, and Anya made a run down the steps.

His mop of dark hair appeared near the corner of the staircase, and she forced her legs to halt before she collided with him. Her hair whipped into his face as she hid her face into her shoulder and hobbled around to escape.

“You can’t outrun me.”

His curse broke her shoelace and tripped her on the curved staircase edges. She hissed, rubbing her chin as the throbbing resisted her soothing massages.

There, she sat on the dirty staircase like she was a persecuted maiden and held her breath to bring tears.

“Don’t slander me,” he retorted frostily.

“Nowyou’reslandering me,” she argued, indignant.

She wasn’t afraid because she knew he had no proof of her crime.

“What’s your name?” His voice had no courtesy, only a demand with fading patience.

“Sir Reginald Pendulum Cornelius Appleton, the Undoubtedly Important,” she jeered pompously.

“Okay,” he snarked with a mean curl at the corner of his lips. “Anya.”

His eyes fell on her name tag pinned onto her shirt. She slapped her hand over it and went quiet, debating if fainting orhurling herself down the stairs could get her more compensation money.

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