Page 25 of The Lies We Steal

My first day had started the way most firsts started. Natural. I had a tough professor who talked fast and wrote even quicker. Meaning my pen was working double time, halfway through I’d decided to hit record on my computer, to catch anything I missed.

I’d gotten through the hard part, I think, the first day is always the most difficult and I’d made a friend. I think, so I take that as a win.

I mean I thought I’d made it through my first day without any obstacles. It was going so well, I was focused, I understood everything, I was satisfied, and then the air stirred.

We’d been in class for maybe thirty minutes when the door swayed open with a heavy creak. Booted steps stomp across the boarded floor as the same scorned face I’d seen the past several days every time I shut my eyes, appeared inside the classroom. This wasn’t confidence, he didn't carry himself in a charming light like Easton. His smile didn't make butterflies flutter in my stomach. He torched them. It was defiance and the power of I don’t give a fuck.

He didn’t mind he was late, that he was infringing, or that everyone was staring at him. He didn’t care about anything.

The darkness I felt in the pit of my stomach that night comes back. It swells inside of me, eating its way up my throat.

I watch Professor Sheridan start to scold him for his tardiness but when he realizes who he is, all he says is a mere, “Please, take a seat, Mr. Caldwell.”

Alistair examines the room for a bit, stopping our teacher and his assistant for a second longer before shifting to the lecture hall, hunting for an empty chair.

The students in front of me have split reactions. Some of them, mostly girls, are moving their bags to clear a free spot next to them hoping he picks the seat beside them. Others are doing everything possible to evade his gaze.

Fear and admiration.

Two very diverse and very comparable emotions. Both of them are rooted in the same place, interest.

Watching everyone else means I’ve taken my eyes off him, so when they return to him, I see he’s already making his way up the steps towards my section of seating.

There are various vacant chairs before me. He has to pick one of those. If he doesn’t, it’s going to be very clear he chose the seat beside me for a reason. The rest of the class will notice. I don’t want to be known as the girl Alistair Caldwell picked out of the rest.

But good luck is too much to ask for because his body slides into the chair next to mine. His large body fills up the space, smothering me, making me feel so tiny. Like I’m confined in a corner and a wild animal is keeping me in my place.

My grip on my pen is so tight that my knuckles are white. I can feel my heart beating erratically, crushing so hard on my ribs that I think I'll pass out.

I foolishly look around watching people I hadn’t even got a chance to talk to begin to gasp and whisper. Making assumptions about why he would sit here of all places. Their hushed voices and less than secretive stares make me uncomfortable in my seat.

“Is there a problem?” The deep pitch of those few words is enough to tell me that his voice resembles everything else about him.

Alarming.

The ogling and gossiping students flick around so fast I’m surprised they don’t have whiplash.

Everything settles as our teacher proceeds to explain some formula that five seconds ago I fully understood and now I couldn’t even recognize what class this was.

It's his smell. It's rattling me.

Not just a glimpse of it like at the party, but his entire scent.

Spicy, like clove and carnal. It’s the smell of black magic at midnight. When witches stand around their brew at night with the moon and candles burning the room. Incents wisping in the air. Ancient spells and occult sorcery sting my nose. It’s smoke, timber and I hate how much I love this smell.

Stupid fucking hormones.

Forbidding myself to look over at him, I sink back in my seat, keeping my eyes ahead and pretending to focus on what Professor Sheridan is saying. But my peripheral vision sees plenty of him. Enough to keep me preoccupied. His meaty hands resting on the table casually. It's such an odd thing to notice. How his hands look normal right now and not as weapons. It just feels impossible to see him as anything but trouble.

The ring on his pointer finger has his initials on it, something I would call pretty on anyone else.

Good God, even in my side view he's gorgeous.

But not gorgeous like Easton. No. Easton is white picket fences, soccer dad, Sunday brunches, and sex with the lights off. And there is nothing wrong with that, that’s something I want.

Something durable and safe. Reliable.

Alistair is gorgeous in a sinister kind of way. Reckless abandon, turmoil, broken hearts, but you'll never leave him because the way his mouth travels on your body while you’re chained to his bed is enough to make any woman stay.

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