Page 55 of Oblivion

“Deadly.”

“You want me to thank you for collaring me with a fucking chain and padlock?” I hiss.

His smirk makes me want to punch him or grab his face and kiss him. If I was sure which side of the coin my actions wouldland on, I might move, but I refuse to encourage him, so I stay still.

“Thank you for my gifts, asshole,” I spit through gritted teeth.

A part of me wants him to be angry, but instead, he looks amused. “You’re welcome, baby. Let go get your classes sorted.”

The house is quiet by the time Evan leads me from his bedroom with our fingers entwined, but surprisingly, when we step outside, there’s an empty golf cart waiting for us.

“The school allocated us a third cart,” Evan says without me having to ask.

“Why?”

“Because we asked for one,” he tells me like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

It’s been nearly six months since I lived here, and apparently, I’ve forgotten how casually privileged my friends are. My life in Washington, DC, wasn’t exactly hard. I grew up in a comfortable home, being indulged by my parents. But after so much time away, I’d forgotten what it’s like to simply get everything you ask for, the way Evan and the others always have.

Starling and I have spoken many times about the fact that Evan, Sebastian, Clay, and Hunter are so incredibly wealthy. They’re essentially spoiled brats who expect to get everything they want and are callous enough to take what isn’t given freely when they can’t just demand it.

Every single one of them has claimed the woman they wanted and then proceeded to deal with the fallout without ever considering that maybe they shouldn’t have tried to own a person in the first place. And Evan is doing the exact same thing, only unlike the others, I know exactly what to expect. I’ve seen firsthand the lengths these men will go to, and yet I’m still here. I’m sitting beside him in a golf cart, letting him sleep in my bed, letting him use my body, letting him slowly claim me inch by inch, without even trying to fight back. I’ve always known hewas a psychopath, but what does it make me that I’m not doing anything to free myself of him?

I’m silent on the ride to the administration buildings. Evan parks the cart in a spot at the curb, then takes my hand and tugs me across the seat and out the driver’s side. Kingsacre is full of rich kids, but they still all recognize the power and influence Evan Morris has, and they reverently part to allow us to traverse our way into the building without Evan having to do more than flash a few smiles.

Holding the door open for me, he releases my hand and places his palm on the base of my spine, guiding me out of the warm morning sunlight and into the dull, muted quiet of the building.

I’ve only ever been in here once before, when I came to drop a class. But I’m not surprised when Evan confidently leads me through the rabbit warren of corridors and straight to the academic advisers’ offices.

“Dean Livingstone is meeting us here,” Evan tells me, slipping the hand that was resting at the base of my spine around my hip and pulling me into his side the moment we step into the office.

“Ahh, Mr. Morris, Miss Hartley, please come straight through,” a prim-looking woman with beautiful ebony-colored skin says, striding confidently into an office and holding the door open for us to follow her in.

“I’m Harriett Bentley, and I have been assigned as your academic adviser. Dean Livingstone had planned to be here, but I’m sure we can get your situation resolved without his presence. First, Miss. Hartley, I understand that you took some time off because your father was ill. How is he?”

Harriett’s girl boss energy is a force that has me sitting up straighter in my seat. “He’s much better now, thank you, ma’am. It was touch and go for a while after his surgery, but with somechanges to his diet and exercise, the doctors are confident he’ll be fine.”

Her smile is warm and full of empathy. “I’m so glad to hear that. Now, obviously you’ve missed a full semester’s worth of classes. I’ve assessed your transcripts, and at this time I think you have a couple of options. You can take a heavy course load and try to make up the classes you’ve missed, or you can graduate a semester late. Due to the nature of your absence, the college is happy for you to pick either option. Have you declared a major yet?”

“No, ma’am. I was thinking maybe economics?” I tell her.

“Woo,” she hoots dramatically. “Well, that is quite the degree. Normally, I’d suggest delaying graduation and not overloading yourself as the way to go, but looking at your transcripts for your freshman year, it’s clear that you haven’t struggled academically. In fact, you comfortably finished in the top ten percent of your class. If you feel comfortable, then I’d suggest that you take an extra two classes this semester, then two extra classes in your first semester next year. Then you’d make up the final missed class in your second semester. That way, your course load would be back to normal by your senior year.”

“And you think that’d be manageable?” I ask her, glancing at Evan, then immediately looking away, not wanting him to think I was looking for his input or approval.

“Given your grades and the fact that you took some of the harder required courses and passed them last year, I don’t see why not. You can try it this semester, and if you get overwhelmed, we can reassess.”

“Are most classes already full for this semester? Am I going to struggle to fill the required number of credits?” I ask.

“Dean Livingstone has assured me that he’ll ensure places are available in any classes you pick,” Evan says, reaching over to entwine his fingers with mine.

Harriett’s smile stiffens a little, then relaxes as she passes me a course list. “Let’s tick off the required courses you need to take first, then we can fill the gaps with electives.”

It takes nearly two hours to pick classes that will fulfill the requirements for an economics major, as well as fit in all the courses that the school has made a necessity for graduating. I’m going to be inundated with homework and studying, but I’m at least hopeful that I might be able to graduate on time.

Oddly, apart from his comment about the dean, Evan stayed quiet through the entire meeting, never once trying to exert his will over my courses, schedule, or choice of major. It makes me suspicious.

“Do you want to hit the bookstore before we go home?” he asks.

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