Page 16 of Paper Thin Love

“Mr. King is new and, as requested, you will be his student guide. We made sure you both shared classes, all except ballet. Unless you’d like to learn, Mr. King?” Miss Hawthorne says with a giggle.

“Fuck no,” I hiss as I keep my eyes on Mila. Her full gloss-covered lips part in shock.

So she’s a ballerina. I want to vomit. I hate stuck-up chicks.“And my name is Dash. Mr. King is my prick of a father.” I correct the old lady.

Miss Hawthorne clears her throat but knows better than to correct me. I glance back at Mila. Ballet, eh? Well, that explains how thin she looks.

Is she in on it? Does she think she nailed a King for a husband?

She looks so innocent, just blinking back at me in shock. Wide eyes, freckles, a delicate and graceful ballerina. There is no joy in seeing me, no fear either. I’m a stranger to her. She’s clueless as to what her future is. She has no sense this is a setup.

One word feeds my desires. Corruption.

I want to taint her. I think I will.

Dad thought he was picking some tutu-wearing princess to be my wife. I’ll show him.

“Can you leave us, Miss Hawthorne? I’d like to ask Mila some questions.”

“Oh, absolutely,” she nods and leaves, just like that.

What the serious fuck? When will a teacher stand up to me and tell me to sit the fuck down and listen? I’m not my father, not yet. Sometimes, power gets boring. I want a challenge. Maybe breaking Mila can fulfill that request.

Mom would have never put up with my shit. Dad does; he just deals with it by sending me away.

Silverstone Preparatory is pathetic. It’s just another sandbox we fortunate-unfortunate kids get to play in until we ascend to higher roles.

I push to stand, grab my crutch, and swing it forward so I can take a step. Mila flinches.

Well, that’s interesting. Did she think I was going to hit her?

I look down at her creamy, pale skin. Has she been living in a cage? She’s so pale, so… untouched by fire. Then I see it: two small bruises in the shape of fingerprints on her bony biceps. Her eyes chase mine, looking at the bruises before she tries and fails to cover them.

I place the crutch under my arm and take a step, feeling like my leg weighs as much as a dead body.“Do your parents beat you?” I deadpan.

“What?” she gasps, taking a step back. She looks like a church mouse whose tail is trapped under the claw of a cat.

I close the distance, and all the while, she steps back until her petite back hits the door. She’s so thin she can’t even make a thud sound when she hits it.

Your mistake was running, inciting the monster in me to chase.

If I'm destined to remain alive in my world, then I'm going to do everything I can to fuck up my father's plans, starting with little miss perfect here.

Up close, she’s very pretty, like a dove whose wings I’m going to break.

I reach up. Again, she flinches.“Who hits you?” I question. My eyes look back at the faint marks, and something stirs. My stomach feels full of dry leaves, those marks like a flame igniting something in me I have never felt before.

Her gulp sounds like Mount St. Helen erupting again.

“Tell me,” I demand.

Why do I care? There is only room for one devil in her life, and it’s going to be me.

“Do you like it? Like the feeling of someone trying to break you, Mila. Or does it irk you because someone has taken control over you?”

What’s your weakness, your desires? I need to know so I can bend you to my will.

No normal teenager thinks like me. No normal teenager has been forced to sit in on his ruthless father’s meetings, some of which used verbal forms of manipulation, whereas others used physical.

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