Page 511 of Filthy Elites

“Tolerant cordiality,” she smiles. “I’m not sure that’s ever been something to work toward, but okay, dinner.”

“Do you still have Hunter’s cell phone number? You could text him, or I could if you’d prefer?”

“You can let him know. I have homework to get on with.”

“Sure,” I say dismissively, sliding back into my seat and lifting my beer to my lips without even glancing her way. Her surprise and possibly annoyance follow her all the way out of the room and upstairs.

I hold back my smile until I hear the door to her room close. “You’ll be mine again soon, little bird.”

TWENTY

Starling

What the actual fuck?

Sebastian Lockwood is an asshole.

Today is the first time we’ve spoken since the day he apologized and set me free. This boy has stalked me for years. Years, and yet only two weeks after he told me he loved me, that he didn’t want me to think of him as a monster, he’s absolutely fine, like we’ve never been more than passing acquaintances.

Fine. How can he be fine? I’m not fine. I should be, but I’m not. After that day when I made the decision to stay, to use this opportunity to get a great education on their dime and a little revenge at the same time by showing him just how little I cared about him, I spent the first three days in full-blown panic mode. Constantly looking over my shoulder, I jumped at the slightest noise. I slept at the bottom of the stairs to my room, with my foot in the door, making sure I wasn’t going to end up locked in.

It took a week before it sank in that it might be real. No eyes on me, no one watching me, nothing. The others have all reached out to me. Evan wants to be my brother, Clay my friend, Hunter my personal chef. But Sebastian hasn’t done anything. He hasn’t tried to talk to me, to see me, to dominate me. Nothing.

How does someone go from obsession to disinterest so instantaneously?

I wish I could be like him. I wish I could just switch everything off inside of me, but I can’t. Something changed the moment he told me I was free. I don’t know what it was, but instead of pushing him from my thoughts, my psyche has become consumed by him.

He’s all I can think about, all I dream about. Him giving up his obsession has created an obsession in me and I hate it. I want to forget him, but he’s always there at the back of my mind. I know I should leave, that being here in this house is only fueling my madness, but leaving now feels impossible.

When I was trapped here all I wanted was to escape, but now I’m free, I just don’t seem to be able to walk away.

How dare he be so disinterested that he can’t even be bothered to look in my direction. He ruined me, haunted my waking and sleeping hours and now I’m not worth a single glance. A fucking bottle of beer is more interesting. Then there was that moment when he stopped my bottle from hitting the ground and he was so close to me. Close enough that I could feel the heat of his breath on my cheek. I thought he would kiss me, that he’d do what he always does and overwhelm my body with his touch, but instead he stepped back. He was inches from me and instead of putting his hands on me, he treated me like I was a stranger he was offering his seat to on the bus.

He stepped back. Just moved, like being that close to me didn’t bother him at all. I want to scream, to stomp back downstairs and punch him in his stupid beautiful face, because how dare he ruin me and now not even care?

Agreeing to have dinner with them all is reckless, but the smell of the food Hunter has been cooking each night has been driving me a little crazy after eating the tasteless collection of food they serve in the cafeteria. The burgers and sandwiches aren’t too bad, but the evening meals are just so damn bland I’m at risk of dehydrating from all the salt I’m having to douse my food in. You’d think at a school where the tuition fees are more than the average American makes in five years, the food would be practically Michelin starred, but apparently cafeteria food is cafeteria food no matter where it's made.

My skin feels tight as I strip out of my jeans and tank and step under the cold water of my shower. I’m crazy, he’s making me feel crazy and I hate it. The need to run claws at my throat, so I haphazardly blot the water from my skin, pull on my tight running shorts and a sports bra, then grab my sneakers and armband before stomping downstairs and out of the front door.

Sitting on the front step, I slide my feet into my shoes and tie the laces, attach the armband and then stretch while the gate slowly opens. I barely give my muscles a chance to get warm before I’m sprinting. I race across campus to the outdoor track I found when I was avoiding returning to the house one afternoon.

Setting a blistering pace that I know I won’t be able to maintain for long, I stride onto the track and pump my arms, racing along the lane like the devil himself is chasing me. I’m not sure how long I last but by the time I collapse to a heap in the grass beside the track, my lungs are burning and my legs feel like Jell-O.

Gasping for air, I lift my weak, sweat-soaked arms over my face and just breathe. The familiar quiet that always finds me when I run settles over me and I close my eyes, basking in the desperately needed numbness.

“Here, you look like you could use this,” a male voice says from above me.

Opening my eyes, I blink up at a familiar-looking guy hovering over me, a bottle of water in his outstretched hand.

“Er,” I say dumbly.

“Chase, we met at the gym a couple weeks ago.”

“The football player,” I say through my rasping breaths.

“You remembered,” he laughs, folding himself down to a seated position beside me. “Here.” He offers me the water again. “It’s sealed.”

Smiling, I take the bottle from him and open it, cracking the seal and drinking thirstily. “Thanks.”

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