Page 20 of The Knight

My predicament with finals, it turns out, isn't exactly a secret. Although Blake isn't a teacher's assistant for our shared Calculus I class anymore, he still manages to pull me aside after class along with the teacher, Ms. Saint.

"Ms. Wilder," she says cooly. I redden as I wonder what message the teachers got about my new name for enrollment—and if it was as curt and steeped in privilege as Detective Lyons' orders not to investigate me further. "You have, understandably, undergone a recent trauma. And it has come to my attention that you may not be as prepared for our upcoming final as one may hope."

Reddening further at Blake's dark eyes on me, I defend myself. "I've been studying as much as possible. And my grades are going up—I'm not failing."

"Yet." I don't love the way she says the words, or what follows. "Your final is twenty-five percent of your grade, Brenna, and if you fail it, you'll fail the class. Which means repeating it next semester, and not graduating on time—not to mention the threat to your scholarship, which I imagine you need to continue attending."

Which I imagine you need.Is it that obvious that I'm poorer than everyone else here? The scholarship, of course, wasn't something I earned, but I've decided I deserve it all the same. I lost a brother and hardened my heart to get it and my place here at Coleridge. Blood has paid for what I've illicitly gained many times over. No one here has sacrificed as much to get here as I have.

That doesn't mean I'll get to stay if I don't do something about how terrible I am at math.

"I'll study more," I promise Ms. Saint, wondering what Blake is doing here at all, after everything. "What happened last night won't stop me from trying my best in your class. I won't let one final jeopardize my spot here."

Studying me over the top of her glasses, Ms. Saint nods sharply. "Good. Blake will help you by giving you private tutoring. I've cleared it with him already—he's most sympathetic to your predicament after what happened to you last night. Please, if you need anything, Brenna, let my know. I'm here to help."

Her warm sympathy falls on deaf ears, because all I can do is stare at Blake in horror. He looks like he's enjoying my dismay, and of course he would—we're going to be stuck in a small room together for hours if he gets his way, free to torture me in private. I don't kid myself that just because I've teamed up with the Elites on a singular goal, and Cole has cleared the mark on me, that anything has changed where Blake Lee is concerned. He's still the same impossibly cold, impossibly privileged son of a movie star and an entertainment mogul, his statuesque handsome exterior the thin veneer that covers up a cruelty just beneath.

To think, I sometimes look into his hard, angry eyes and see a reflection of my own fiery anger simmering there.

We couldn't be more different if we tried.

Looking back at Ms. Saint, I admit to myself that there's no easy way out of this. I'm going to have to do what she wants, even though I highly doubt Blake will actually help me. And based on the expression on his face, he knows it too.

The torture never ends.

"Thanks, Ms. Saint." Even as nausea rises in my stomach, I paste a smile on my face that I hope is convincing. "I'm sure he'll be a real help."

* * *

In English with Lukas, we thankfully share no interactions other than friendly ones. Unlike prickly Cole, roguish Tanner, and cold Blake, he seems to be mostly normal and easy to deal with—which only makes me wish that much harder that I'd never falsely accused him andonlyever kissed him out of the Elites.

Maybe if things were different, Lukas and I would be more than distant acquaintances stuck together for a while. More, even, than friends.

Then again, I'm, wellme.Even if I had perfect skin and highlighted hair—the salon appointment I booked with Georgia's card has already bronzed and faded—Lukas and I are almost as different from each other as Blake and I are. He has a literal heart of gold, despite growing up in privilege, and the smooth, easy personality that befits a diplomat's son. I'm all hard edges and scorching fire, certain to turn him off with the truth at my core more than anything.

It's good that my time here at Coleridge has an end date. If it didn't, I just might be doomed.

After English class is lunch, which I dread more than anything else today. Even whatever Cole has cooked up for me in Visual Art class can't be worse than walking back to the scene of the crime. The dining hall in the Coleridge Center is the same exact room where Georgia revealed the truth about me—and changed everything.

Hass will be there.

Just thinking about that makes my hands tremble. I haven't seen him since the Blind Ball, haven't even thought of him much after that day in the library when I saw him push Georgia up against a wall and grope her. But he's the one who found me. He's the one who called the police.

He can't have had a good reason for being there.

I'm going to find out the truth, and I'm going to take him down. To do that, I have to be able to face him. The least I can do is walk into the dining hall without flinching.

So why do I find myself standing still right outside English class instead, unable to make myself walk further? Here I thought the fire inside me was burning bright again and I'd be able to doanything.

Walk. Just take a step forward. That's all I have to do. Then another, then another... but I don't want to see his face. Those eyes of his, the fact that he looks so much like Lukas. Knowing that he's somehow connected to my brother's death. It's all too much for me.

"Brenna?" A familiar, European-accented voice drags me out of my spiraling thoughts. "Something wrong?"

Glancing over my shoulder at Lukas, I give him a shaky smile. "Nothing you have to worry about."

But he's studying me, and those bright blue eyes of his don't take long to get to the truth. "C'mon, I'll go with you to lunch."

"You don't have to—"

---