Page 37 of Wicked Scorn
“Here you go, Miss Ashford,” he says, handing me the flowers with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Let’s try to keep the distractions to a minimum for the rest of class, shall we?”
“Thank you, professor,” I reply, my voice barely audible above the clamor of my racing thoughts. The flowers are stunning—their petals soft and velvety beneath my fingertips.
Before I can gather my thoughts, Penn reachesover and snatches the card from the bouquet. “Let’s see what the pretty boy has to say for himself.”
“Give that back!” I protest, but he’s already unfolding the small piece of paper, his eyes scanning the message inside. I hold my breath, waiting for the punchline, but instead, his smile fades.
“Uh, little Ashford,” Penn says, suddenly serious. “This isn’t from Jere.”
“What?” My heart sinks. “Then who’s it from?”
He hesitates before reading aloud, his voice low and uneasy. “I’ve been watching you, Oakley. Do you miss me as much as I miss you? Soon, we’ll be together again.”
A chill runs down my spine, and I feel sick to my stomach. This cryptic message, filled with longing and menace, is far from the romantic gesture I had imagined. The room seems to close in on me as fear takes hold. Is it from the man who attacked me?
I’m going to puke all over Penn Blackwood, and that’s literally going to be my legacy.
My heart hammers in my chest, the sound echoing in my ears as I try to process the menacing message. “I don’t know who could’ve sent this,” I stammer, shaking my head helplessly.
“Are you sure?” Penn presses, his eyes searching mine for any hint of recognition. “Could it be some kind of prank? A boyfriend you’re hiding from us from your old school?”
“Who would think this is funny?” I snap, anger flaring through me. The classroom is silent, everyone’s gaze fixed on us, and I suddenly feel very exposed.
“Alright, alright,” Penn says, holding up his hands defensively. “Just asking.”
I swallow hard, forcing myself to breathe as I try tountangle my thoughts. Who could be watching me? Who would want to scare me like this? My mind races through a list of names, but none make sense.
“Little Ashford, you know I know a guy who knows a guy…” Penn trails off.
“Thanks, Penn,” I say softly, my eyes flickering around the room. The bouquet feels heavy in my hands, a tangible reminder of someone playing a sick joke on me. “I just...I need to think.”
As the professor continues with the lecture, I find it impossible to focus. The chilling words of the card haunt me, wrapping their icy fingers around my heart. I glance at the empty seat beside me, wishing Jeremiah was here. Despite our complicated history, I’d feel safer with him by my side. It doesn’t matter that Penn is here. It’s different. The only thing I know is that I need to toss these before Jeremiah shows up to pick me up after class because I need to figure out who they’re from and what they want before Rem goes berserk on every male on campus.
I can only hope Penn keeps his big mouth shut until I can tell him myself.
Chapter 14
Jeremiah
Ican tell something’s off the moment Oakley steps out of the classroom, her shoulders hunched like she’s carrying the weight of the world or some shitstorm. Her eyes are fixed on the ground and her hands clutch her books like a lifeline. She doesn’t even notice me at first, lost in whatever hell is going on inside her head.
“Oak,” I call out, my voice slicing through the buzz of students spilling into the hallway. She jumps, those blue eyes snapping up to meet mine, and there it is—that flash of something raw and edgy before she slaps on a too-quick smile.
“Hey, Rem,” she says, voice soft but not fooling me one bit. Rem, haven’t heard that nickname since she’s dropped back into my life but anytime she’s said it now it feels good. No one calls me that but her.
“Cut the crap, bunny,” I press, closing the distance between us. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. What’s eating you?”
She shakes her head, waves of golden hair catching the dim light of the corridor. “It’s nothing, really?—”
I just stare at her because she’ll crack, she has to.
“I swear, it’s nothing. I’m just tired today,” she says too quickly, shaking her head. The lie is obvious.
“Don’t bullshit me,” I growl, stepping closer. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Can we not do this here?” she whispers, a plea in her gaze.
“Oakley.” My tone brooks no argument, and I see her resolve waver.
