Page 35 of Magical Academy for Delinquents
The asshole was in a private study room, alone, surrounded by twenty ancient-looking, leather-bound books.
I yanked open the door to his study room and tromped in, thankful that the window into this room faced away from and not toward the librarian’s desk—in case I needed to smack him. I studied his golden hair, his heavy-lidded blue eyes. He wore his uniform shirt tighter than most of the guys, with a narrow black tie that added a fifties vibe to his look. But, despite his wholesome appearance, Malcolm gave off a vibe that was incredibly dangerous. When those lazy blue eyes rose to meet mine, I felt like someone held a knife to my throat. My breath dried up. Just from his look. And yet, despite my brain knowing I should be scared, I wasn’t. I felt high.
That heady sensation gave me the confidence to say, “You ditched me.”
Malcolm didn’t even offer an expression before he turned back to his books. “I don’t like attention whores.”
His dismissal burned. Fire lit inside my belly and spewed out in my tone. “Excuse me?”
“Challenging Laura Whitehall is a power bid. You care about the ridiculous illusion of social status here.”
“I can’t care about thatandschool?”
“I won’t waste my time finding out.”
Anger lit me up like a forest fire. He had no idea why I did what I did. And it was all for far more important reasons than attention. I slid into the seat next to him and leaned over until my chest brushed his elbow, invading his personal space. “You know, blowing things up to get yourself a magazine cover is about as attention-whorish as it gets. Guess your anarchist tendencies didn’t extend to rejecting the media that props up all that power.”
His brows lowered and he finally turned away from his book. His blue eyes punched me in the throat as he said, “Get another tutor.”
“No.”
I saw him swallow hard against some impulse when I defied him. But the swallow was all I got. No fist curl, no jaw clench. Malcolm was hard to rile. I studied his face. He was so fucking handsome that it almost hurt to look at him in real life. He was one of those beautiful people that had the potential to make you hate yourself. But instead of his beauty, it was his energy that was all-consuming. He had this dark, cold presence that made goosebumps rise on my arms and my nipples pebble under my shirt. None of the magazine articles had talked about how enchanting his presence was.
I ran my hand down my arm to stifle the cold and cover my nipples as Malcolm and I engaged in a staring contest.
I saw the stripes of blue in his eyes, the tiny freckle on his left cheek. I saw a minuscule scar under his eyebrow, one no one would normally notice.
I let out a breath, and my breath curled into a mist in front of my face. Glee filled me up like dancing champagne bubbles when I realized Malcolm was even more magnificent than I’d ever thought. An Icefire, the most common natural magic. Normally so mundane. But Malcolm’s deft precision was amazing. He was using his magic to chill the air around us, to physically intimidate me and make me want to leave.Thatwas his fucking presence. He was turning the condensation in the air colder, almost (but not quite) freezing it. It was a delicate balance of ice and fire at the same time. Beautiful. It was a manipulative masterpiece.
God, it made me want him. In more ways than one.
I leaned forward even further, parting my hands and letting my breasts press against his arm on the armrest. I let a bright smile cross my face when my lips were only inches from his. “I chose you. I don’t want anyone else.”
That got a response from him at last. Malcolm leaned back in his chair and his eyes traveled down my torso and then back up.“Youdon’t get to choose.”
Heat flared across my panties. Heat I knew he’d just put there with fire magic. But heat flared inside me too, caused more by his words than his magic. Because that’s how I knew exactly how to get Malcolm on my side. “Okay then,” I relented, leaning back and then stretching, extending my hands far behind me and closing my eyes so that Malcolm could look his fill. “I’ll just have to makeyouchoose me.”
He laughed. And it was a dark, bitter sound, like black coffee. But it was just as steamy and hot. “That’s not gonna happen.”
I gave a little shrug as I leaned back in my seat. “We’ll see.” I snatched a paper from his stack and then grabbed his pencil. I started putting dots onto the paper.
“What are you doing?”
“We’ll play for it.”
Malcolm paused. The aura surrounding him lightened, until I could feel the crisp dry air from the wheezing, centurion heating system again. He didn’t grab the pencil away, which I took as a good sign. I’d intrigued him again.
I tried not to glance up at his face as I created our game board, twenty rows across and twenty rows of dots down. “You know how to play?” I asked.
He shook his head, smirking. “Nope.”
“We take turns drawing lines to connect the dots. You can only go vertical or horizontal, not diagonal. When you get to make the last line in a box, put your first initial inside. That’s your point. Whichever one of us has the most points by the end wins. Note: If you can finish one box with one line and that helps you finish an adjacent box, your turn keeps going. You can keep completing boxes one line at time until you can’t complete them with a single line.”
I held the pencil out toward Malcolm. He slid it out of my hand, careful not to touch me.
Hmm. Interesting.
The first few minutes passed in silence as we filled in random lines around our makeshift game board. His eyes darted to my face consistently, measuring me up in between turns. I pretended not to see him. I also pretended not to see the first box, letting Malcolm build his confidence.
