Page 14 of Spearcrest Knight

“Out of respect for Evan’s privacy, his parents wish him to be tutored at their home near the school. Taxis are already booked and paid for, so don’t worry about getting there. I’ve attached the address and a map just in case.”

I toss the map away from me and drop back into my pillows, scrunching my eyes close. His house? I have to go to hishouse? Why? Because his parents don’t want anybody to find out their precious golden boy isn't capable of reading a book without having his hand held?

It’s so typical of these rich arseholes to do something like this. I don’t even know why I’m surprised.

So once more, I force deep, long breaths down my constricted throat. My frustration is almost suffocating, but there's nothing I can do for now. I’m sure Miss Bailey won’t let me down.

All I need to do now is make it through the next couple of weeks, and then I never have to speak to or think about Evan Knight ever again.

To comfort myself, I open my heavily annotated copy of Jane Eyre. Normally, it's a comfort read, but today, Jane's story hits too close to home. She, too, fell for someone's sweet lies only to end up betrayed and hurt.

I can only hope to one day leave Spearcrest with as much pride and dignity as she left Thornfield.

Bootlicking

Evan

Whenmyparentstoldme I would be getting tutoring and had no choice in the matter, I was more than a little pissed off. But as soon as I found out I was allowed off campus to receive the lessons, I felt a whole lot better.

Two afternoons a week, I could leave school and chill in our big, empty house. My parents spend their time divided between the US and their international offices. They only ever really stay in this house when they want to get the whole family together.

The rest of the time, it’s gloriously empty. The cleaners and gardeners only visit once a week to maintain the property. It would be ideal if I wasn’t stuck at Spearcrest. Now though, all I have to do is placate whichever sucker signed up to be my mentor and I have two afternoons a week just for myself.

I’m in the middle of checking out the wine cellar for stuff I think my dad’s not going to notice has gone missing when I hear the intercom. Frowning, I check my watch.

Six o’clock exactly. Almost rudely punctual.

I tuck a bottle under my arm and make my way back upstairs to open the door. I know everyone in the year group, and I'm not about to ruin my reputation as a loveable party boy.

When I open the front door, I freeze for a second.

Spikes of adrenaline stab through my skin.

Saying I haven’t fantasised about having Sophie Sutton to myself in the comfort and privacy of my own home would be a complete lie. Still, I never imagined she would come of her own volition, a lamb leading itself to the slaughter.

I stand in the doorway and take in the sight of her from head to toe.

I don’t even care that I’m being shamelessly obvious.

She’s still wearing her uniform, of course. So am I, except I’ve loosened my tie, untucked my shirt and thrown my blazer over the back of an easy chair in the lounge. But Sophie wouldn’t be caught dead with her uniform looking anything less than impeccable.

So she’s wearing her tie straight, tucked into her sweater vest, and her skirt is the appropriate mid-thigh length over her black tights. Her blazer is spotless, those pretentious pins shining over one lapel. Her hair is tied back in a low ponytail and her face is free of makeup. The picture-perfect image of the Spearcrest student.

It’s immediately clear that she doesn’t want to be here. She can’t even bring herself to glare at me. Her shoulders slump in downward slopes, her cheeks and lips are pale.

She looks fucking miserable.

And yet I can’t stop the pure elation surging through me. I greet her with a shit-eating grin plastered across my face.

“Wellhi, Sutton. What brings you here today?”

A flash of anger crosses her face and is quickly stifled. She answers tightly, “You failing English Lit.”

“And you’re the best Spearcrest could come up with?”

It’s a harmless jab, but it doesn’t have the intended effect. A new expression passes over Sophie’s face. Not hurt or anger, something else. Something like hope.

“Then complain,” she says. “Or better yet, get your parents to complain.”

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