Page 115 of Tempting Little Thief

I throw myself back on the bed, a low growl leaving me as I punch my fist against the mattress. My phone vibrates a moment later and I pick it up, quicker than I’d like to admit, ready to read whatever words he decided to send, but it’s not from him.

It’s from Oliver.

“What the hell does he want?”

I open the thread, finding three messages rather than one.

Oliver Henshaw: I can’t stop thinking about the dress you wore tonight.

Oliver: Red looks good on you, and it would look better with me on your arm, so be sure to keep your little tattooed toy away from now on, sweet Rocklin.

Oliver Henshaw: I want you in the same color at the gala.

“Ugh.” My face scrunches in disgust and I toss my phone to the side. “Is he fucking serious?”

He’s out of his damn mind if he thinks I’ll be going with him, and if my dad made such a promise, that mistake is on him.

There is no way in hell I will be putting myself on his arm on a night like that. Everyone who is anyone in our world will be there, every member of the dynasty and all allied gangs and Mafia families.

And to boldly speak about Bastian like that? I should have his fucking tongue for even thinking he could drop threats on me. His attempt at subtle playfulness was a huge failure.

That was no less than a warning from a boy afraid of his own father.

Why Oliver Henshaw assumes he has a chance with me and that he’s somehow an exception to the rules here, I don’t know, but I will find out.

Chapter 20

Rocklin

Ms. Milano’s soft knock has me turning from the gaping window with an audible sigh just as Bronx invites her in.

She smiles, her wrinkles deepening as she does, a true gentleness in her gaze not many in this world hold—probably because she’s on the outside of it. “Students have arrived.”

“Thank you, Ms. Milano.” Delta floats to her feet, facing me, worry in her gaze as it meets mine, though she doesn’t pry, being I’ve yet to offer my thoughts to my best friends. “Ready?”

“Always,” I deadpan, tracing my fingers along the folded cashmere around my neck as I round the desk, following the girls out the door.

Today is one of the few I dread at Greyson Elite when we’re forced to open our doors for potential students, only one or two of them having the slightest chance of securing a spot in a few short months when invitations go out. It’s yet another way to appease the masses and curb the minds of those curious about the private academy tucked away at the highest peak of the valley hills.

The shooting range is obviously disguised today, as is the detonation room—last thing we need is someone to ask why we teach our students how to create and defuse explosives.

The double doors are opened as we reach the entrance, and as one, Delta, Bronx, and I ease out onto the brick steps to find the eager, wide-eyed group waiting.

Their attention moves to us immediately, gazes raking over each of us, from our crisp blazers to the matching pastel-pinkpleated skirts. Their attention snaps over our shoulders and I know Damiano and Alto have joined us, the boys wearing our black-and-blue uniform option today.

I take a step forward, and all eyes fall on me.

I smile bright, big and fake and exhausted as I hold my hands out. “Welcome to—”

The door to the giant charter bus opens once more, my gaze lifting, locking onto a pair of icy gray ones, and my words freeze on the tip of my tongue.

No …

All heads turn, and he takes one step, then another, and I swear the group below parts for him to slip through, to push forward. He doesn’t stop but keeps coming until the tips of his tattered shoes are pressed to the brick.

Eyes locked on mine, he cocks his head. “You were saying?”

Fuck.

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