Page 17 of Made in Malice

“Move,” an unfamiliar voice drawls.

“No,” Alden replies tightly.

“Why can’t I say hello to the little Umbra cunt?”

My mouth falls open in silent outrage before I snap it closed and step to the side to get a look at the person calling me names. I wasn’t prepared.

I was expecting a buttoned-up snob, but what I see has me wishing I would have stayed hidden.

He’s tall, at least six foot, with shiny dark hair that’s combed so neatly, it looks oiled. The side part is perfectly lined up, but that’s where the civility ends. His light eyes almost look eerie under his dark brows. There’s a thin hoop in his left nostril made of a black metal, and at least three black ball studs near his ear, but none of them are in his lobe. Black and gray ink swirls up his neck, right to his perfectly chiseled jawline, then it disappears under the collar of his anything but simple white shirt that’s stretched over his chest, outlining more piercings in his nipples, and that’s when I stop staring at his body.

“Well, well,” he coos in that slight drawl. “Did they pluck you right off the street, Charity?” His voice is filled with disdain while his eyes linger on me, letting me see he’s returning the thorough once-over. The sardonic curl of his lips and slitted gaze imply he clearly finds me lacking.

“Pretty much, pretty boy.” I don’t need to be told who this is. I would bet my five grand that this is Morningstar. He’s not the first asshole I’ve come across, but he might be the best looking.

“We’re on school property,” Alden says as if it’s a deterrent of some sort. It must work, because the man darts his eyes over to my escort—who I’m thinking might just be a bodyguard—and I realize how tense I was under his gaze.

“When have I ever given a fuck about rules?”

“Only when it suits you, Morningstar,” Alden responds coolly, confirming my assumption about his identity.

“Or when it amuses me. Tell Umbra her desperation reeks of disappointment” —he turns those icy blue eyes toward me again— “and gutter trash. See you around, Charity.”

“Later, pretty boy.”

He flashes his teeth at me, but it’s not in a smile as he turns and saunters down to a slick black car. It’s the same one I thought he was going to use to ram us with at the gate.

“Could you have been any more antagonistic?” Alden snarls under his breath as the car slowly creeps away.

“Yes,” I answer honestly.

He spares me a glance, then makes a phone call, barking orders for someone to bring a car to pick us up.

“What the heck is his problem anyway?” I fold my arms over my chest, feeling crappy that his words are getting to me. I mean, how could he know that I’m broke with one look?

“Power, greed, and loyalties—typical rich people shit—but don’t kid yourself, Nova. All of the families hate each other. The Morningstars just don’t hide it,” Alden informs me as an SUV pulls up to the curb.

“Lovely. Thanks for the heads-up. So the whole escort, protector thing?” I leave the question open-ended.

“Is more of a deterrent than anything else—a reminder that they are not the gods they pretend to be.”

“Gods.” I snort, thinking it must be a bit of an exaggeration. “Please tell me he’s too cool for school.”

“I wish I could, but that would mean he’d miss out on being worshiped by these sheep,” Alden says.

“Wow, this just keeps getting better and better,” I mumble under my breath, and I’m pretty sure it makes Alden smile, but as soon as I think I notice a change in his expression, it’s gone before I can read it.

Astrid does a double take when I meet her in the dining room for breakfast, but she doesn’t utter a word about my outfit of worn jeans and a T-shirt that might be a tad too small now, but it’s still one of my favorites.

I decided to leave all the clothes her buyer Tabby had delivered hanging in the oversized closet of my room and wear what I’m comfortable in. I want to be the real me and not some washed out version of myself. It’s going to make it pretty clear I’m an outsider, but I doubt I’m going to fit in with folks who would judge me for my clothes or where I come from anyway.

“Good morning, dear,” she greets with a smile that looks slightly indulgent but manufactured.

“Morning.” I take the same seat I used the first time we sat down and ate together. Rory’s chair is empty, and Astrid notices when I look in that direction.

“He’s already off to start his day,” she says, answering my unasked question. “You have an appointment with Bella Quade. She runs admissions.”

I take the small piece of paper she slides across the table with a name, phone number, and what I’m assuming is the location of her office, written in neat script. Nervous excitement builds in my stomach, making it impossible to try any of the food offerings served on the table.

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