Page 140 of Lessons in Cruelty

It’s the way he looks at me, like he knows I can handle whatever he’s about to say. He can call me a kid as much as he wants, but I know he doesn’t think of me like that. Not really.

Jaded? Try exhausted. I’ve seen enough, endured enough, handled enough for nine lives.

“You’re going back to class tomorrow.”

Guess Bastian can’t be my sugar daddy, because he refuses to sugarcoat anything.

Jeez, but the gasp I fucking gasp. “That’s not your choice⁠—“

“Everything about you is my choice now.”

I drop my head, my hand rising absently to stroke the side of my neck. When I realize what I’m doing, I pluck it away and sit on it.

There’s no way I’m looking up at him.

And here I was just thinking about how he never treats me like a kid. But his tone of voice, those short, brook-no-nonsense sentences?

My poor independent brain suddenly doesn’t know up from down. Is this what being disciplined feels like?

“Your housing. Your education. Your future. All of it runs through me.”

“I didn’t ask for⁠—“

“You showed up at my door. Bleeding. Broken. Begging.” His finger traces my bruises. “What did you think would happen?”

“I thought you’d help me.”

Frustration narrows his eyes. “I am helping.”

“Would you do it?” I snap, my chin still down, but my eyes flashing up to glare at him through my lashes. “Would you go back to class all bruised and battered? What do you think they’ll say about me? It’s already out that I live in my fucking car. You have no idea what it’s like being on the receiving end of that kind of attention.”

He blinks, as if surprised by my barrage of angry words. Then he leans back his head and laughs.

I’m close to shouting now. “How is this funny?”

He crosses his arms over his chest, studying me for a moment before looking away. “I know exactly what you’re going through, Haven.” He pushes away his bowl, considers his wineglass for a moment, and then tosses back what’s left in one gulp.

“But we’re not here to talk about me.” He glances at my wineglass. “Are you done?”

There’s still an inch of wine in the bottom. I drain it like he had, and he takes it without a word and sets it down on the counter beside the fridge.

…I know exactly what you’re going through…

Was Bastian bullied too? I guess if he was half as smart in elementary school as he is now, he’d probably have drawn the wrong attention more than once.

Shit. Never judge someone until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes. Even if you’re muddy and barefoot and he’s wearing…

“Why are you looking at my feet?” Bastian asks as he takes a bottle of amber liquid from the top shelf of one of his kitchen cabinets.

Does he have eyes in the back of his head or something?

I quickly straighten. “Wondering what shoes you wear.”

“What shoes, or what size?”

Thank God he has his back turned, because my face just caught fire. I quickly press my hands to my cheeks, trying to soak up the heat before he comes back with two glasses.

Wine for me.