Page 7 of Outcast

The arrogance in his words snapped the sense back into my limbs, and I stepped away, face as hot and probably as red as coals. I was right. This was the playboy of the group. The guy who knew his way around a girl’s mind and body to lure her to a humiliating downfall. I’d read about this type in hundreds of books. Women found him an irresistible challenge and fooled themselves into thinking they could tame his womanizing ways because their libidos took over.

Well, this was no fairytale, and I was no princess. As much as I wanted to snap out something to wipe that cocky grin off his handsome face and to stop those chocolate-brown eyes from twinkling with triumph, I still needed Blake to show me to my room.

“You’re not affecting me.” I straightened my blazer. “I’m just ticklish. I could have had that reaction with anyone.”

His brows rose in the kind of incredulous expression people gave when humoring a bad liar. “Alright, then. I’ll try not to tickle you while I escort you to your rooms.”

“Rooms?” I pictured a suite with a living room, bedroom, bathroom, and kitchenette.

He waved a dismissive hand, wrapped it around my waist, and drew me close to his side. The one-two punch combination of a strong, muscled body and his incubus scent made my heart pound and my knees go weak.

“You seem a little unsteady on your feet, Emilia.” His breath tickled my skin, and his low, smoky voice tickled me much lower down. “If there’s anything you need. A helping hand, or some such, I’ll be there. Ready and able to please.”

A breath hissed through my teeth. I should push him away and tell him where to shove his offer. No one but a player ever came on that strong, but his touch, his words, even his hot breath made me feel alive in a way I’d never experienced. Every nerve ending vibrated with life, responding to his silent siren song.

“S-some such?” I asked.

We stopped at the double doors of a house in a different architectural style to the main teaching block. This one was a lot older, with smaller and fewer windows. Blake opened the door and bowed with a flourish. “Welcome to Elder House, my lady. Your home and mine for the next two years.”

The absence of his body next to mine was both a loss and a relief. I took a steadying breath, willing the pounding in my heart to calm, and hoped the reception hall and its large, roaring fire would replace his missing heat. I stepped into the warm stone room, and my gaze swung to the mantle, above which hung a painting of what looked like the same armored man as the one outside the headmaster’s office. A number of mahogany cabinets stood around the walls, each about the size of a breadbox with letter-sized slots.

“Is this some kind of mail room?” I asked.

“Yes.” His hand returned to the small of my back, and he ushered me through the reception hall and into a corridor. “Our common room is at the end of this hallway. It’s where some of the sixth formers like to relax after prep and before lights out. We’re a lot quieter than the other houses that accommodate younger students.”

“Why’s that?” I was sure someone had explained this, but I couldn’t think of anything else but that hand on my back and what it could do to the rest of my body.

“Only sixth formers are allowed in Elder and Hawthorn houses,” he replied. “If you see anyone under the age of sixteen, feel free to give them a boot in the backside.”

Blake took me to a room on the left side of the hallway and introduced me to Mr. Jenkins, the housemaster, who explained he was the keeper of the keys and in charge of the general welfare, academic or otherwise, of the people in Elder house. Mr. Jenkins was a kindly man of about five-food-eight, who was delighted that I would be sharing with Rita Yelverton. He pressed a key into my hand and wished me the best of luck.

Next, Blake ushered me up a set of stone stairs whose walls radiated the cold. Goosebumps rose on my flesh. It was no wonder they’d put the fire on despite it being a mild September day. These old buildings had no insulation.

“Female dorms are on the first and second floors. Male at the top.” He reached the first flight and held the door open to a darkened hallway of mahogany floors. A large window at the end provided the only illumination. “By the way, who was the atrocious woman with the nauseating accent?”

He was referring to Marissa, but I snapped, “Charlotte Underhill.”

His face split into a grin. “My apologies for the offense,” he said in a voice that indicated he didn’t give a shit but wanted to move the conversation past his insult. He brushed a lock of auburn hair off my face and let his gaze linger down my body. “Was the older lady your mother or another relative? I see no family resemblance.”

My mouth dried. Marissa was short, much like Charlotte, with the kind of curves that made men turn around to check out her ass. I was like Mom. Tall and willowy, all angles and no jiggle. At five ten, I didn’t exactly tower over most guys, but it was hard not to feel gangly around a group of smaller girls with perfect little figures.

My tongue darted out to lick my lips. His eyes tracked the movement. “Marissa… She’s one of my stepfather’s personal assistants.”

“And your stepfather is?” He let the question hang in the air. “I didn’t quite catch the name.”

“Rudolph Trommel.”

He tilted his head to the side. “I can’t say I’ve heard of him. What industry is he in?”

I shrugged. “He buys media companies, mostly.”

“Business must be lucrative if he’s sent you here.” He stepped into the hallway, as though the subject had bored him already.

I blinked hard. Rudolph Trommel was one of the most well-known tycoons in America. When pictures of him and Mom had appeared in the society pages, people I’d never heard from in years got in contact, asking for introductions, as though being the daughter of his current paramour granted me access to the man. I’d barely met him. Barely seen Mom during their whirlwind romance, and would likely barely hear from her until the inevitable divorce. A breath of relief slipped through my lips. It was nice to be in a place where nobody had heard of Rudolph Trommel.

When I caught up, Blake rested his hand on my hip and guided me through the hallway as though he was escorting me home from a date and expected to be invited in for coffee. His reaction to Edward’s comment about fleas no longer stung. It hadn’t been personal, and he seemed the type who would laugh at anything.

“So,” he said, all business-like. “This is one of the female hallways. They house two-person dorms for the lower-sixth years.”