Page 24 of Cruel Hearts

I gave him my hardest shove, but the arrogant fucker stood as steady as a boulder. He grabbed me by the wrists, still keeping my palms on his chest.

Malice glinted in his eyes. “Savor this because it’s the last time I’ll let you touch me.”

“Says the twit keeping me attached to his pecs.” I slammed my knee into his balls.

The hands encasing my wrists loosened, and his face twisted. “You—”

I ducked out of grabbing range, flung open the door and shoved him out into the cold. Kendrick stumbled onto the doorstep, moaning something unintelligible.

“You’re even more pathetic than your brother. At least he has a bit of charm to cover up for his tiny, limp dick. What do you have? Nothing.”

Kendrick snarled. “I’ll tell them you’re not coming.”

I snorted. “Meet me here after classes. I’ll decide what to do after I’ve heard your groveling apologies.”

Chapter 10

I stood at the doorstep, watching Kendrick walk down the entrance steps and across the gravel courtyard with his perfect nose in the air. My hands curled into fists, itching to make him look as busted-up as his brother.

Clearly, I’d only grazed his balls instead of squelching them to mush. How dare he suggest I had feelings for him? Up until now, we had only exchanged one conversation, and that had even been unpleasant.

An icy breeze seeped through my dressing gown, reminding me to put on some clothes. I shut the door and rushed through the hallway and into the living room to the crack and pop and warmth of the fireplace.

“What a dickhead,” I muttered into the flames.

They danced and swayed in response.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Too light to belong to Mr. Burgh, who had left ages ago for breakfast. My hackles rose. If this was Elizabeth—I reached into the poker stand, wrapped my hand around a pair of long tongs, and crept to the door.

A young woman with chestnut hair emerged in the doorway, wearing the black and white uniform of the academy’s domestic staff

“Oh!” She jumped back, clapping her hand over her chest. “You frightened me.”

“What are you doing here?”

Her brows creased. “I’m here to clean.”

I lowered the poker. “Sorry.”

Her gaze lingered on my dressing gown. “Are you unwell?”

“I’ve been suspended.”

“Why?”

My shoulders drooped, and I walked back into the living room and placed the poker back into its stand. “Someone dressed up flour to look like cocaine and put it in my room with enough of the drugs to attract sniffer dogs.”

“Was it Myra Barnes?” she asked.

An image of the tawny-haired witch and her cold gazpacho flashed before my eyes. I whirled around. “Why do you ask?”

“Her mother used to be the housekeeper. When she died, her daughter said she couldn’t find a set of skeleton keys that opened all the doors.”

“Myra was part of the group of people standing outside to gloat when I got arrested.”

The girl nodded. “No one could ever prove she kept the keys.”

“Can’t they change the locks?” I asked.