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She has blonde hair.
Not my friend Callie’s blonde. But more like Echo’s blonde. So honey blonde I guess.
Cynthia March.
And she has a svelte figure that’s tightly swathed in a slim professional skirt with a red blouse that shows off a hint of cleavage. I have to admit that it’s nice cleavage. And she isn’t missing any opportunity to thrust it at him.
Him being my devil guardian.
Yes, I’m watching them.
I’m spying on them.
And quite potentially risking my entire life and future.
Because if he finds out that I snuck out of my dorm room as soon as I could and that this very second, I’m crouched under his window, he’ll likely go through with all his threats.
But I had to come.
I had to.
I had to know who this Cynthia is and if she could be useful for my plans.
That I’m also curious about her in general is something I’m not focusing on right now.
So far the only piece of detail I’ve gathered is that Cynthia has a huge crush on him. She keeps touching him, smiling at him, thrusting her chest at him, batting her eyelashes.
But he doesn’t really notice.
They are sitting on that big leather couch right in front of the window. She’s more or less perched at the edge, her legs crossed and her body turned toward him. And wearing the same brown shirt that he had on during detention earlier this evening, Mr. Marshall is sprawled, his thighs spread wide and relaxed. He’s got a drink in his hand and he’s looking at some papers in front of him on the coffee table.
Until she touches him again.
This time on his thigh, not really high up but not somewhere that I’d call innocent either.
That’s when he looks away from his papers, and at her.
She preens at finally getting his attention and that hand of hers on his thigh moves up slightly. At which point, he completely abandons those papers on the table and his drink before putting his large hand on hers.
A smile breaks out on her lips. A small, dare I say sexy smile, as she says something to him.
He leans closer to her then.
And I lean closer to the window.
So close that my nose bumps the glass.
Especially when it’s his turn to speak.
Is it me or do his chocolate chip eyes look hooded? His high cheekbones look flushed as well.
But I don’t have time to focus on his cheekbones or his eyes when I notice his other hand. It was simply resting on his thigh but now it reaches up and goes to the nape of her neck. Before I can even draw a breath, I watch those fingers grip it tightly. So tightly that her neck cranes and her face tilts up. And my hands go up and plaster themselves on the glass because I know what’s about to happen.
I know he’s going to kiss her.
Before it even registers what I’m doing, I do it.
I clench my fists and bang on the glass.
Causing them to break apart.
Which is fine really. Which is what I wanted to do for some reason.
But what is not fine is the fact that now I’ve ruined everything. I’ve fucking ruined everything by giving myself up. Because the moment they break apart, they both also turn to the window.
To me.
And his chocolate chip eyes that were hooded until now grow alert.
They grow sharp and they trap me in my spot.
That trap only tightens its teeth around my ankles when, detaching himself from her, he slowly comes to his feet.
He also slowly moves toward me.
One step, two, three.
That’s all it takes. He covers the distance between the leather couch and the window just by the door in three very long and very prowling steps — it’s a considerable distance though, requiring way more than three steps — and all I can do is watch him do it.
And then, I hear a click.
Which feels so loud — louder than my earlier bangs on the glass — that it manages to break this strange spell I’m under. I manage to tear myself away from the window to notice that he’s opened the door and he’s now standing on the threshold.
A few moments of silence pass between us where he stares down at me with a ticking jaw, and I open and close my fists, trying to stand still under his scrutiny.
Then, “You’re here.”
“I’m…”
I’m not sure what I was going to say but his tone — low and dangerously soft — demanded that I speak. Demanded something from me.
My non-answer answer pisses him off even more.
I can clearly see that on his face.
But before I can say anything, someone else speaks. “Who is it?”
That shrill, feminine voice belongs to Cynthia. Who appears on the threshold, her brows slightly bunched and her eyes curious.
“Uh, hi.”
She greets me back warily. “Hello.” Then, to him, “Who is she?”
