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“I’ll get you for this,” Alec huffs, clutching his nose as he smears blood on the floor.
“Eli, fuck.” I scan the dining hall. Hundreds of faces are trained on us. I notice Ms. Drysdale moving across the cafeteria toward us. She won’t be able to see much over the heads of the students crowding around, but if anyone says a thing to her, Eli will get in trouble. I stand up to try and salvage the situation, but my rage takes hold of me. I lean over Alec and kick him squarely between the legs.
Alec wheezes like a shitty car struggling up a hill. His hands fly off his face to protect his legs. The dressing flops off his forehead, revealing the healing scar of my initials.
MM. Property of Mackenzie Malloy.
He’s marked for death, and everyone here knows it. A couple of brave students lean over and snap pictures.
“Jesus. Look at you. You’re pathetic. Just get out of here, Alec.”
It’s Noah. He holds his tray under one arm, all casual-like. His other hand smooths dark strands of hair from his aristocratic face. His eyes burn with the full depth of his hatred, but this time it’s not directed at me.
Alec rolls to his knees and crawls to the outside door. His three friends hurry to vacate our table and scurry after him. A few students clap, but one glare from Noah shuts them up. Ms. Drysdale is nearly on us. Gabriel tosses his bookbag on the floor, covering up the bloodstain.
Noah sits down opposite me, his head bent over his food. Ms. Drysdale appears at his side a moment later. “What’s going on over here?” she demands.
“Nothing, ma’am,” Gabriel flashes her that impish grin of his. “I was demonstrating a dance move from my latest music video, and I got a little carried away and accidentally kicked Alec LeMarque. He’s fine, he’s just gone outside for some air.”
Ms. Drysdale looks to the French doors. She sees Alec heaving himself onto a bench, barking orders at his friends while blood dries on his face. She must see the MM branded into his forehead. I brace myself for trouble.
Instead, a smile tugs the corner of Ms. Drysdale’s mouth. She turns to me, and in an almost imperceptible movement, she winks. She fucking winks.
I’m too floored to say anything. Ms. Drysdale turns back to Gabriel. “Very well, Mr. Fallen. But you shouldn’t be horsing around like that in the dining hall. Someone could be seriously hurt.”
Gabriel hangs his head, feigning regret. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
She turns to Noah. “Mr. Marlowe, I’m glad to have caught you. Mackenzie informs me you refused to tutor her. That’s in violation of the school’s tutoring policy, and I’ll have to speak to the principal about revoking your status as—”
Noah shakes his head. “That was a misunderstanding, ma’am. Mac and I have a tutoring session this afternoon.”
I nod. “It’s true.”
“Ah. Very good then.” She lets that smile play ever so faintly across her lips. “Carry on, students.”
As she walks away, I sink into my seat between George and Gabriel and plow into my food. Noah takes a seat across from us, shooting me a glare lacking in his usual fire. I flip him the finger and stick my tongue out, but inside my stomach’s doing backflips.
He called me Mac.
When the bell rings after Political Science, I fly out the door to beat Noah to the library. He must know some kind of apparating spell because he’s already there when I dash in, seated at the same table as last time, a stack of books beside him.
It’s weird to be around him at school after everything that’s happened. Stonehurst Prep feels like a different world to the desert or hanging at Gabriel’s condo. I fell asleep on Noah’s shoulder and it felt nice, and right. But staring across the table at this aristocrat with his perfectly starched collar and his eyes of burning embers, I wonder if I imagined the whole thing.
“Why did you change your mind about tutoring me?” I ask as I plop down across from him. “I thought I was hopeless.”
Noah ignores my question. Instead, he opens a page in our mathematics textbook. “Explain to me how to solve this equation.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s all gibberish. Didn’t Eli tell you? I have amnesia. I don’t remember this shit. You might as well ask me to translate Egyptian hieroglyphics.”
“You know all about ancient history,” he points out. “You were telling us all about posca.”
“That’s because…” I sigh. I can’t explain. I don’t have to explain. “Fine. It’s like… Just help me understand what I’m looking at.”
Noah tugs on his school tie. He’s always so orderly – Gabriel dresses as though he peels his uniform off the bottom of a pile of groupies every morning (at least partially true), but Noah’s always perfectly buttoned and pressed. It’s sexy as fuck, actually, how much control he exerts over himself and everything in his life.
