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He looks down his nose at me. “Why? What do you think’s going to happen?”
I hate myself for looking up even more than I hate myself for breaking my referendum on speaking to him. “I don’t know,” I splutter. “We’re not supposed to.”
“Sure.” He turns back to the door. “Good luck with that. Are you planning to live your entire life like you’re being graded?”
I flex my jaw, caught between my desire to ignore him and an inability to ignore a direct question. Crap, maybe he’s right. I cross my arms over my chest. “No. I don’t do that.”
He snorts a humorless laugh, and glances sideways, looking me up and down. His gaze is sharp and assessing. Everything about Roman is sharp—expressions, insults, jawline. “Whatever you say, good girl.”
“I don’t care what you think.”
He laughs for real this time. “You care what everyone thinks, Etta.”
My eyes narrow, and I swivel on the bench to face him fully. “Yeah, but even if that’s true, I wouldn’t care about you. You’re no one to me. I don’t think about you because you don’t matter.”
His dark eyes flash dangerously, and I can’t read his expression. Anger, maybe? But it’s gone in a second and he just shrugs. “Do whatever you want, good girl. I’m going to listen.”
The seconds tick by, Roman standing at the door, the muffled voices unintelligible through the wall, and me wringing my hands in the fabric of my pleated plaid skirt.
The shameful truth is I do think about Roman Montague. I think about him more than I should, considering he’s never been nice to me a day in his life, and considering my family has been in a feud with his family since before I was born. I know he’s dangerous; know his family is evil despite what they tell the council, but I can’t stop myself from thinking about what it would be like to know him. He’s universally considered to be an asshole—and I know that more than anyone because he targets me most of all, but still people are drawn to him like a magnet. I want to know what it would be like to be part of his infamous popular inner circle, and have his undivided attention, just once. What it would be like to wipe that mocking sneer off his too-perfect mouth.
I chance another glance at Roman, and as if feeling my attention, he looks back at me. “Doesn’t sound good,” he teases. “They’re talking about us.”
“They’re not talking about us. There’s absolutely no reason to discuss us in the same sentence.”
“Then, what do you think the fight was about?”
I bite my lip, my heart beating too fast considering I’m doing nothing more than sitting. “I don’t care.”
Another crash reverberates in the office behind me, and the hairs on my arms stand on end.
My father’s deep baritone voice rumbles through the door, as clearly as if he was standing beside me. “You won’t be so smug when there’s a plague on your entire damn house, Montague.”
“And we’ll throw it right back,” Roman’s father screams. “Do not think you can fuck with me.”
“Oh my gods.” I stand up, my heart beating too fast, and march over to the door. “Move over.”
For anyone else, that would be a rhetorical statement. Hell, if I threatened a plague, it would be rhetorical, because only adults can pledge themselves to the Order and gain any real power. But when our parents are making threats like that…
Roman smirks down at me, like he’s won somehow. He’s at least a foot taller than I am, and I feel ridiculous looking up as I make my demands. Like a mouse shaking its fist up at a cat right before it gets eaten. He seems to have a similar thought, because his smirk slips as his dark eyes track over me. He looks…hungry.
A shiver of fear travels down my spine, but I refuse to let him win. “Well?” I say, quietly enough that I hope they can’t hear me on the other side of the door. “Are you going to move and give me room?”
He shakes his head, like he’s just remembered where he is. “Right.”
He doesn’t actually move. Instead, he lifts one arm and gestures for me to stand in front of him. I’m debating if I should argue, when there’s a crash inside the office, and I hear my mother’s voice shrieking for the entire school to hear. “I’ll curse you until your ears bleed and you don’t know your ass from your eyeballs. Fucking watch me!”
Suddenly, I don’t care where I’m standing. I duck under Roman’s arm, and press my ear to the door, though with the volume of their screaming, it’s barely necessary. “What’s going on in there?”
He lowers his arm back down, boxing me in. My breathing turns shallow. I haven’t been this close to a boy since last summer when Sebastian Cesario felt me up at summer camp, and before that, never.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he drawls.
His statement is undercut by another crash.
“Yeah? Then what would you do?” I ask acidly.
Roman presses both palms flat to the door, and steps back, extending his arms all the way out, so we’re not touching anywhere. “Nothing.”
