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Dahlia Roy.
I can feel my jaw tighten.Shit.
This has happened before—though never with a girl. I call it my “fixation mode”. It’s when I latch onto something and become utterly obsessed with following it through to its end, come what may.
It’s how I was with the gardener who was without a doubt stealing from my grandmother. With the boy Callie went to middle school with who was trying to take pictures up her skirt.
With Quentin Harpsworth, a senior who crossed me my freshman year at Knightsblood and in so doing landed fully on my radar. Quentin was a car nut, andobsessedwith a rare Corvette that was up for auction.
So I started a shell company to drive his bid higher and higher, past any rational price for the car, before finally letting him win. When it was safely in his possession and lovingly tucked away in its forever home in the garage on his father’s Hamptons estate, I lit the whole garage on fire, and let his shiny new toy burn to ash.
It was never about the car itself.
It was about seeing things through. It was about my fixation.
And now, I fear, for her sake, thatDahliamight be the next fixation.
This isn’t the first time I’ve noticed her. In fact, the number of times I’ve “noticed” her has become so plentiful that I’ve long since lost track of the actual count. What I haven’t lost track of, though, is the number of times those “sightings” or me “noticing her” isn’t simply running across her, or happening to see her by chance, like now.
It’s times I’ve actively sought her out. Actively stalked her.
Activelyhuntedher.
For all of the chaos that flows in my veins, nothing I do is random. I don’tdospur of the moment, or off the cuff. And she’s no exception, even if I’d love to be able to tell myself it’s random, just “something that keeps happening”.
But, as I’ve mentioned, I’m not capable of lying to myself.
I know her background. Of course I do; everyone on this campus knows about her unfortunate parentage, and her connection to both Adrian Cross through her mom and Andre LeBlanc by way of her stepfather, Gerard Dumouchel. But it’s not her background or considerable baggage that I see when I lay eyes on her.
It’sher.
The tanned skin and jet-black hair. The dark brows that seem to be perpetually arched in a way that give her a slightly mischievous, mysterious look.
Big green eyes. Full, pouty lips that I have onfar too manyoccasions imagined wrapped around my cock while she gags and drools all over it.
Regal, aristocratic bone structure. A petite frame with just enough curves in all the right places to make my blood flow directly to my dick no matter where I am or what I’m doing when I spot her.
Not a week ago, I found her in the woods. It was almost dark, and she was alone, and she looked at me with this mix of fear and excitement, as if she knew damn well what finding herself alone in the woods with the likes of me could mean.
And not only was she not afraid of it, she waseagerfor it.
I don’t even remember what the fuck I said to her. Something stupid like “you don’t belong here”.
Because she doesn’t. Clearly. I mean Christ, just watching her now it’s painfully apparent that here at Knightsblood she isvery muchout of her element. And the students here are going to fucking devour her over the next four years, if she even makes it to Christmas break.
Maybe it’s my own arrogance and ego—not going to lie, it frequently is. But when I look at Dahlia, I see with crystal clarify thatIand I alone in this place actually understand her.
She’snotlike the rest of them.
And neither. Am. I.
“Well? Where the fuck are they?”
Shit.
I rip my gaze away from where Dahlia is sitting alone on a bench. My eyes quickly scan the green, trying to spot Chase and his two walking cum-stains before they enter the fountain area, so that I can blind them properly. But I don’t see them.
“You three losers jerking each other off or something?”
