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“Your room is exactly what I expected. I’m almost a little disappointed.”
“Is that so?” There’s a humorous edge to his voice as he watches me move around his room. The muted tones reflect his stormy personality. And the expensive sheets and furniture hint at his wealth. But it’s the lack of personal effects that make my heart ache. No family photographs on the wall. No collection of childhood accolades. There’s nothing that hints at the boy beneath the All Hallows’ uniform.
“What?” he asks.
“It suits you.” I finally look at him over my shoulder. “But it doesn’t tell me anything about you, not really.”
“Maybe I like it that way. Maybe I don’t want to give away my secrets.” He leans back on his desk, the corded muscles in his forearms drawing my attention.
Theo is beautiful. In a harsh, eat you alive kind of way. It isn’t any wonder my traitorous body has taken a fancy to him.
“How about another trade? A secret for a secret?”
I arch a brow at that, trying to figure out what game he’s playing. “Are you going to give me something real this time?” I ask.
“I will if you will.” He folds his arms across his chest, his dark gaze daring me to play with him.
Damn him.
I can’t resist.
I should, but I can’t. He makes it too difficult to pull away. To protect myself.
“Fine. You first.”
“When I was nine, my mother killed herself.”
“I know,” I whisper, pain clenching my heart.
“You do?” His brows furrowed. “How— Millie.”
I nod. “We have therapy together, remember?”
“And here I thought I was giving you my darkest secret.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
He gives me an imperceptible nod. “I found her.”
“Theo.” I inhale a sharp breath.
“I don’t want your sympathy or pity, sunshine. It was a long time ago. But I’ve never forgotten… I’ll never forget.” Something ripples in his gaze—something that makes me think there’s a lot more to the story.
Without thinking, without considering what it means, I go to him.
Reaching for his hand, I squeeze gently. “I really am sorry.”
“Your turn, sunshine.” A faint smile ghosts his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “What are you running from?”
“I got into some trouble in my last foster home,” I confess. “It was either come here and finish out my A Levels or spend a year in a young offenders’ institute. My social worker and foster carer managed to convince the board to send me here.”
His eyes narrow, harsh and assessing. “What kind of trouble?”
“The bad kind.”
“Let me guess, tagging cars and tampering with electric supplies?”
“I already told you, I had nothing to do with that.”
