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My eyes droop as I fight to stay awake in the back of my math class. This professor needs to put some inflection in his monotone voice. I don’t even know why I bother coming. Outside of the classes I have with my angel, college can suck my left nutsack.
What I want is to get my hands on one of her guards. Those fuckers’ days on this earth are numbered, but all the damn Dudley Do Rights have thwarted every attempt to catch one of them.
My head dips, jolting me from my doze. I gotta get the fuck out of here.
Sighing, I stand, grab my belongings, and then descend the stairs. I need to get some damn air. If I sit here another minute, there’ll be drool on my desk.
“Mr. Jefferson, the class has not ended,” the stuffy instructor in the god-awful oversized muddy-brown tweed suit states.
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
I roll my eyes, not bothering to dignify his astute observation with a response, then turn the knob, exiting his room into the hallway. I don’t stop walking until I’m standing in the quad outside the math and sciences buildings and feel the cool fall breeze on my face. The leaves have started changing colors—vibrant reds, oranges, and purples announcing autumn is here.
This is exactly what I needed.
Increasing my stride, I pass groups of students lounging at benches along the sidewalk. I ignore the lust-filled stares from girls who don’t give a fuck that I’m “engaged.” Bile churns in my gut at the reminder.
Samantha Davenport is a bitch who couldn’t handle rejection and has taken the term spoiled rich girl throwing a tantrum to a new level. If the blood in my veins didn’t pump for only one girl, I’d take up their offers and fuck them into oblivion in front of the leech we’re being forced to marry.
My fingers graze over the imperceptible bump on my arm—the invisible collar around all our necks, forcing us to heel at the feet of a twisted girl and her crazy brother, the Senator.
Growling, I double my speed. I need quiet, and too many cheerful students are ambling around for me to think here.
I’m barely out of the quad when I hear my name being called.
“Owen,” someone shouts, but I keep walking, praying they’ll take the hint. “Owen.” They try again. “Hey, man, hold up!” The sound of feet pounding against the pavement, getting closer, makes me reluctantly stop.
Turning, I spot Jordan. Or is Justin? Maybe Jasper? Whatever the fuck his name is, he’s about to get a knife to the throat for bothering me.
“Hey,” he greets, bending over and resting his hands on his thighs to catch his breath. “Almost thought you were ignoring me, figured with all the people roaming about, you didn’t hear me.”
I quirk a brow, preparing to tell him I was ignoring him, and he should’ve taken the hint, but he rambles on.
“Are you finally cleared to play?” He questions, reminding me of yet another reason this shit with Senator Baker and Samantha has to end.
Due to the extensive injuries I endured during my time in captivity, I was forced to be benched for the first six games of my college career. Football isn’t as big of a deal to me as it is for Lev, but it still annoys me that I’m sidelined.
“Not until our homecoming game in two weeks,” I reply.
“Fuck yeah, in time for the Groveton game,” he exclaims, and I share his excitement.
Groveton is a big game, and not just because they’re our division rivals. Each year, the winning team gets bragging rights and hosts the annual masquerade party. Groveton has won the last few years—something that hasn’t gone unnoticed.
“With you and the rest of the Heirs on the field this year, Groveton doesn’t stand a chance. The stands are going to be packed.”
My mood instantly sours. She won’t be there.
I grunt, pissed that Ariah won’t be amongst the crowd cheering us on. I need out of this conversation before I lay this no-name asshat to the ground. I know it’s not his fault we’re in the bullshit predicament, but I also know my knives don’t care.
“Are you heading down there to see the trainer?” James inquires, pulling me from my thoughts of cutting him a new smile.
Surveying him, I take in his hulking frame, sandy-brown hair, and amber eyes. He’s about an inch or two shorter than me, but his muscles are double mine—he’s definitely on our offensive line.
Nah, he doesn’t look like a James. Whatever his name is, he’d see the predator under my skin, lying in wait.
I shrug, clenching my jaw, trying to hold the beast back. The stiff set of my shoulders and scowl should be warning enough to shut him up. But Johnny here can’t take the hint.
Nope, Johnny’s not right, either. What the hell is this dude’s freaking name?
