I've always had a thing for villains. Not the moustache-twirling, "I will destroy the world" kind, but the emotionally constipated, trauma-wrapped-in-a-suit type.
Zade Meadows with his delicious rage. Aaron Warner and his soul-crushing eyes. Christian Grey-okay, maybe not him, that man just needed therapy and jail time. But the rest? The ones with knives in their pockets and tragedy in their eyes? Fuck yeah.
I loved them. Obsessed, even. The ones who walked the tightrope between damnation and redemption. The ones who made you want to stab them and then kiss them right after. My weakness? Villains with a reason.
But life, in its infinite talent for screwing me sideways, didn't throw me into the arms of some brooding antihero with tattoos and an enemies-to-lovers plot. No. It handed me a 16th-century dead man with a quill and a superiority complex.
William bloody Shakespeare.
Not even in a haunted, gothic, sexy way. No tortured ghost in the corner whispering poetry into my ear. No. Just a dusty, over-glorified corpse whose plays now serve as my personal hell.
As I sit in the suffocating cage that is Shakespearean Literature class, my soul is actively rotting. The AC hums too loud, the fluorescent lights flicker like they're mocking me, and Miss Clara D'Silva-a woman with the energy of a dead fish and the voice of an even deader fish-is babbling about iambic pentameter like it's the damn formula for immortality.
I stare at the whiteboard. Blank. Not the board-me. I'm blank. Wiped. Zonked. My brain has left the chat. If someone opened my skull right now, they'd find a single potato chip rattling around in there.
Clara Miss's voice drones like she's been paid to kill us all with boredom. "Now if you pay attention to the rhythm of the soliloquy, you'll see how Shakespeare manipulates the meter to reflect inner turmoil..."
Inner turmoil?
Ma'am. I am inner turmoil.
And the worst part? I can't even sleep through this. My eyelids are begging me for mercy, but sleep in Clara's class is a contact sport. You close your eyes and-bam-she's there like a banshee with a degree.
Next to me, Shaiza snorts softly. My partner-in-chaos, my ride-or-die, the only bitch who can match my energy at 8:00 a.m. when I'm contemplating academic homicide.
"Psst," she whispers, elbowing me. "You're blinking in slow motion. People might think you're having a stroke."
"Or," I mutter without moving my lips, "transcending to a plane where Shakespeare never fucking existed."
She covers her laugh with a fake cough. I grin. And for a moment, my suffering feels less... eternal.
But of course, the universe hears me having a sliver of peace and decides to spit in my cereal.
"Arshilaaah."
That voice. So sharp, so sudden, it slices through my skull like a knife through butter. I shoot up straight like I've been tasered.
Clara Miss is staring at me like she wants to dissect my corpse and feed it to Shakespeare's ghost.
The entire class is dead silent.
Why are classrooms always so fucking quiet when you're being publicly executed?
"Since you're clearly having a very important discussion during my class," she says, narrowing her eyes like a budget Dolores Umbridge, "why don't you enlighten us on the significance of Richard the Third's opening monologue?"
I blink. My brain? Still buffering.
Richard the fucking what?
I have no idea what she's talking about. All I remember from today's lesson is that Clara Miss is wearing the exact same dress she wore last Wednesday, and that her hair bun is holding on for dear life. That's it. That's all I retained.
"Uhhh..." I make a vague choking noise, like a frog trying to do public speaking. "Something about... winter? And discontent?"
A snicker escapes from someone in the back. My fingers twitch with the urge to stab them with my pen.
I glance sideways at Shaiza like Help me before I commit academic suicide. She just smiles. That wicked little demon.
No hint of mercy in her. None. She's watching me burn like I'm her personal entertainment subscription.
Clara Miss sighs like I've personally offended her ancestors. "Stand up, Arshila. Maybe vertical suffering will help you absorb knowledge."
With the enthusiasm of a snail going to war, I push back my chair and stand. The legs scrape the floor like a horror movie jump scare. Everyone's watching. Even the AC pauses in judgment.
Shaiza giggles under her breath.
Oh hell no.
"You think this is funny?" I hiss at her, low enough that only she hears.
She nods like the little shit she is. Her smile is angelic. I want to punch her.
So I do the next best thing.
I step on her foot.
Hard.
"OW-!" she yelps, flinching violently. Her eyes go wide. If she had laser vision, I'd be a pile of ashes right now.
Clara Miss's gaze snaps to her. "Shaiza! What in God's name-?"
"She-!" Shaiza begins, pointing at me like a snitch in training.
I smile. Full innocence. Eyes wide. Lips parted like I'm shocked and wounded. Disney princess level acting.
Clara Miss is done. She's absolutely done.
"Both of you. OUT. Now!"
I don't even fake protest. I grab my bag like I've been freed from prison and saunter toward the door. Shaiza limps behind me, glaring daggers.
We step out, the door slamming behind us with a dramatic thud.
The second we're alone in the hallway, she punches me in the arm. Hard.
"You bitch," she growls.
I laugh. "You were asking for it."
"I hope Shakespeare rises from the dead and haunts you."
"Good. Then I'll tell him to take you first."
We're both grinning now. Enemies to lovers? Nah. We're besties to prison inmates.
"So?" I say, stretching my arms like a warrior finally out of battle. "Canteen?"
Shaiza rolls her eyes. "Where else?"
We walk off, ignoring the shrieks of some junior in the next class, the faint sound of someone reciting Macbeth in terror, and the general vibe of academic trauma echoing through the hallway.
God, I hate Shakespeare.
But I love skipping class.
And with Shaiza by my side, I'm not just skipping it. I'm drop-kicking it into the sun.
I stretch my arms like I've been released from solitary confinement. "God, if I hear the word 'soliloquy' one more time, I might shove Shakespeare's quill up my own ass."
Shaiza limps beside me, dramatically dragging her foot like she's just walked out of a war zone. "You didn't just step on me. You fucking stabbed my soul through my foot."
I shrug, unapologetic. "Collateral damage. Should've helped me instead of grinning like a bitchy hyena."
"You're deranged."
"And you're still limping. So who's the bigger loser?"
We both snort, half-laughing as we push open the double glass doors and enter the canteen-our holy sanctuary, our battlefield, our therapy chamber. And maybe the only place in this entire cursed university that doesn't smell like old furniture and pretentiousness.
The hum of students, the clatter of trays, the smell of overpriced greasy food that definitely violates multiple health codes-it hits me like a warm punch of comfort.
We slide into our usual spot: the back-left corner, next to the vending machine that never works but somehow still stands like a monument to false hope.
"Coffee or death?" I ask.
"Same thing today. Go get two, I'll watch our spot." Shaiza leans back with a wince, rubbing her foot like I chopped it off. Drama queen.
I walk to the counter and order two iced lattes because we're classy bitches with trauma and no sleep. The guy behind the counter looks half-dead. Honestly, same. I grab the drinks, muttering a soft "bless your tired soul, bro" before returning.
When I flop down into my seat, Shaiza already has her phone out, probably texting her suspiciously boring situationship who sends her Pinterest quotes at midnight like it's romance.
"Tell that guy to grow a personality, or I will," I say, handing her the drink.
"He said I remind him of a storm today."
I nearly choke on my first sip. "A storm? Is he aware you cried over a bee last week?"
"It was fucking huge and it came at me like it had a vendetta!"
We both burst out laughing. Real, wheezing, head-thrown-back laughter. That kind of laugh that makes people think you're either on drugs or recently escaped a mental facility. Either way, we've earned it.
I glance around. The bell hasn't rung yet. Ten more minutes of peace before the universe remembers we're its favorite punching bags.
"Okay but hear me out," I say, resting my cheek on my palm. "What if Shakespeare wasn't some literary genius, but just a dude who hated people and wrote cryptic shit to confuse future generations for fun?"
"Honestly, I respect that. That's exactly what I'd do if I had a quill and no will to live."
I snort. "You do have no will to live."
"Exactly. Soul twins."
We clink our plastic cups like royalty toasting at a funeral. It's all fun and games until-
DING.
The bell shrieks like Satan's microwave.
Right on cue, the hallway floods with zombies-aka students. The door bursts open, and in waltz Ifrah and Ruby, both looking like they just got smacked in the face by reality.
Ifrah's eyes narrow the second she spots us, lips twisted like she's been holding it in the whole time.
"Can you guys shut the fuck up in class next time? Seriously." Her voice cuts through the air like a knife dipped in passive aggression.
Ruby flops into the chair next to me without invitation, already pulling her hoodie strings tight around her face like she's trying to disappear.
"My ears are still ringing from Miss Clara's rage. You assholes lit the match and walked out while we were inside burning alive."
I blink at them both, deadpan. "You didn't even look at us when we were getting kicked out. Not a glance. Not a blink. Nothing."
"Yeah," Shaiza adds with full-on betrayal in her tone. "I limped out like I was dying, and you two acted like we were invisible. Fake bitches."
Ifrah tosses her hands up. "We didn't want to get roasted! That woman's eye contact is a curse. One stare and your ancestors start weeping."
"Not my problem," I shoot back. "If I go down, I'm dragging all you bastards with me. No survivors."
Ruby pulls her hood tighter. "This is why we can't have nice things. Or good attendance."
"Bitch, what attendance? You skip more lectures than you attend," I scoff.
"Okay but when I do attend, I wanna hear Shakespeare, not your tragic love-hate relationship with the guy."
I roll my eyes so hard I see my past lives. "Tragic? I wanna kill him. Drag his ghost down from literary heaven and beat him with his own damn scrolls."
Shaiza takes a loud slurp from her drink. "You'd end up seducing his ghost. Let's be honest."
"He's old, dead, and fictional. That's still three times better than any real guy on campus."
Ruby wheezes. "You need therapy."
"And you need a GPA."
We all cackle at that one, laughing until our stomachs hurt and the rest of the canteen starts side-eyeing us like we're chaos incarnate-which, honestly, we are.
And in that moment, with coffee in our hands, insults flying like arrows, and the four of us gathered like the dysfunctional coven of cursed bitches we are, I think:
Maybe university is hell, but at least we're in it together.
The moment we haul our sorry asses back into the classroom after the hellscape of the canteen, the air feels like a stale lungful of boredom. The universe clearly enjoys kicking us while we're down. Our usual row, our usual hell hole-four seats in a goddamn prison line.
At the front stands Dr. Christian Vaughn-and yes, her name alone sounds like she's the kind of person who'd sell you grammar lessons dipped in poison. She's that one professor who manages to suck the soul out of the very air you breathe. Hair so tight in a bun it might snap like a noose, eyes dead like she's been slowly sucked dry by a thousand unread papers, and that voice? Like a slow drip of tar on a cold winter's day.
"Today, class," she drones, the words falling like a hammer on a nail. "We will dissect the subjunctive mood. Does anyone care about the subjunctive mood?"
No one raises a hand. No one gives a flying fuck.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Subjunctive mood? Seriously? What the actual hell? I'm tempted to stand up, scream, and set this entire campus ablaze while I'm at it. Actually, yeah - that sounds like a fucking plan.
Imagine it. Flames licking the ceiling, the smoke curling like a middle finger to this entire institution. Dr. Vaughn choking on the ashes of her own goddamn lesson plans.
I take a sip of my water, trying to drown out my murderous thoughts.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, Shaiza leans over with that sly grin only she can pull off.
"My boyfriend came to my place last night," she whispers, all innocent like she's sharing a secret about the weather.
I arch a brow and smirk. "Oh? Did you eat dinner by candlelight? Romantic playlist, maybe?"
She gives me a deadpan look and says, "Nope. We ate each other."
I fucking spit out my water, which sprays across my desk like a goddamn fountain. I cough so violently I think I'm about to die right there, my chest heaving like I just ran a marathon.
The whole class goes dead silent. You can practically hear a pin drop, and for a split second, all eyes slam onto me like I just confessed to an international crime.
Dr. Vaughn stares at me like I'm a violent disaster waiting to happen. "Are you okay?" she asks, voice sharp but tinged with something like confused concern.
Oh, honey. If only you knew the volcano that just exploded inside me.
I manage to choke out, "Yeah, just... water in the wrong pipe."
She rolls her eyes, probably thinking I'm just another dumbass with zero attention span. Like always, she mutters under her breath, "Every time she's in class, either her mind's somewhere else or she's doing something completely dumb."
I want to smile sweetly and say, Bitch, if I had your soul, I'd be dumb too. Instead, I settle for stabbing her in my head with daggers sharp enough to cut through the fucking chalkboard.
I glance at Shaiza, who's biting her lip trying not to laugh like a lunatic, and whisper harshly, "What the hell did you just say?"
Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Relax, I was just fucking with you."
I smack her lightly on the arm, but the grin won't leave my face. Goddamn, she's dangerous.
Dr. Vaughn clears her throat, trying to regain control like the tyrant of tedium she is.
"If you both can manage to focus, maybe you'll understand why this shit matters. English isn't just a language - it's a weapon. Use it well."
I stare at her like she just handed me a rusty knife and told me to go hunt a lion.
Yeah, English is a weapon - one I'm aiming to turn against every single miserable second I spend in this hellhole.
Shaiza nudges me again, whispering, "You wanna go burn it all down after class?"
I smile darkly. "Hell yes."
The rest of the class drones on, a slurry of passive boredom, forced note-taking, and the subtle planning of future rebellion. Somewhere inside me, the fire is lit. Not the kind Dr. Vaughn wants, but the one that makes me want to break all the rules and set this damn campus on fire.
I'm barely recovering from the violent water choke when I lean in closer to Shaiza, eyes narrowed, voice low.
"Bitch, I know you're not fucking with me. You dead serious? What the hell happened last night?"
Shaiza doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink. She leans closer, her breath tickling the edge of my ear like a damn secret from the devil himself, and whispers:
"It was wild. And rough as fuck."
My spine snaps straight like a soldier about to enter a war zone. What the actual fucking-
I whisper back, louder than I should:
"You are out of your damn mind."
She just grins. That evil, unapologetic little gremlin smirk. The one that says Yeah, I did it. What the fuck are you gonna do about it?
Then she shrugs and whispers, voice casual like she's discussing lunch options,
"Why not? It's not like I'm fucking holding onto a V-card like you, bitch. I know the pleasure, so I'll do it anytime, anywhere, with anyone."
I slam my palm down on the desk with a soft thud, jaw nearly hitting the floor.
"With anyone??" I hiss. "Bitch, you got a whole-ass boyfriend!"
She holds up a hand like wait for it, then says smoothly,
"Yeah, I know. I just... twisted my tongue. I meant with him. Obviously. Goddamn, you're so fucking jumpy today."
I stare at her like she just admitted to fucking a ghost. Twisted your tongue? Girl, that's not how language works!
Before I can clap back, Dr. Vaughn's sharp voice cuts through the room like the edge of a guillotine.
"Miss Mirza," she calls, voice steeped in venomous sarcasm, "unless you're whispering the secrets to literary immortality over there, I'd recommend paying attention. Or is this another one of your avant-garde learning methods?"
She says it with that smug professor tone, all condescending and shit. The kind that makes me want to throw a chair across the room.
The class erupts into polite laughter.
You know that fake, robotic, "ha ha I hate my life but I want grades" kind of laughter? That.
Except for me and Shaiza.
We stare at each other, eyes wide, synchronized confusion washing over us like:
What the actual fuck was that?
Was that... was that supposed to be funny?
Shaiza mouths, "Did she just try to make a joke?"
I mouth back, "She really fucking did."
Ruby, seated at my left like a smug little gremlin, casually jabs her elbow into my side. "Laugh, bitch. If you want attendance."
My brain stalls. My face contorts. I look at her like she just asked me to bark.
But then, Shaiza snorts beside me-barely holding it in-and I fucking lose it.
We both start laughing. Not the polite kind. Oh no. This is lunatic, wheezing, unhinged laughing. The kind that makes your stomach hurt and your eyes water and makes the rest of the room go dead silent again because they think we've officially lost our fucking minds.
Dr. Vaughn just... stares.
Like a tired old priest realizing the demons he was hired to exorcise actually live in us.
"Glad my joke entertained you so much," she deadpans.
I try to suppress it, hand slapped over my mouth, but Shaiza leans over and whispers:
"You know what else is wild?"
I choke again.
"Bitch-shut the fuck up-"
She leans closer like the devil on my shoulder. "I still have his nail marks on my thighs."
I slam my forehead onto the desk.
Just kill me. Fucking bury me here. This is my grave now.
I'm shaking, gasping for breath, trying so hard not to scream-laugh while Dr. Vaughn starts blabbering about something called "modal auxiliaries" which honestly just sounds like a dumbass spell from a failed Harry Potter knockoff.
She walks across the front of the room like she's summoning a demon with each step, waving her dry-ass marker like it's a goddamn sword.
Meanwhile, I'm over here wondering how Shaiza still looks so casual after dropping that level of chaos.
This bitch really said nail marks like she's talking about a fucking manicure.
I whisper, barely breathing,
"You're a goddamn menace."
She grins. "You love me."
"I want to fucking strangle you."
"You can try."
We both laugh again-lower this time-but it still earns us a warning glare from Professor Doom up front.
But who gives a shit?
Grammar can go fuck itself. This class is already lit on fire.
I try to breathe normal. Just fucking normal. But no. My chest's still shaking from Shaiza's demonic whispers about thigh scratches and the ghost of her dignity.
Dr. Vaughn keeps talking. Her voice is just-god, I swear her tone is the auditory version of expired bread. Dry, lifeless, stale. Makes me want to hurl a thesaurus at her face and ask her to find a new personality.
"Modals can be used to express probability, obligation, necessity..."
Probability of me jumping off the second floor right now: 95%.
My eyes, the betraying little bitches, start drooping.
I blink. Force them open. Blink again.
Not today, Satan.
Nope. I am not about to sleep in front of the professor who literally thinks sarcasm is humor and drinks decaf on purpose.
So I do the only logical thing: I pull out my notebook and start to doodle.
Except-I can't fucking draw.
My "cat" looks like a diseased squirrel.
The "flower" has six different species in one.
And I'm pretty sure my "heart" turned into a limp penis halfway through.
Still, I keep going.
Because it's either this or passing the fuck out and drooling on the desk.
And that's when my brain-the last traitorous organ in my body-decides to throw me into a memory.
The novel I read last night.
Oh fuck no.
It was supposed to be a harmless little romance. Except it wasn't. It was pure, sweaty, ass-clapping smut. And I read it till 3 AM with wide eyes and sinful thoughts. There was a scene. Oh. There was a scene.
And now, that exact scene is playing in my head in Ultra 4K 60fps HDR Blu-ray quality.
The male lead pushing her against the wall, his voice low, his hand up her thigh, the shirt half-unbuttoned, his mouth doing ungodly things-
I smirk.
I fucking smirk.
In the middle of the classroom.
Head tilted, lip curled, looking like I just planned a murder or committed one.
Shaiza notices.
She gives me a weird look like "what the fuck are you planning now, bitch?" and I don't answer because I'm not here anymore. Mentally, I'm in that smut scene.
I lower my head to the desk, arms folded like I'm just "resting."
But no.
Inside my mind, I AM the female lead.
He's gripping my waist.
He's whispering things that are illegal in at least seventeen countries.
He's got a voice like honey-dipped sin and a jawline sharp enough to stab someone with.
My brain:
"This is fine. Totally okay. Absolutely normal."
Me, face in desk wood grain:
"Bitch... fuck. What the fuck. You need holy water. You need a priest. You need to get baptized again. In bleach."
My legs shift. My fingers grip the side of the desk. My dignity leaves my body.
And then-
I don't even know when it happens.
One second, I'm pressing my cheek to the desk, smirking like some horny villain from a Wattpad disaster, and the next-
Darkness.
Eyes? Closed.
Head? Fully dropped.
Mouth? Parted just enough to leak a bit of shame and probably drool.
Body? Absolutely betraying me.
There's no conscious decision. No "I'm going to nap now" moment. Just... blank.
Like my brain said "Goodbye, whore," and dipped.
The wood of the desk is cold, but my skin's warm-too warm, probably because that damn scene is still playing in my head like a porn film curated by the devil himself.
The fake male lead whispers something filthy. I exhale. My lips twitch.
God, not the lip twitch.
Somewhere far, far away, I think someone's speaking. A voice. Familiar. Repetitive. Dr. Vaughn? Maybe.
But it sounds like it's underwater. Like someone's giving a grammar lecture inside a toilet bowl.
I shift a little.
The desk groans under my forehead. My fingers curl inwards. A tiny sound escapes me-too soft to be a snore but too embarrassing to be anything else. If anyone hears it, I'm jumping out the fucking window. I swear.
And still-
I stay there.
Still.
Unguarded. Stuck in this smut-stained void, floating through moans and gasps and cursed fantasies my Catholic ancestors would scream at me for.
There's no dignity left in this body. Just warm drool and dehydrated lust.
Holy water's not enough anymore.
I need to be thrown into the fucking ocean.
________
I don't have a fucking clue how long I've been out cold when-
Thud!
Something smacks the side of my head like the universe just got impatient.
I jolt awake, blinking like I'm trying to reboot my brain, which is still running on low battery. Silence. Too much silence. Like, creepy-level silent.
I lift my head slowly, eyes half-lidded, then freeze.
Shadin.
Motherfucking Shadin is sitting right there, right in front of me, arms crossed like he owns the goddamn place, staring me down like I'm some puzzle he's been dying to solve.
My heart does this stupid-ass Olympic triple jump in my chest.
Why the hell is he here? I think, blinking harder because, fuck, I'm still half dead from that nap and also what the actual fuck.
Shadin's not just anyone. He's that guy-the kind who walks into a room and somehow sucks the air out of it. Handsome as hell, with that infuriating grin that's equal parts "I could wreck you" and "but I'd rather charm your pants off." Popular doesn't even begin to cover it. Everyone's caught in his damn gravity.
And now, he's just sitting there, like he planned this whole shitshow.
I try to focus but my brain's still lagging behind, juggling the question: Where the hell is everyone?
The classroom's empty except for us. No teacher yelling about grammar rules or dangling participles, no classmates staring at their phones or doodling dead-eyed in notebooks.
Just this quiet, heavy silence pressing down like a goddamn concrete slab.
My pulse kicks up a notch. The air between us is thick, the kind that makes your skin crawl and your gut flip at the same time.
I clear my throat, trying to sound less like a squirrel on crack.
"Why the hell are you in my class? Where's everyone else?" I ask, voice wobbling more than I like.
Shadin leans back, smug as hell, still not breaking eye contact.
"Didn't you remember?" He says, that teasing smile curling his lips. "The annual show's in the auditorium today. Everyone's already bolted."
Fuck. Right. The show I totally forgot about because my brain's been running on autopilot like a goddamn zombie.
My cheeks flame red-hot and I shove the back of my neck with a shaky hand, feeling like the dumbest idiot alive.
"Yeah... right. Totally forgot." I mumble, trying to act like I meant to do that.
Shadin's grin widens, those damn eyes sparkling with mischief and something else I can't quite put my finger on. He stands up smoothly, the kind of movement that says, I know exactly what I'm doing, and then throws out,
"Well, then. Let's bounce."
I swear my legs turn to jelly, like I've just been hit by some secret energy zap.
I push myself up, fumbling to keep my shit together as we step out, our footsteps loud in the empty hallway, echoing like some cheesy horror movie.
The closer I get to him, the more this weird-ass tension hangs between us. Like static electricity ready to jump.
What the hell is this? I think, trying to shove the feeling away, but it's like trying to ignore the fact that someone just lit a goddamn firecracker in my chest.
Shadin? My best friend? This can't be some secret rom-com scene, right?
I clear my throat again, hoping to break the spell.
"So, uh... you coming to the show because you wanna impress someone or what?" I ask, smirking, but my voice sounds shakier than I want.
He shrugs, but there's that sly glint in his eye.
"Nah, I'm just here to make sure you don't bail on me. Wouldn't want you getting bored out of your mind alone."
My chest tightens, but I laugh it off, pushing down whatever the fuck that was.
"Yeah, right. Like I'm ever boring."
His laugh is low and genuine. That's Shadin-he can make you feel like you're the only person in the universe, then fuck with your head five minutes later.
We step into the hallway, and the echo of our footsteps is the only sound for a second-until we hit the corridor that leads to the auditorium.
That's when it fucking changes.
I hear it before I see it-the buzz. That stupid, gossipy kind of buzz, like bees who all just got their wings up someone's ass. Then I see their eyes.
Everyone is looking.
Like. Everyone.
Deadass full-body-turning, neck-snapping, lip-biting stares. Some pause mid-convo. Some elbow their friends. Some full-on gape. A few whisper to each other behind cupped palms like we just made out on a fucking classroom desk.
The moment we step into the dimly lit auditorium, it's like the whole damn place decides to watch us breathe.
"Shit," I mutter under my breath. "What the hell is this, the red carpet?"
Shadin doesn't even flinch. That smug bastard. He's smiling. Not even pretending to hide it. That slow, cocky pull at the corner of his mouth like he just won something.
"Guess the rumour mill's on fire today," he says coolly.
Right. The rumour.
Apparently, we're dating now. According to the entire fucking campus.
Which is bullshit. Absolute, colossal, cosmic-level bullshit.
I don't date guys like him. I headlock guys like him.
But looking at him now-tall, relaxed, stupidly good-looking like he just rolled out of a Calvin Klein ad and decided to fuck with my life-I start to wonder how the hell this rumour even started.
And why it kinda looks real to them.
I spot my friends in the third row near the back-Ifrah, Ruby, and Shaiza-all three of them doing the slowest synchronized wave I've ever seen, eyes wide as saucers like they've just seen me walk in with a fucking dragon.
I start to move towards them-like, literally lift my foot-when his hand wraps around my wrist.
I freeze.
Not harsh. Not tugging. Just... there.
"Sit with me," he says. Voice low, not asking.
My whole system glitches.
"What-why?"
"Because it's more fun when you're next to me," he grins, head tilting just slightly like he's daring me to call bullshit. "And also because you'll probably throw your shoe at someone if I'm not there to stop you."
I blink.
What the actual hell.
I look over at my friends like save me, dumbasses, but Ifrah's mouthing something that looks suspiciously like sit with him you dumb bitch, and Ruby just gives me a thumbs up like she's watching a telenovela.
I sigh so loud I might as well scream fuck it and let him lead me to one of the side rows near the front.
I sit beside him. He doesn't say a word. He just slouches back in his seat like he owns the damn place. His knee bumps mine. Doesn't move it.
The lights dim.
The program starts-some dramatic shit about cultural identity or whatever-but I can't focus because something feels... off.
Wrong.
Watched.
I feel it on the side of my face-burning, slicing, venomous.
I turn.
And there she is.
Cassandra Monroe.
Senior. Blonde. Pretty. Rich enough to buy this fucking campus and still have cash left for therapy.
And obsessed with Shadin.
She's seated two rows across, angled like a damn hawk, arms crossed, lips pursed, eyes locked straight on me like I stole her puppy and kicked it for sport.
Fucking hell.
Every girl in this damn school likes Shadin. They just don't admit it because he doesn't give a single, solitary fuck about any of them.
But Cassandra? Cassandra's the queen of that silent obsession game. She's made it a sport. She's threatened girls for standing too close to him. And right now, I can feel her mentally skinning me alive.
I sit up straighter, eyes locked forward, pretending I don't know him. Like he's just some guy I accidentally sat next to.
Then his arm brushes mine.
I jolt.
"Sorry," I mutter, moving-only to elbow the poor guy on my other side hard enough he actually gasps.
Fuck.
Shadin leans in immediately, hand catching my arm, eyes narrowing.
"Let me see," he says, and it's not a request. It's a gentle command.
His fingers wrap around my wrist, thumb brushing over the spot I bumped. He's inspecting like it's made of glass. His brow furrows. He actually looks concerned.
I feel Cassandra's stare like a damn torch pressed to my back.
My whole skin heats.
The fuck is this.
I yank my arm from his grip like it's on fire.
"I'm not made of porcelain, dickhead," I snap. "Fucking watch the event."
He leans back, hands up like he's been caught red-handed, a smirk blooming on his face.
"Whatever you say, princess."
I glare at him.
He winks.
Cassandra's glare from two rows away sharpens like she's about to throw her diamond heels at my skull.
I swear to God, I can feel that girl calculating how to murder me with her Porsche and make it look like an accident.
Not a messy one either. No tire tracks or broken glass. Just a perfect little crunch under her custom tires and a sad little press release about how some girl from nowhere tragically tripped into death.
No one would question her. Not when her dad funds half the bloody science department. Not when she's got professors sucking up to her for "donations." Not when she can wear a diamond tennis bracelet to an 11AM lecture and nobody bats a damn eye.
And me? I'm not even rich enough to buy a new fucking charger cable without budgeting for it.
I can feel the pressure of her stare drilling into my skull like she's trying to melt me through the side of my face. I shift again, tug my sleeve down, plant both feet on the floor and stare straight ahead like a good, unbothered citizen of this capitalist hell.
I do not look at her.
I am not looking at her.
But I am definitely thinking about whether that bitch has hired a hitman yet.
Shadin leans in again.
"You're acting weird," he mutters, too low for anyone else to hear. "Did I break your brain or something?"
I glance sideways at him. His mouth is barely moving. He looks calm. Relaxed.
I, on the other hand, feel like I've just snorted a line of social anxiety.
"Fuck your brain," I hiss under my breath. "Your psycho blonde is eye-killing me from two rows over."
His brows pull together slightly. "My what?"
I jerk my head in the tiniest possible motion toward Cassandra, still not looking directly. "Your crazy fan , current stalker, secret wife-I don't fucking know what she is to you, but she's about one bad mascara day away from stabbing me with her Jimmy Choos."
He finally shifts in his seat, real slow, like he's stretching or checking the lighting or whatever smooth bullshit guys like him use as an excuse. His eyes flicker across the rows.
He finds her.
And that's when everything in his face changes.
It's not rage. It's not disgust. It's worse.
It's that cold, empty, too-bored-to-care look that only the truly powerful can pull off. Like he sees her, registers her... and instantly decides she's not worth a thought. Like she's not even a fly on his wall.
His eyes flicker back to me.
He leans close again, voice deep, words lazy.
"Scared? Or jealous?"
I nearly punch him.
I throw my head back against the seat, stare at the ceiling like maybe God will just eject me from this building.
"Neither, you self-absorbed, hereditary menace."
A beat.
Then I turn to him, dead in the eyes.
"I just want to live long enough to get a fucking boyfriend who doesn't come with a side dish of social suicide and psychotic heiresses. Maybe get my first kiss. Maybe get laid one day. You know, dreams. So please-please-consider moving your dangerously beautiful, face-of-a-magazine, Porsche-attracting ass two inches away from mine before she reconsiders vehicular homicide."
He's just staring at me.
Not blinking.
Not breathing.
His mouth parts like he's going to say something-
Then he laughs.
Low. Deep. That goddamn laugh that sounds like something expensive and illegal. Like he's pouring whiskey on a fire just to watch it burn.
"Dangerously beautiful?" he echoes.
"Shut up," I mutter.
"Porsche-attracting?"
"Shut. Up."
He leans in, his nose practically brushing my temple, and my breath stumbles like a drunk on a staircase.
"You think I'm beautiful?"
"I think I'm gonna be a fucking ghost if she owns a shovel."
He leans back finally, slow like he's savoring it. That smug smirk curls on his lips again, and he spreads his arms over the backrest, owning his space like the cocky bastard he is.
"I'll protect you," he says casually. "From rich girls. And luxury vehicles. And dangerous kisses, apparently."
I blink at him.
And that's when I see it-Cassandra is still staring.
Only this time... now her eyes are on him.
And he knows it.
Because he turns his head, just barely. And looks her dead in the face.
No smile.
No charm.
Just that same cold, zero-interest, fuck-off expression that could cut glass.
She falters. Just a bit.
Then she looks away.
Quick.
Shadin turns back to me, completely unbothered, that smirk still lingering.
"You're fine," he says. "She won't touch you."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"How?"
"Because she knows I'm watching."
I pause.
Blink.
Something in my chest trips over itself.
"You're not," I say, but it doesn't come out as strong as I want it to.
"Mm," he hums, noncommittal. "Whatever helps you sleep, princess."
I glare at him, shove his knee off mine, and cross my arms like I've just declared emotional war.
But secretly?
Somewhere in my messed-up, confused, Shadin-suffocated brain?
I don't feel like the hunted one anymore.
Not when he's looking at me like that.
Not when he makes people back the fuck off.
And that?
That might be the scariest part of all.
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