Page 67 of Vicious Knight

“Wonderful.” Mackenzie claps her hands. “Let’s talk about what you’re going to wear over dinner. You have to wear a killer dress and drop the Wednesday Adams look.”

“Not you, too. And I’m not trying to look like Wednesday Adams. I love Japanese street fashion. It suits me and my art.”

It does suit her, but I also understand what Mackenzie means.

“You can still be versatile,” Mackenzie scoffs. “Even you can agree with that. The dress you wore for the party last week was amazing. If you’re going on a date with Ryan you have to change things up a bit. Trust me.”

“Okay, fine. Maybe you’re right.” Again her voice dulls.

We head into the restaurant and they talk about the date, clothes, and makeup while I sink further into my despair.

I hardly speak and when the food arrives I barely touch it, giving the excuse that I don’t feel well.

It’s not a lie. That’s why I gave my mother the same excuse earlier today when we spoke.

I feel sick with worry and I haven’t eaten properly in days. Speaking to my mother was hard but I had to do it. I’d been avoiding her calls since the secret broke free.

I’m glad when Isabelle and Mackenzie finish eating and are too full to order dessert.

I just want to get back to my apartment.

Being alone and worrying about my life is awful but right now, it’s better if I’m by myself.

When we get back we say our good nights and branch off.

Feeling close to tears, I practically run to my apartment.

I open the door and sink against the hard wood once I’ve closed it. There I fall apart with my head in my hands and my entire body a shuddering mess.

And that’s when I smell the distinct scent of tobacco.

My apartment usually smells like honey and roses, so that smell could only be there for one reason.

One guy.

The guy who’s driven me crazy since I first stepped onto this campus.

The guy who holds my future in his hands.

I rush away from the door, look around the living room, then head to the bedroom where I find him.

Thorne is sitting on my bed with his feet up on my sheets looking through my notebooks. He’s still smoking and even though he knows I’m standing in the doorway, he hasn’t looked up at me yet.

“Why does everything sound like death?” He flicks through the notebook that holds most of my compositions. “You have no variety.”

“What if I don’t want variety?”

“If you want to play for companies like the Philharmonic Orchestra then you need variety.”

“I’ll take that into consideration if I live long enough to apply.”

He sets the notebook down and makes a show of resting back on the stack of pillows with his arms above his head.

The dragon on his neck looks as vicious as he is, but the display of raw muscle under his short-sleeved T-shirt sends a ripple of heat through me.

“The bed smells like you. The room smells like you. I like it.”

This is so freaking awful. He’s fucking with me again, and I have to wait and take it.