Fiery Little Thing: A Dark Academy Romance

“The next time you pull a stunt like that, the consequences will be far more severe. You hear me?” McGill points a finger at my face.

I nod.

“You’re lucky Mrs. Crichton agreed not to go to the police and thought four nights in solitary was enough for you to learn your lesson. You won’t be so lucky next time.”

He’s said the same thing about eight different ways already. If he says it a ninth way, I’m going to test my luck.

This is all for appearance’s sake, because he doesn’t really believe I made that mini explosion four days ago. My file says I have aggressive tendencies toward men that result in my fists flying, not that I’m going to spend time in a lab cooking up a recipe to land me a one-way ticket to prison.

We both know who started the fire that burned down part of a fence and damaged the back of the shed. The only reason Blaze is not the one having this conversation with Headmaster Fifth-Divorce is because I admitted to it.

Four days ago, he dropped the signet ring on the table and everything fell into place from there. The lighter that was in my pocket was what made McGill doubt whether it really was her or not.

Brava, Blaze. Well played.

I didn’t see it coming, and it’s disturbing, yet unsurprising, how turned on I am by her form of retribution. If she had started the fire in front of me, I would have bent her over and taken her right then and there.

But no. I was stuck in a fucking room, going out of my mind for four goddamn nights. I was ready to put my head through the window. I don’t know how she manages to survive that kind of life every few days.

I tap my fingers on my thigh, itching to feel Blaze’s pulse thrum beneath my skin, to make sure she still is surviving. Unlike my grandfather all those years ago.

“Do you get what I’m saying?”

I nod, pretending I didn’t just zone out to whatever rant McGill’s gone on.

Apparently, I was lucky it was raining and the fire wasn’t as destructive as it could have been. I’m also fortunate the torch didn’t have much juice in it; if it did, the explosion would have been worse. Because of it, my parents have decided to cut my school spending allowance altogether—they don’t know I’ve been cashing it out since I got here; buy food and clothes for other students using my allowance, and in return, they give me cash.

As long as they don’t touch my trust fund, it’s fine. That’s my golden ticket. As soon as I get the pay out when I graduate, there’s nothing left to tie me to the Osmans.

My grandfather used to tell me to take beatdowns like a man and know when to punch back. He was as ruthless as my father because he didn’t care about respect or hierarchy. The only difference was my grandfather had a code of ethics on who to hit, when the strike comes, and how hard it’ll strike.

I remember when he sat me down in his office after the school called him instead of my father about a fight I got into. A rusted shovel sat on the redwood table in his office, his curly salt and pepper hair cropped short against his scalp. Back then, I thought his impeccably fitted suit was like a uniform waiting to be handed down to me.

Creases lined his eyes like they held ancient wisdom ready to trickle down to me, and I hated every bit of it. Still, I was impatient for any slither of attention he was willing to grant. His dark eyes bored into me with neither disappointment nor affection; it was a warning that I now understand meant I should act more like my brother.

He told me I either acted like a dumbass or acted like an Osman, and to not get into fights with morons because they’ll always find a way to dig their own grave. The secret to fighting an idiot isn’t in the attack or the defense, but the foreplay of the fight, because only one of us has the means to lay out the scene.

I’m not the Osman fighter he wanted me to be, or the Osman man he tried grooming me into. But an Osman is one and the same as a moron. After all he said, he ended up dying in the grave he dug.

And above all, the beer-bellied man in front of me isn’t intelligent or a fool: he’s a pawn.

A pawn whose power comes from his mouth—which makes him the worst pawn of all.

“See this as a life lesson not to take the blame for others when they wouldn’t have done the same for you.” An almost respectful—near prideful—look crosses McGill’s face and it puts me on edge how much it reminds me of my grandfather. “Chasing tail might seem fun now, but three years later, you’ll look back and regret all the hoops you threw yourself through just to please them. Trust me on this, son, it isn’t worth it.”

He can keep his trashy attempt at playing father figure. He’s got enough kids of his own to let down. “Some people never learn from their mistakes,” I say.

His eyes darken at the insult.

The warning bell rings, and I leave without being excused first. What’s he going to do? Throw me back in solitary for going to class? I don’t think so.

Blaze is already in her spot by the time I get to class. I instinctively reach into my pocket to feel the cold lighter, but it only makes me glare at her harder when I realize it isn’t there. She throws me a fleeting glance before going back to her horrendous doodle. Does she expect me not to react to her blatant disregard of my existence after I took the fall for her ass? All signs point to her as the arsonist, and she has the audacity to look at me like I’m less than her?

There are two seats left in the room; one next to Sarah at the front and one directly behind Blaze. The former’s eyes widen with hope, batting her lashes balefully as she sits up straighter. Sarah’s brows scrunch in irritation when I choose to sit behind Blaze.

Taking my ring off, I drop it on Blaze’s desk with a clatter and lean down to whisper in her ear, “Don’t lose it this time.” The murderous rage I feel coursing through my blood weaves its way into my voice, and it isn’t nearly satisfying enough to watch her shiver beneath her uniform.

She’s the lucky one here. If I had it my way, I‘d take away her ability to walk—better yet, make her go nonverbal from how hard I’ll fuck her after the stunt she pulled. The only two reasons Blaze is temporarily spared from either of those things is knowing that while I was sleeping on the rickety bed in solitary, she was getting all nice and cozy in her blankets—the same blankets that I painted with my come—and she doesn’t even know it. Because even if she cleans her sheets, there’s no getting rid of me from her mattress.

The other reason is something I haven’t figured out yet. Something happened the day she lost her shit at me. It has something to do with McGill, but there’s nothing that clearly indicates what it might have been beyond an antipsychotic. She was too chirpy the next day for it to have been a cold.

I slide into my seat behind Blaze and pull out my notebook, watching her slip the ring onto her finger as she leans back in her seat… until her hair is sprawled all over my desk. Swirls of copper and red cover my book, and I can’t help it; I just… stop. I forget why I’m even angry.

I fight the urge for only a moment before I relent, weaving my fingers through her hair. Spun silk, that’s what it feels like now. It used to be coarse and frizzy, dried at the ends from cheap shampoo, and flaky at the top from one too many benders in a row. Now, everything about her is coming to life. As much as I hate that we’re both in here, reform school has done wonders for her.

Inch by inch, fiber by fiber, the tension in my back unwinds from the four days of wondering if she’s still alive.

I spent all weekend itching to see the orange flicker of the flames and taste the ashen flavor of smoke on my tongue. But this is something else entirely.

Blaze stays there for over ten minutes, fidgeting with one thing or another, adjusting then readjusting herself in her seat, intentionally shaking her head so her hair moves across my desk. All the while, I stare at the dashes of red and threads of gold. If only I could see her piercing blue eyes, I’m positive they’d be wild and out of control as always.

The thrill seeker in her would have loved taking such a volatile element in her hands. Fire. It’s fitting for her in every way.

She plays firebug, and I play thief.

Blaze forgets, two can play this game.

I tug out a pair of child-friendly scissors from my bag, grab a lock of her hair, and snip. Blaze whips around faster than I’ve ever seen her move. My lips quirk innocently as she gawks at me and the copper hair between my fingers. It’s as if a switch flicks inside her, turning her cheeks violently red as she’s brought to a boil.

Leisurely, I pull her hair tie off my wrist, holding her gaze while tying my new memento. “If you didn’t want me to cut it, you shouldn’t have waved your pretty red hair in my face.”

Her hand flies up to cradle the back of her head. “You fucking psychopath!” she whisper-screams, her crimson blush accentuating the freckles along her cheeks.

I hold the lock of hair up. “Thief,” I correct. “Klepto, if you feel like misdiagnosing.”

See, if the roles were reversed, I’d have reservations about Blaze having so much as a strand of my hair in her hands because I can picture her dabbling in dark magic. While I don’t believe in its merits, I do believe in Blaze’s ability to royally fuck something up so bad to the point that I might start worrying if there’s going to be a clone of me out there.

She starts rifling through her hair, attempting to find the shortened lock. It’s not as if she’s going to miss it; she’s got enough of it as it is. This is probably the first haircut she didn’t give herself—really, she should be thanking me. Less weight on her head might make her think better.

“Miss Whitlock,” the teacher calls, and I quickly tuck the souvenir into my blazer pocket.

Blaze snaps forward.

“A problem?” the teacher asks.

I cock a brow at the back of her head, watching the way her shoulder line goes rigid. If those gears in her head grind any harder, the whole class will hear them.

It’s alright, you little shit. I know what you’re thinking about.

Rat on me, don’t rat on me.

Decisions, decisions.

Contrary to Blaze’s usual modus operandi, she doesn’t choose the path of most resistance. Much to my surprise, she crosses her arms and huffs a “No,” then returns to whatever it was she was doing—probably her own version of anarchy. Except—and to no one’s surprise—when the teacher switches her attention back to the whiteboard, Blaze twists around in her seat and growls under her breath, “Sleep with one eye open, Osman.”

“Like you do?” I bite back a smug grin.

If it wasn’t for all the shit she’s pulled recently, I could almost die happy under those homicidal eyes. Her face is so beet-red, I’d almost feel inclined to call her cute—but the word is too mundane to describe what she is.

Alluring. Bewitching. Catastrophic. Certifiable.

Just to name a few.

A venomous little scorpion. Her eyes narrow into slits, and she tips her chin up in mock confidence. “I’m barricading my door so you can’t get in.”

“You have a window.”

“It’s a three-story building.”

Pulling out the lock of hair from my blazer, I lean back in my chair and taunt her with it. My blazer lifts at the cuffs, uncovering the divot around my wrist from where her hair tie used to be.

Pity. I’ll need to take another.

“Do you prefer I break down your door or your window? Don’t say I never give you options, Thief.”

“Maybe I’ll break down your door. See how you feel about that, huh?”

I smirk. “I’ll leave a blanket on the floor for you to sleep on. It’d still be a step up from what you’re used to.”

“Marie,” the teacher snaps.

Blaze glares at me one last time before fixing her gaze forward. “It’s Blaze,” she grumbles under her breath.

One day, she’s going to say “fuck it” with the world, and hell will have no fury. If she wasn’t so fucking difficult all the time, I would’ve helped her out with that a long time ago. Alas, here we are, with her going in circles around her rusting cage, and me watching her go insane.

For the rest of the day, she makes a disturbingly conscious effort to avoid me, irritating me more than her shitty attempt to get back at me. McGill will be watching her from now on, waiting for the moment she slips up and puts her sticky fingers somewhere they shouldn’t be… or inhales something that will get her suspended—both of which I have zero confidence she won’t do.

I have no interest in being her babysitter or pulling her out of every mess she gets herself into, yet here I am, watching how her ass moves in her gym shorts as she climbs up the bleachers toward the huddle that includes Charlie, Liam, and dumb and dumber. Elijah and Aaron—the piece of shit who looks too similar to an Osman for my liking—glance over at my approaching redhead, eyes roving over her long legs. The hungry look they give her sets my teeth on edge.

Not only has she rolled her shorts up, she had to size them down. But if the rip and slight fading on the side is any indication, Jonathan either went secondhand with her uniform, or she went surfing through the lost property bucket for it.

The school knew the entire male student body would froth over the first sign of cleavage, because they’d made the girls’ crew neck tight enough to choke. The moss-green gym shirt is unflattering at best. If Blaze had Sarah’s budget, I’m sure she’d get the boxy sides taken in so her tits are pushed against the fabric.

“Hey, Kohen,” Sarah says, lowering herself onto the seat.

I don’t respond. The blonde is so persistent with her advances. It’s annoying. Sarah seems to think that sitting two feet away from me when the rest of the gym is free will somehow convince me to take her to the mandatory ball.

Sneakers squeak against the wooden floors, and the pounding echo of a dribbling basketball and the grunts coming from the players are starting to do my head in, and I only just got here. LED lights illuminate the red bleachers surrounding the court, where various drills are being played out. The teachers haven’t said as much, but my theory is that they make us do high-intensity workouts first thing in the morning and the occasional team sport in the afternoon to tire us out so we won’t cause as much trouble.

Whether that theory is true or not is up for debate. I think Seraphic Hills ended up creating an army of uncontrollable athletes instead.

From my seat, I watch Blaze sidle up next to Aaron. I’ve never seen her exchange a single word with the guy, but then she places her hand on his arm. Absolutely fucking not.

I’m on my feet in a split second. Aaron can have his arrangement with Charlie all he wants, but if he goes near Blaze, he’s a fucking dead man.

I’m not the only one who’s taken offense to her choice of men, because Elijah rises from his seat in a heartbeat to pull her out of the group’s makeshift circle. The other three groupies don’t seem to give a shit about the iron grip around her arm or that Blaze is looking at him with a fury that’s usually only reserved for me. No one gets to do that to her but me.

Rage seeps into my bloodstream. No one pays any mind to me—except Sarah, who flinches as I storm around the court toward them. Blaze slaps his hand off which only makes him step closer to her, but she doesn’t back down. Her shoulders square and she stares him down as he says something to her.

The closer I get, the more words I can make out above the clamoring and squeaking. If Elijah touches her or hands her something, I’ll paint my knuckles red with his blood.

She shouldn’t have ridden my leg because it’s awoken something primal inside that I’m beyond able to control.

My fingers ball into fists when he tugs on her shirt too erratically. “I’ve held up my end of the deal. Don’t be a blue-balling bitch, Blaze.” The words tumble out of Elijah’s mouth, fast and slurred.

My eyes drop down to his jittery hands, then up to the slight gnawing of his jaw.

Wait. He’s on something. Or withdrawing.

For fuck’s sake.

“I’m onto bigger and better things now, Elijah.” A surge of satisfaction rushes through me. That’s right. I’m the only one she’ll be seeing in her foreseeable future. “You’ve got a lot of audacity for someone with a receding hairline.”

“I didn’t ask for your bitchiness.”

“It’s on the house.”

Red explodes around my vision, and I break into a run when he latches onto her arms. She stumbles into his chest with wide eyes when he yanks her toward him. “They said you’d be a fucking leech just like your mother,” he spits out, walking her backward toward the stairs.

“Get your disgusting hands off me.”

Liam and Aaron finally get involved, calling out for Elijah to stop, but the dumb fucker summons inhuman strength and knocks Liam back into Aaron.

Elijah grabs Blaze’s face in a brutal grip. “You’re going to suck my dick like you promised, and your mouth better feel like fucking gold after all the shit I’ve put up with.”

The shrill sound of a whistle cuts through the air, and more yelling ensues from the rest of the gym.

“Bark at me, motherfucker. I bite.” They grapple for dominance—she’s mainly trying to get away, but he’s desperately clinging onto her.

I’m a foot away from them just as he starts saying, “You’re going to fucking—”

Blaze yelps as they trip and tumble over the side of a bleacher row. I try to catch her flailing arm but she manages to stop herself two rows down from where they originally were, while Elijah keeps falling. One after the other, he goes over another row, unable to control his limbs. He manages to stop himself one row from the bottom, only to stand, then finish the job and make it to the bottom.

The blood dripping down Elijah’s head and the ludicrousness of his fall would have been comical if it weren’t for the fact that I’m three seconds away from finishing the fucking job.

The teacher rushes over to him—everyone does. They fawn over him like he’s a goddamn child. Apparently, the perpetrator should get more attention than the girl everyone loves to hate. The only person who runs to check on Blaze is Charlie, but I get there before her.

There’s an almost bleary look in her blue eyes as she scans the gathering crowd, and I mentally tally all the different injuries she could have gotten from the fall. But the lost look she’s wearing only has a couple competitors.

It’s either shock or a concussion.

Grabbing her chin gently, I lift her hair off her face to check for any obvious sign of head trauma, but she gut punches me the second my skin touches hers. “Stop touching me, creep,” she barks and shoulders past me.

It’s neither. Blaze is just a diagnosed bitch.

I narrow my eyes at her lopsided gait and unnaturally tensed shoulders, then to the white-knuckled fists at her sides. Each step is cautiously slow and tainted by a slight wobble. If Elijah wasn’t considered a dead man before, he might as well get his death certificate signed now.

A blind man can tell how much pain she’s in, yet she isn’t looking to anyone for help. She’s attempting to slip to the background, hoping no one pays her any attention so she can lick her wounds in peace. I get why she does it, and the look of understanding on Charlie’s face tells me she does too.

But she’s never needed to suffer through everything alone. I would have done anything for her if she just asked—if she stopped pushing me away for one damn minute, she’d know that. But no, she goes around touching other men and framing me for an explosion I’m embarrassed to have associated with my name.

Lithium batteries, a blowtorch, and paper? Please. I could have done that in second grade—points for trying and all, but I expected better fires from her.

Five steps are the only slice of freedom and self-indulgent stubbornness she gets to have before she’s off her feet and in my arms. I’m practically vibrating with barely restrained rage as I fold her body against my chest and scowl at the injured foot. Her knee-high socks are in the way of me checking for any visible bruising around her ankles.

“Put me down, maniac,” she grits out as I carry her down the bleachers.

If she weren’t glued to me, I’d be storming to the piece of shit that’s bleeding out, and I’d make it so there was nothing left of him for his family to mourn.

“Shut up, Thief. You’re hurt. I’m taking you to the sick bay.” And you stupidly wrapped your arms around my neck. There’s not a chance in hell I’m letting go now.

The hardening lines around her eyes do the opposite of convincing me of her anger since her reddening cheeks are paired with a hitch in her breath. “I’m fine.”

“And you weren’t limping before?” I adjust my hold on her, curving my arm up to graze the underside of her tits. See. She wouldn’t squeeze her legs together if my touch did nothing to her. If she wasn’t attracted to me, she’d recoil in disgust like she does with Elijah. Why does Blaze keep fighting this when her body is clearly into me?

She clears her throat and raises her head in defiance. “Even if my leg were broken, I wouldn’t need your help.” Her eyes narrow on Elijah as we pass the congregating crowd—the same crowd who hasn’t batted an eye at the woman in my arms. “I’m not a damsel in distress, so you can take your attention somewhere else.”

I cock an eyebrow at her, noticing how, for the first time, she doesn’t make my attention sound like a curse. “Are you in distress?”

“No,” she says too sharply for it to sound like she’s convincing anyone but herself. “Never.”

“Great.” I turn and push the doors open with my back. “Then you aren’t a damsel in distress. Glad we have that cleared up.”

She snorts and makes a half-assed attempt at fighting me off. “Save the hero complex for Kiervan. It’s not the right look on you. If he were the one carrying me right now, maybe this would feel less like a trap.”

My grip tightens around her, and I stop in my tracks. Everyone always likes my brother better. But I don’t care about everyone; I only care if she likes me.

“Fine. Let’s call him.” I drop her onto her good leg and step far enough away that she can still reach for me for balance, but she opts for the wall instead, wincing as she does. “But don’t come running to me when he sends you to the ER with a broken jaw.”

If she wants Kiervan, then he can have her. I’m fucking sick of this. Enough people have been telling me I’m less than him, and I’m not going to sit around listening to her do the same after I spent a lifetime trying to prove my worth to her. There’s only so much I’m willing to take, and after over ten years of this shit, I would say my patience is well and truly done for. Maybe.

Surprise turns into unease. “I don’t believe you.”

My jaw twitches. “Rich, coming from you. Especially when it’s the same thing he told the three girls he paid off after he sent them to hospital.”

Her chest heaves with her staggering breaths. “This isn’t something to lie about, Kohen.”

I shrug even though I want to check that her pulse is still thrumming, and there’s still fire in her ready to burn. “If you don’t want to believe me, then that’s on you. I won’t sit here and lay down the details of why Kiervan is the worst monster of them all. So I will say this one thing, and if you want to get down on your knees for another Osman, don’t be surprised if I don’t show up at your funeral. When dissecting animals stopped doing it for him, he thought beating women was the next best alternative.”

Squeezing my fingers together, I fight the urge to pace or start a fire that will make what she did look like child’s play. I don’t add that I’d be in the grave next to her right after I murder my only brother. I’d never let him near her. I’d never let her near anyone. It’s me or no one—her or nothing.

“Why are you telling me this?” Blaze asks, voice low.

I inch closer just so her scent can get into my head and fuel the beast that’s been starving for her since the first day I met her on the playground, decking a kid two years older than her for calling her a carrot. I knew then that I was happy to burn if it was because of her.

“You want Duke. You want Elijah. You want Kiervan,” I explain slowly. “You wanted a man who didn’t confess to being your alibi. You wanted a man who pushed you down the bleachers. You want all the men who will kill you.”

She eyes my curled fists warily. “And what are you?”Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.

“The man you’ve never wanted, but the one who has, and will always take the fall for you.”