Chapter 10

She hates her literature class.

It's only been two weeks and, really, Ms. Green is nice enough and ten times more engaging than her art appreciation professor, but she hates it.

Her pencil taps against the blank page of her notebook, the only writing decorating it being her name and date in the upper corner. It feels like it's been taunting her for hours. The background noise of Seth's newest drama does little to help her concentrate. It's a stupid assignment—one Ms. Green claimed was supposed to just be a fun exercise in how to format their weekly homework assignments. Except, there's absolutely nothing fun about having no clue where to start.

Sara glances at the man who's made himself at home in her grandmother's chair. She really shouldn't ask, but she's too irritated with the assignment to care about the consequences at this point. "Hey," she calls, "Which of the seven deadly sins am I?"

He doesn't spare her a glance or a moment's reflection when he answers, "All of them."

She resists the urge to chuck her pencil at his head. Bastard would just laugh as it passed through him, anyway. "Jerk."

He waves her off. "Hardly. It's a true enough statement for most of us." Rolling his shoulders, he casts her a knowing look. "Besides, I'm fairly certain the assignment was for you to determine which ails you most."

She runs a hand through her hair, staring miserably at the assignment sheet. "But I don't think I'm any of them!"

Seth"s sharp exhale is tinged with laughter, entirely unrepentant when she glares. "Apologies. Only, to deny all of them makes you a little proud, does it not?"

"I am not!"

A smug smile touches the left corner of his mouth. "Not the strongest argument, Princess."

Her lips part, ready to argue, but there's a goading glint in his eyes that makes her pause. He expects her to argue—wants it even. She huffs, slouching in her chair with a glower. "Fine," she snips. "I guess you would know, right?"

Smile widening, his cheeks dimple. "Wrong again, I'm afraid. I think you'll find that I'm far too greedy to be proud."

Sara's nose wrinkles skeptically. "How does that work?"

He shrugs, gaze sliding to the window. Outside, a full moon rises over the city skyline. "A greedy man wants everything; a proud man already thinks he has it all." His eyes meet hers pointedly, smile gone. "I assure you, I want much more than what I have."

Goosebumps dot her skin, but she manages to still the shiver threatening to race up her spine.

Sara never forgets what he is—she won't let herself—but she's definitely guilty of overlooking the power hiding behind his childish taunting. Sometimes there's a weight to his stare, though… an intensity that strips her nerves raw. She catches it when his smile slips; when his gaze looks too old to be set in a face so young.

Every now and then, she itches to know how many years those eyes have seen, but she refuses to give into the temptation to ask. She doesn't want him to twist her curiosity into interest. Or worse, friendliness.

Seth raises his eyebrows, voice smooth. "You're thinking awfully hard about something. Penny for your thoughts?"

With a jolt, Sara realizes she's been blatantly staring at him and swiftly turns back to her paper. "You don't even have a penny."

"Well, aren't you just the bearer of obvious news?" he hums. The mask he wears—the one of jovial smiles and teasing—is back. Sara wonders if slipping into it is as second nature to him as breathing is to her. "Very well then, I'll happily leave it to my imagination."

He's clearly baiting her (he's always baiting her) but Sara stubbornly refuses to play along. "Go for it."

"With pleasure."

She frowns, closing her notebook. "Know what? I'll do it later."

"Moving onto the reading assignment, are you?" he hums, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "I suppose that is a touch easier than self-reflection."

Stilling, her eyes narrow. She hadn't mentioned anything about tonight's assigned reading. "You've been spying on my classes, again!"

"It's hardly spying if I'm not hiding. It's not my fault you never look behind you."

The glare she gives him is venomous. She's lost count of how many times she's insisted he leave her campus life alone. "I told you to stay out of my classes!"

"I don't recall agreeing to your petty demands."

A frustrated sound pulls from her throat. "Why would you even want to?!"

"I get bored," he says, primly.

"Then why don't you go watch a movie or something?!"

His lips thin. "I do."

"Well, go watch another one!" she snaps.

There's a retort ready to be fired—she can practically see the way he chews on it. Sara wonders what holds him back. "I fail to see why this bothers you so much."

"Because it's the only place I can seem to get away from you!" She throws her hands in the air.

"Careful, now." His expression darkens mockingly, bringing an elegant hand to rest over his heart. "You'll hurt my feelings."

"Like I care?" she sneers.

"Well, if you'd ever like my assistance with your classes—and trust me, you need an ungodly amount of help—you should."

"I do not!"

He barks out a laugh, the sound sharp and cruel. "You thought Romeo and Juliet was a romance!"

Sara flushes. "It's romantic!"

"It's a tragedy!" he shouts, appalled. "There is literally nothing romantic about a story that ends with a double suicide!"

She hates, so much, that she has no counterargument to that. "Fine! Whatever! But I don't need your help, especially since I already read the assignment!"

"Did you now?" He actually seems surprised. Sara wonders if she should feel insulted, but the speed in which his mood changes leaves her disoriented. "And what did you think of Rossetti's ‘Goblin Market'? Are you a fan?"

She's momentarily thrown by his sincerity. "It was ok, I guess." she offers cautiously. "I liked it better than that Lord Brian guy."

A muscle in his jaw twitches. "Byron. His name, for what must be the umpteenth time, is Lord Byron."

She knows, but the level of pure frustration it pulls from him is more than enough incentive to keep getting it wrong. "Same difference."

She can practically hear his teeth grinding. "It's very much not, and I loathe that expression."

"Good. I'll make a point to keep saying it."

He glares. "Cheeky."

The smile she gives him is so mockingly exaggerated her cheeks are nearly sore from the strain.

"Ridiculous," he chides, though there's hardly any heat behind it. He tilts his head, considering her thoughtfully. "I must say, I'm surprised. I suspected you to balk at all the ripe sensuality."

Her smile slips. "What?"

"Surely you didn't miss it?"

"Miss what?"

Shaking his head, he brings a pale hand to his temples. "I expected too much. Tell me, what did you think the poem was about?"

"I don't know! Creepy goblin guys harassing girls on the street."

"That is not only a terrible summary, but a fail-worthy answer. What is it about? What are the themes? The lessons?"

"Well, what do you think?!"

His expression is a picture of neutrality; voice deadpan. "Sex."

Sara coughs, a flush rising rapidly to her cheeks as she brings a fist to her chest. "What?!" she wheezes. "It is not."

"No? Care to share your interpretation of the line, ‘Eat me, drink me, love me'? I'm terribly curious."

Heat rushes up her neck. "You're such a pervert," she accuses, hiding her face in her hands to escape his taunting grin. Unfortunately, it does nothing to save her from his amused chuckle.

"Because I know how to read?"

She glares at him. "Because you read it like that."

His head tilts, his smirk waning into something contemplative. "You haven't actually read it, have you?"

The glare she sends him is swift. "Actually, I have."

"Out loud?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, in fact, it does. It's poetry. It's meant to be spoken—to be heard," he stresses. An odd look of determination hardens his gaze. "Pull out your book."

"Fine." She rolls her eyes, but fishes the textbook from her bag and turns to the page. "‘Morning and evening,'" she reads, "‘maids heard the goblins cry: "Come buy our—'"

"What are you doing?"

"I'm reading it out loud!"

"That's not a reading, it's a butchery!" He seems legitimately appalled. "Slide it over. Honestly, your subpar education has never been more apparent."

"Feel free to haunt my past English teachers instead," she grumbles, pushing the textbook to the edge of desk pointedly.

"And be forced to correct them all day? Hardly."

"You correct me all day."

He brushes her off. "Completely different. Now," he taps a finger to his ear pointedly, "listen."

He reads it, start to finish; his voice a rhythmic melody of vowels and consonants strung together into something even her ears find beautiful. There's a purpose in the way his tongue curls around each word; a reverence. When he speaks the final line, his eyes settling on her, Sara finds her mouth has gone dry.

"Do you hear it?" he asks. "The difference?"

She nods, fingers twisting in her lap. She hates that she has to take a moment to find her voice. "Yeah."

His finger taps, soundlessly, on the page. "It's more than just words on a page. There's music and meaning there."

It dawns on her then—the lack of teasing, the brightness in his eyes. "You love it." He withdraws, taken aback, and she shakes her head. She gestures to the book. "The, um, poetry."

That's why he goes to her classes. That's why he refuses to stop. No wonder she never saw him… antagonizing her was never the reason he came. She wonders if he frequents the other literature classes as well.

Glancing at the page, he straightens. "I have... an appreciation."

It's more than that, but she doesn't push. Pushing feels too much like curiosity, and she'll be damned before she lets him think she's interested in anything having to do with him.

Chewing lightly on her bottom lip, her eyes scan over the page. The way he read it… it's hard to deny the truth of his interpretation. "It's really about that?"

He shrugs. "Obviously there's more to it—and the case could be made for other interpretations, I'm sure—but sexuality is certainly a prevalent theme."

The urge to ask for further explanation is so real, she has to bite her tongue. He's right, she does need help, but the thought of asking for it makes her recoil.

What would he ask for—what would he take—in return?