Fiery Little Thing: A Dark Academy Romance

“And where were you?”

I roll my eyes. “Getting rawdogged in the English Department.”

McGill’s eyes twitch as he narrows them at me. He’s gripping his fountain pen a little too tight for comfort, and I wouldn’t put it past him—or Boris and the other guard standing two feet away from me—to stake me with the pen, then label it self-defense.

Dr. Jackass watches me closely from his spot on the couch beneath the window that overlooks the long, dooming driveway into this hellscape. I’ve sat on this green velvet chaise more times than I would like, but this is the first time I’m not lounging on it as I talk about my feelings to the resident shrink.

Dr. Van der Merwe’s and the headmaster’s offices are the only two decent-looking rooms in the school—both gloomy and stinking of entitled rich men’s testosterone. It looks like it too. Mahogany walls and floors, an oversized antique red rug, rows upon rows of science books and weird little skulls, and—wait, is that a real brain?

Christ. I’m not sure how I missed that the ten-plus times I’ve been in here.

Contrary to the guards’ usual tactic of taking me to the headmaster’s office, they dragged me to this room to recount the events of last night because I was one of the last people to reach the evacuation point—being carried bridal style by Kohen, no less.

Word on the street is the preliminary investigation shows that the Science building blew up because of a gas leak. But they can’t be certain yet without doing a full investigation. Bitch Face One and Bitch Face Two here haven’t said as much, but I suspect they think it’s foul play by yours truly.

It’s flattering they’d think I could pull something like that off. I could only dream of causing an explosion of that magnitude.

I cross my legs and immediately uncross them again because of the ache at the apex of my thighs. Kohen is a fucking monster. Sighing, I slump down in my seat. “I told you already.” Three times, to be exact. “I was walking around looking for Elijah when I heard a loud bang. I fell over from shock and screwed my foot”—cervix—“up even more, so I was struggling to walk. That’s when I ran into Kohen, and he carried me the rest of the way.”

I’m sure they’re all collectively thinking, we don’t believe you.

I can practically hear those four words playing on a loop in their heads. What’s the point of this little get-together if they aren’t going to believe a word that comes out of my mouth?

“Why were you looking for Elijah?” McGill asks.

The only silver lining to this unfortunate turn of events is that no one thinks I started the fight with Elijah or pushed him down the bleachers. There were enough witnesses to say that he came at me. As for the part where he’s in hospital, apparently my puny arms couldn’t manage something of that magnitude, so I’m off the hook for that.

“Because I wanted to clear the air about what happened and ensure nothing like that happens again.” Okay, yeah, that doesn’t even sound believable to me. I huff out a breath when McGill gives me a look. “I wanted him to apologize to me for screwing up my foot.”

“You wanted drugs,” Dr. Van der Merwe speaks for the first time since I sat down ten minutes ago.

“Ding, ding, ding. They didn’t make you a doctor for nothing.” I mock-clap. If I deny it, they won’t believe me. If I stay quiet, I’ll feel like a cornered animal.

I flinch when McGill suddenly slams his notebook shut. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”

Shifting uncomfortably in my seat, I shoot a wary glance at the two guards. If McGill is being this short with me, something terrible is probably about to happen.

“Your grandfather is interested in confirming what he already suspects so he can plan how your future looks. Elijah gave you drugs in exchange for your services.” McGill motions to my body with his last word, and I cringe at the implication. He’s wrong. I’m not like my mother—not entirely. “You stopped providing your end, and he lashed out. Now, your supplier is indisposed, and you’re looking for another troubled soul to make your life feel dismally better.”

I hold my breath as I watch him reach for the bag on the side of the couch. He rummages around, and my heart stops beating when he pulls out a small ziplock bag holding white powder.

“You see this?” McGill waves the bag, and my eyes follow it like I’m a starved dog and he’s pulled out a fresh slice of meat. How long has it been since I had any blow? “We confiscated it from a student last month.” He sounds pleased with himself—probably because he has me exactly where he wants me. “Cocaine is your drug of choice, correct? An expensive vice you have, especially with such a nonexistent wallet.”

I wet my lips and grip the seat. “What do you want?” My attempt at cool indifference falls short.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asks, a condescending grin on his lips. At my blank look, he sighs. “Dr. Van der Merwe and I believe in exploring different avenues before resorting to more extreme measures. Bribery is one of the most well-known forms of acquiring information or goods—you of all people would know that.”

My lips flatten into a thin line. “I’m not a prostitute.”

Even if I were, who gives a shit? I’m not hurting anyone—Kohen is though.

McGill drops the bag on the wooden coffee table between us, and every cell in my body becomes hyper-aware of its existence. “Admit to causing the fire or tell us who did it, and it’s all yours.”

I quickly do the calculation in my head. It’s a big bag. That has to be at least an eight ball of cocaine. If I ration it out well, it could last me long enough until I get out of this place. If I’m strapped for cash, I could sell off a gram to another student. Maybe offer bumps.

I can think about doing the last two all I want, but every time Tony swung me some extra cash, it went straight toward the thing in front of me.

Isn’t this the perfect outcome? I get back at Kohen and end up with the bag. Only my mouth stays shut, and my eyes remain firmly on the bag. When will it end? I’ll accept this one bag in exchange for information, and then what’s next? Dance on the table for a joint? Bend over, or I’ll tell your grandfather all about what you’ve done?

Not just that, how far will I go in my crusade against Kohen? He already put himself in here because of me—risked imprisonment for me, not just once, but three times already—four if I include the accidental arson that I haven’t forgiven or forgotten about.

And he’s… he’s been kind. Nice. Those aren’t the right words, but admitting that he’s being anything more will send me into a spiral.

I could never hate you.NôvelDrama.Org holds © this.

My gut churns at the memory. But it dissolves when my eyes crash with McGill’s as his voice breaks me out of my stupor.

“It’s unfortunate that it’s too soon to do another ECT. No matter.” He smiles apathetically. “There are always alternatives.”

Three things happen at once: Boris lunges for my legs while the other guard traps me in a headlock, forcing me to lie on the chaise. I suck in a futile breath and scream as loud as I can, thrashing as I do. Lastly, the part that has me most worried is when McGill crosses over the room and squats down at the foot of the lounger with a diabolical look lurking beneath his calm facade.

“We tried playing nice with you, Miss Whitlock.” Boris clamps my legs down as McGill slowly places his hand over my sore foot.

My heart rattles against my rib cage as I try clawing at the sleeved arms around my head. My ankle hurts more today than it did twenty-four hours ago because of how much I was using it. I whip my head side to side, but all it does is chafe my skin.

I can feel bruises forming beneath their hands, yet the pain of their hold doesn’t make me falter. It doesn’t bring me any less comfort that they won’t zap me again, but they can torture me in other ways.

“Get your disgusting hands off me!” It’s all in vain, the fighting, the screaming, the thought that I’ll get out of this. But I don’t stop. I can’t. I didn’t survive this long to be deterred by hurt.

McGill presses the balls of his fingers into my swollen ankle, and white-hot pain scorches my veins. I cry out, using the adrenaline to throw any of the three men off, but they have countless pounds of muscle on me.

A shuddered breath bubbles out of me as the headmaster loosens his hold just enough to lessen the pressure.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” McGill cocks his head to the side as he gives me a pitiful look at my thrashing. “Admit to the explosion, and I’ll stop.”

I hesitate, only for a second, but my mouth opens, and I say the three words I can’t take back. “Kohen did it.”

I took the fall for his crimes once, and I’m not doing that again.

The guilt feels acidic in my stomach, but I swallow it down and keep looking straight. How many times do I need to be in this type of situation? With someone else’s hands on me, held down, debased to something that’s so expendable, the word dignity doesn’t need to be attached.

“This again?”

My heart sinks to my stomach.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

For a second there, I was delusional enough to believe that my words meant anything to anyone.

They can grab my foot as many times as they want, strap me to the chair and electrocute me, or wave that bag in front of my face; nothing will sting as badly as this.

“The shed,” is all I manage to say.

Hopeless.

That’s the word I’m looking for.

That’s what I am.

I stop thrashing around. I stop fighting. What’s the point? It won’t change anything.

“Do not take us for fools. We know it was you.”

“It wasn’t,” I lie through my teeth. I might as well confess to it. That would probably be the first time in my life any kind of authority figure believes me.

“Mr. Osman may have willingly taken the blame for you once; there won’t be a second time.”

My lips part. “Willingly?”

Does he mean Kohen never tried to argue his way out of it? Never tried placing the blame on someone else or even claimed he had no knowledge of it? He just… he confessed to the crime I committed.

McGill doesn’t give me the courtesy of an answer. “Last chance,” he says, subtly squeezing my ankle. “No?”

I grit my teeth and let out a silent cry. They don’t deserve to feel satisfaction over my pain. No one around here can hear me, and no one except Kohen would do a damn thing about it even if they could.

“That’s enough.” Dr. Van der Merwe steps forward. I slice my gaze over to his flattened brows while his eyes capture the scene.

“Confess.” A single word is all McGill gives me.

“Does my grandfather know you’re doing this?” I blurt out, trying to buy some time as I process this new information. After everything Kohen said about trying to get to me, he told them it was him? Even knowing they could have pressed charges—slim as that risk may be?

“No, but I doubt he would be opposed. As I’m sure Dr. Van der Merwe has said, your grandfather takes your rehabilitation very seriously.”

“Bullshit.” I spit, trying to summon the dwindling fight in me. “You’re torturing me for information I’ve already given you, and to get your sick fucking kicks out of it.” McGill made his hatred toward me clear the second I started stirring shit. “Kohen said he started the last fire; why aren’t you questioning him about what he might know?”

“There’s no point wasting anyone’s time when you could tell the truth.” McGill bares his fingers down, squeezing so tightly that tendons and joints give way beneath his grip. Even if I tried, I couldn’t stop the feral screech that tears out of me. “Confess, Blaze.”

“That’s enough.” Dr. Van der Merwe claps a hand on McGill’s shoulder and tugs him back.

I slump back onto the chaise, desperately trying to catch my bearings, which is hard when I’m in a headlock. Both men wear rugged looks as they stare each other down. I study the nuances of their interaction, the posturing, and the subtle hints written on their faces. Where the shrink’s lips tip down with disapproval and the headmaster’s curl with irritation. I can smell their bad blood from here.

“We agreed not to harm a student like this,” the shrink chides.

The good doctor is fine with scientific torture, but this is where he draws the line? What the fuck even is this place where they’ve already had that type of discussion?

McGill straightens to his feet, readjusting his suit and righting his tie as he looks down his nose at his colleague. “Fine. Have it your way.” He pivots slowly on his heel as he grabs his satchel and walks toward the door. “Don’t complain to me when she doesn’t talk.”

The doctor’s lips press into a tight line as if he has more to add, and he’s been saving them in a folder beneath his desk. His attention stays on the slammed door for a beat longer before it turns on me.

My moment of reprieve is short-lived, and my impending doom makes itself known when he says, “Take her to isolation.”

This time, when the guards each grab an arm, I don’t bother fighting, not when Boris digs his fingers into the soft skin of my arms, or when they throw me into the room with nothing but a water bottle and a granola bar, and the eight ball of coke taped to the other side of the safety window.

The silence slowly becomes deafening as seconds tick by into minutes, and minutes tick by into hours. With only a sliver of light coming from the window, it’s hard to tell what time it is until dusk falls, filtering soft, orange streams into the desolate room. Then everything turns bleak and gray.

I’ve learned about another privilege today: electricity. I’ve gotten by without it before. McGill has deprived me of light before while I’m stuck in this room. But unlike all the times I lost power at my house, the front door was still open for me to leave. I wasn’t confined to four empty walls and nothing but my mind to pass the time. This punishment is worse than holding me down and inflicting pain because they’ve left me with two worse things: my own thoughts and the packet of faux freedom taped to the door, just out of reach.

Teasing me.

Goading me.

Mocking me.

One line and this entire night could blur away in a whirlwind of random thoughts. Or maybe I’d have a panic attack. Either way, at least something would happen.

It doesn’t matter how many times I pace, night still doesn’t turn into day, prison into freedom. I can stare at the white powder, count how many specs there are, study the lines in my fingerprint, and tell myself it’s a labyrinth to my liberation, but I’m still in here with an empty bottle of water and the ripped-up granola bar wrapper.

I don’t know why I think that at any second, I’ll find Kohen at the door, ready to be my knight in shining armor, about to whisk me away from this hellhole. I told him I’m not a damsel in distress when I’m a walking cry for help.

But I was right at the beginning; I’m in here because of him in every sense of the word. He gave me the gun, loaded it with bullets, cocked it, and told me where to aim. So I pulled the trigger. Take the gun away, and what’s left?

Night turns to a stormy day, and the same words are said. “Confess or tell me who did it.” When it comes out of the doctor’s mouth, it’s kinder. Sympathetic almost. Like maybe he doesn’t want me in here just as much as I don’t want to be in here.

Either way, I say the same thing. “Kohen did it.”

I say the three words not because of any feelings I harbor toward Kohen. I say it for myself.

I have never needed him to save me or get me out of my mess. I managed to keep myself alive—barely—for the better part of eighteen years. A man isn’t going to swoop in to change that, regardless of the trajectory I’m on.

Dr. Van der Merwe leaves me the same thing he did the day before: a small bottle of water and a granola bar.

This time, I ration it, taking a bite and a couple sips every hour. The patheticness of it makes me smile to myself. I guess I am capable of new things.

The sun sets behind clouds of gray, and the sky breaks into darkness, battering the roof with bits of ice.

The same happens on the third day. A proposition, three words, then food and water.

On the fourth, the same. But this time, the door stays open, and four different words are uttered instead.

“You didn’t do it.”

To that, I respond with another four. “I told you so.”

And it feels good to say.