Fiery Little Thing: A Dark Academy Romance

I’m going to fucking kill her right after I kill my brother.

Kiervan.

Kiervan?

She humped my leg like a dog in heat, she kissed my lips, she soaked through my clothes, and Kiervan gets the fucking credit? He isn’t even here, and he’s in the spotlight.

I release the band around my wrist, and the sting that follows the snap isn’t nearly as calming as it should be. I’ve been pissed off at her before, but last night I was ready to strangle her. I couldn’t even look at her, let alone touch her.

Kiervan? Fuck.

Blaze had to open her mouth and ruin it. Everything about her up to that point was intoxicating; the sounds she made, the curve of her waist, the feel of her ass in my hands, and the way her nipples looked through her poor excuse of pajamas—thin black fabric taunting me.

Then she touched me—well, she slapped me.

But she chose to put her hand on me. Me. And god it makes me giddy to think she willingly put her hand on me.

She chose to slap me.

I expected her lips to taste smoky or as sour as she is, but I’ve been tasting cherries since I kissed her. Blaze doesn’t appreciate the gravity of what I told her last night. A thread is sturdier than the shit I was hanging on to last night.

My cock was hard the second I stepped foot in her room, and then she moved and all but shoved her pussy in my face while she was half asleep. Then her little panties shifted, and I wanted to fuck her until she felt like she was choking on my cock, then spank the cherry tattooed on her ass.

But I was good. Patient.

I wasn’t sure what I expected by entering her room—I definitely wasn’t planning to kiss her. Not by a long shot.

I found her room, then stole an access key from one of the security guards last week, and I didn’t think I’d do anything with it. But then Blaze went and touched dipshit Elijah in the middle of class, and I was ready to do worse than just sneak into her room to make her come.

Seriously. Kiervan?

Fuck.

I was half tempted to break out of here to get home where I’ve got everything I need to bring him down, then push the big red button.

The klepto had the nerve to walk into class this morning looking smug. It did make me feel marginally better to watch her deflate when the teacher returned her paper, and there was a big F in red marker at the top of the page.

Squinting, I managed to make out what she wrote for the creative writing assignment and spotted the words dark, gloomy night, as fast as a cheetah, and branches like fingers, as well as two typos in the first paragraph alone, then decided I didn’t need to read any more.

An F seems accurate.

Writing isn’t in her future.Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

The only thing that’s stopping me from pulling her aside and making her scream the correct name this time is the fact that there are red marks along her neck where I choked her. Blaze can feel as smug as she wants, but she’s walking all around school carrying the marks that came from my hands. Not Kiervan’s.

The thief opted to pick the seat furthest away from me when she arrived late to our next class. I snap the band around my wrist again as I watch her causing mayhem at the other side of the classroom.

The school made two fuckups this morning. The first was thinking it was a good idea to pair Blaze up with Sarah. The second was trusting us around Bunsen burners. Or specifically, trusting her around one.

As soon as Sarah steps out of the classroom, Blaze snatches a piece of paper covered in Sarah’s handwritten notes and holds it over the fire until it all burns into ash.

Blaze isn’t stupid; she just lights her notes on fire. She’s got to use something as a starter, and nothing spreads like knowledge. My fiery little thief is a pyromaniac in the making.

I glance at her, then the flame, then back at her. It’s Bunsen burner day, and here I am, consumed by her instead of the flame. What a waste.

There’s a glint in her eyes that isn’t usually there. It makes her all the more mesmerizing and all the more dangerous. She’s not concocting a plan, but her unmade hair and wide eyes scream with a wildness that goes beyond what I’m used to.

She’s antsy, looking for a fight rather than a hit.

I rub my thumb over the band around my wrist and drop my gaze to the strands of copper hair tangled around the tie. I snap it against my wrist again and look back at her. I’d be a liar if I said watching her play with fire doesn’t make my dick hard.

Blaze keeps glancing back at the teacher to make sure he’s not watching, and because she has no concept of first aid, when she burns her finger, instead of running it under cold water, she sticks it in her mouth.

She’s beautiful, violent, vulgar, and batshit fucking crazy.

The bench is cleared of evidence by the time Sarah comes back, and Blaze plasters an innocent look on her face as Sarah rummages around the bench in search of what I assume is the piece of paper that is now ash. Blaze shrugs and ignores her, heading to the front of the class to clean up, leaving behind black skid marks on the floor from her shoes.

I shake my head. They’re the same pair she’s had for the last two years. Jonathan Whitlock Sr. is unbelievable. He’s more of a scum than my own father. My dad would never let his own granddaughter wear shoes with holes in them.

“Pyro.” She sneers when she catches my stare.

“Klepto.”

She’s right; I am a pyromaniac—not that I’ve been diagnosed. But she’s called me that enough times that I’ve looked into it. I might as well figure my problems out myself rather than paying some old person to do it and then report back to my parents. We’re both looking at the DSM-5 either way. Some parts of it make me doubtful; people like me usually have mood disorders and addictions, but I don’t believe I have either of the two. Either way, my self-diagnosis still stands. It’s apparently manageable, but incurable.

Her, on the other hand? The only test she’s ever passed with flying colors is the one that makes her the poster girl for kleptomaniacs. She’s a therapist’s wet dream; the easiest diagnosis they’ve ever done.

I remember watching her steal the janitor’s cleaning supplies to tip out the contents on the lawn and keep the bottle. Or when she stole someone’s phone just for the case, even though she didn’t even have a phone. Or that time she took some kid’s eraser that was torn in half and mutilated by a pen. Hell, she’s taken at least twenty of my lighters in the past year alone.

When the bell rings, she heads out with Charlie in tow. Sarah’s face brightens when she sees me, as if she has me cornered, but I sidestep her before she can open her mouth. I have the misfortune of spending the next hour with the headmaster, and I’d rather not make it worse by talking to her as well. I slowly walk through the hallway, hoping to shave off the amount of time I have to spend with him.

I veer into the bathroom, then wait for everyone to empty out before drawing out my lighter to watch the flame. The orange hues flare as threads of smoke billow into the air. Even though I know better than to reach into my pocket and take out the piece of paper, I do it anyway. I flatten it out to watch the fire climb up the sheet, eating it up faster than I’d like. The sight of the flame’s rage and the smoky taste that follows soothes the pounding in my chest.

The paper and its ashen remains flutter into the bowl before it reaches my skin. I watch as the last fire flickers out and the urge to grab another piece of paper hits me. Slamming my palm against the wall, I shake my head and whip open the stall door, heading to the sinks. Turning the tap all the way to cold, I splash the cool water onto my face, taking slow, deep breaths.

Control. I have control.

Gritting my teeth, I storm the rest of the way to the headmaster’s office, pushing away thoughts about all the flammable objects in my bag.

McGill’s assistant nods, signaling for me to go into his office once she hangs up the phone with him.

I’m late because I didn’t want to come. McGill doesn’t seem to care about that particular fact because a smile explodes across his face, but all I really notice is his filthy mustache.

“Good morning, Kohen,” McGill says, bright and cheery as he tucks his notebook into the drawer. He’s so full of shit. “How has your day been?”

“Fine.” Let’s get this over with.

His brows pinch together, accentuating his wrinkled face. “When someone asks you that, you’re meant to ask it back.”

I give him a blank look. “Okay.”

This isn’t my first interaction with the headmaster; I doubt it will be my last. The first time we spoke, he was getting his feelers out for me, and that hasn’t changed. He’s still trying to figure me out. Soon, he’ll realize he doesn’t care about getting to know me—just like every other adult in my life.

As long as the checks come in and I don’t do anything to ruin Seraphic Hills’s squeaky-clean reputation, he doesn’t give a damn about what I do.

“Sit.” He motions to the chair in front of the table across from him. I oblige only because the less I hear from his mouth, the better. “Your father did say you have difficulty talking to people,” he muses. “He also warned me that your emotional regulation often gets the better of you.”

He’s dancing around stating I’m prone to outbursts. The only incidents Father knows about are the one that landed me here, and the one where I gave Kiervan a black eye because he had too much to say about the girl who moaned his name last night. Every reaction I’ve had has always come down to one or both of them. And, as far as they’re aware, I ended up here because the fucker from school started talking shit about the fire.

But fine, let’s call it issues with emotional regulation. I’ll bite.

McGill sighs. “How are you fitting in?”

“Fine.”

The excess skin around his eye twitches. “Do you like your classes?”

“Sure.”

The headmaster sucks in a sharp breath. “I hear Oskadine, the miracle drug, is currently waiting for FDA approval.”

I shrug. It’s all over the news.

He leans back in his wingback chair and folds his arms over his gut. The buttons on his crisp white shirt strain to stay together, and I can just see the slightest brush of pink staining the collar. Lipstick, I assume. Specifically, the receptionist’s—not to be mistaken for the secretary.

He tilts his head to the side like he’s trying to study me. “You’re not a man of very many words, are you, Mr. Osman?”

He said this, word for word, the first time we met and suggested buddying me up with Sticky Fingers.

Shrugging, I cross my legs to hide the fact that I’ve slipped my hand into my pocket to feel the smooth surface of my lighter. “I have nothing to say.”

He hums to himself, pinching his brows together as if bemused. His flare for dramatics rivals Blaze’s. “I received the same feedback from your teachers. In fact, they had some interesting things to say. Do you know what they’re saying?”

My father would crush a man like him without even moving his pinky. His poor attempt at playing politics is laughable. “You’re going to tell me anyway.”

He purses his lips but continues, “They tell me there is only one person you interact with inside the classroom—but I’ve been advised she has been the one picking on you. Also, they find your relationship with Liam outside of class interesting.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me, how did your friendship with Liam start?”

“He asked to hang out. I said yes.” That’s quite literally the start and the end of the story. The skinny, ghoul-looking kid saw my tattoos, glanced at the lighter, and asked if I was a snitch. I said no; he said he and some friends hang out off campus to chill if I wanted to hang out. Leaving school property to get high sounds precisely like the klepto’s thing to do. So, after a prompt “yes,” we were behind the church, and I was face-to-face with Blaze. He’s been my “in” ever since.

“Yet you turned down Sarah when she asked you to prom.” He says it like a question rather than a statement.

Sarah Lawrence is a snitch. Noted.

“Your point?”

He narrows his eyes just a fraction before adopting a more blase composure. “How’s Miss Whitlock treating you? Outside of class, that is.”

After class? He doesn’t want the answer to that one. Neither he nor Blaze needs to know that last night wasn’t the first time I found myself in her room. So, I settle for an easy “Amicable.”

“You and I are both aware of what she’s been accusing you of.”

You and half the school.

I nod.

He scrutinizes every inch of me, and I do the same to him, analyzing his crow’s feet and the knockoff Givenchy tie. “Do you have anything to add about it?”

“Do I need a lawyer?” I counter.

Any semblance of friendly comradery disappears from his face and tone. “Your father expressed concerns about you and Marie’s acquaintance. He was unaware that you had some kind of relationship with her, and is rightfully worried about the influence someone like Blaze might have on you.” Everyone’s persistence in using every name but her first irks me—her grandfather’s doing, I’m sure. She’s Blaze when she needs to be demoralized, and Marie or Miss Whitlock when they need to feign respect. “I’m sure you understand that men your age can be very impressionable to beautiful young women.”

Keeping my features neutral, I grip the lighter in my pocket. I don’t like this degenerate’s choice of words to describe Blaze, and I especially don’t like how he says them.

I haven’t figured out why he has an interest in Blaze, though I understand the logic in linking me with her accusations, as he puts it.

Something about it doesn’t sit right with me, and I can’t pinpoint why. I don’t trust McGill, and that’s the only reason I haven’t done anything to land Blaze’s ass in solitary, where he has easier access to her. There, no one would care if she screamed.

The silence stretches between us when he finally says, “I was willing to give your lack of response a slide the last time I asked you. Now that you’re settled in and the first day jitters are gone, tell me more about your relationship with Marie.”

The lighter digs into the palm of my hand. She isn’t an old fucking woman, and that’s not her goddamn name.

“Nothing to tell.”

His exhale reaches me from across the desk. “That’s clearly not the case, now is it? You may have had your parents fooled, but nothing happens in this school without me knowing. I hear about the way you watch that girl.”

It’s becoming increasingly hard to stop from lunging forward and slamming his head on the table. He needs to keep her name out of his mouth before I do it for him. “In case you missed it, she threatened to shiv me.”

“And you believe it?”

“She thinks I burned her house down,” I explain. The man is like a bloodhound.

“That may be so, however, we both know that wasn’t the look I was referring to.”

“Spell it out.”

“You two are more alike than I realized,” he says more to himself than to me. “It appears I need to ask frankly because you’re so insistent on going around the question. It’s clear the house fire has made her rather aggressive toward you, which begs the question: did you and Miss Whitlock have a relationship?”

“No.”

“Claims were made by teachers at your previous school that you were often seen walking together after school. Miss Whitlock herself confirmed it. Other than that, you weren’t interacting with the other students. I have to ask, why were you walking when you had a car, Mr. Osman?”

“Fresh air,” I say through gritted teeth.

I spent years walking her home because I didn’t want her to get run over by a car because she was too hungover to notice her surroundings, only to risk killing her in the fire. She could have been passed out inside and I missed her. Or she could have crawled in just before everything went up in flames.

If she had died… I grip the lighter tighter, knuckles turning white. Blaze’s near-death is the only thing I’m sorry for.

I won’t apologize for what I did because that house held nothing but trauma, but I deserve what she did to my place.

It’s pathetic actually; the first thought that went through my head when I came home to see the damage was disappointment. Blaze was finally in my bedroom and I hadn’t been there to see it.

I bet it was a sight to see. All that red making its way through my room, breaking everything in its path—chaos unbidden.

However, the scales are still nowhere near even.

McGill’s nostrils flair. “It’s my job to know my students and understand everyone’s relationship dynamic to ensure they get the most out of their time here. Individuals like Blaze tend to… negatively impact your growth and progress.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on his desk. “You’ll forgive me if I find it difficult to believe that a recluse such as yourself would choose to make that wild child your only acquaintance.”

“What’s your point?”

“We are simply trying to get to the bottom of the situation. There are certain standards and expectations from our students, just as there are from your family.”

This.

This is exactly why I’ve kept my mouth shut. It’s why I only ever interacted with Blaze outside of school. Social standing is everything to these vultures, and money can go far to achieve it. My father could take Blaze out in a single swipe; send her to prison, kick her out of school, or move her to an entirely different state. There is no end to the lengths he would go to protect the Osman name.

An Osman and a Whitlock are fine. Blaze is just the wrong Whitlock.

She is the start and the end of the reason why I’ve turned into my brother’s bitch. Kiervan knew what my father would do, and by second grade, I had already decided it was worth it to do everything he said.

“What did Blaze say?” I ask.

“She says a lot of things.” He takes a sip of water, pausing for dramatic effect. “She claims you asked her if she would be home the day of the fire, then the next morning, you told her she deserved it.”

I grind my molars together. That’s not what I meant by saying she deserved what was coming for her.

“I’m curious why she would make such accusations against you. My theory is that she was smitten by you, and you rightfully turned her down because she’s too much of a liability. Then she decided to get back at you—correct me if I’m wrong.”

That’s the running theory held by everyone who’s heard her story. As McGill said, I’m a loner. The only person I speak to is Blaze. So, with their small-minded logic, it’s the only plausible justification.

I don’t need her smitten by me. I don’t need her fawning all over me and falling to kiss the ground I walk on. Fire has no master. Blaze is no different. If I wanted a dog, I would have gotten one.

McGill looks at me, waiting for a response that never comes. “Fine, have it your way. Don’t answer. I’ll figure it out eventually.” He lowers his voice as if telling me a secret. “I will give you this one piece of advice, son, and you’ll do well to heed it: stay away from Miss Whitlock.”

“Fine.”

Not a fucking chance.