Page 18 of Unbound

Shut this down.

“Are you sure?” Bennett’s voice softens, and he steps closer, his concern palpable. He’s so big, he blocks everything else out until all I can see is him.

“Yeah.” I smirk, sinking into the only thing I know will protect me. Myself. At least, the thing that most people know me as.

Paloma Blake, party girl extraordinaire. A fucking beautiful girl and an even more beautiful fuck.

“Aren’t I always?” I quirk my lips and dip my brow suggestively. “Did you pull me out here for something fun?”

His face shutters, like he’s been hit. He’s unable to cover the pain in his face or his voice as he begs quietly, “Don’t do this, P.”

“Do what?” I ask, biting my lip, hooding my eyes. My hands land gently on his shoulders. “Don’t you want me? I can make it so good for you. Just like old times—”

“Stop,” he snaps, eyes burning, hands locking on my wrists to stop them. Even as harsh as his voice is, it’s in sharp contrast to the way he holds himself, like he’s near to crumbling. “Just talk to me. Please—”

“Drop it, Bennett,” I snap.

I turn away from him and head back inside and up the stairs before locking myself in the spare room. I don’t open the door or respond to the quiet knocks I know are him. Because if he calls me P or love one more time, I’ll fall right back into him.

And Bennett Reiner deserves worlds better than this.

Chapter 10

THEN: Freshman Year, August

Paloma

Intro to Poetry. I roll my eyes as I double-check my schedule.

One thing about being late in applications to colleges—which I was, severely—is getting the last orientation day and the leftover of class selections to go with it.

I’d take a musty art history lecture hall over the yellowed concrete liberal arts building that smells permanently like coffee and stacks of old books. And yet, as I make my way through the fluorescent halls that clearly don’t have the funding that the other side of campus seems to, I’m still bubbling with excited first-day jitters.

I’m later than I’d like to be, only five minutes early to the 8 a.m. course when I prefer fifteen. Mostly so that I can pick where I sit and get an idea of what to expect.

Clipping the corner of the door on my way in, I rock back a little and peer into the classroom. Ten desks have been configured into a semicircle, the other desks haphazardly shoved away, nearly into the walls. Half of them are already taken, but my eyes immediately lock onto one in particular.

It’s the boy from the other day. All large and imposing and sitting in a too-small desk in the classroom.

We’re both aware of each other, but neither of us acknowledges it. Maybe it’d be more normal to sit next to him; knowing one person in this tiny class should be enough for me to try—friends, community, something.

“Bennett,” he says, voice almost emotionless. But his eyes are sparkling.

Blinking again, I slump my owl-eyed expression into something more blank and waltz to a seat opposite him, nearest the door.

It’s easy to tell he’s hunched over, as if to make himself smaller, to draw as little attention as possible—which is impossible when he looks like he could be teaching the class, with his angular, strong jaw and nose. His eyes are a foggy turquoise, like a gem held out under a rain cloud. Or a distant misty ocean.

His eyes dart away as we catch each other staring. His cheeks redden to match the heat I feel across my own face.

“Good morning.” A raspy chuckle reverberates in the small concrete room.

Dr. Nick Britton, our professor for Introduction to Poetry struts in with the heavy assistance of a curved, wooden cane. He’s tall and reedy, with graying hair and a weathered, bespectacled face. If he was dressed more pretentiously, he’d resemble John Keating with a new Dead Poet’s Society. Instead, he wears jeans and a wrinkled button-down.

While he settles in and hands out the syllabus, I’m distracted again by watching Bennett.

He’s meticulous, careful with the paper as he flips the stapled corner and skims the entire thing briefly—as if in search of something specific. Too curious, I flip mine, trying to figure out what part he’s reading through so intensely.

Bolded across the second page is “Required Texts,” of which it lists “various” typed out with no proper capitalization. But below that, I find what I’m positive has captured Bennett’s attention.