“Good morning, Miss Jamieson.”
The greetings float back and forth as I glide down the hallway.
It’s a familiar phrase. One I hear almost every day after parking in Redwood Prep’s fancy lot.
The hallway is crowded with students in sharp uniforms. Fancy sweaters. Pleated skirts. Knee-high socks. All the same, yet different because they customise their outfits. Accessorize with designer brands. Limited edition shoes. Expensive purses and wallets.
Perfect and privileged.
Kids like this were once my terrors and now, I’m their teacher. Strangely, it doesn’t feel like I’ve managed to climb above the ranks. It still feels like I’m serving the rich at Redwood. I just traded a mop for a textbook.
Whispers blaze like a fire as I pass by.
I’m painfully aware of the attention, but I can’t escape it.
Accusing eyes peer at me from all directions.
Seeking.
Prodding.
Curious.
What’s going on between you and Snare King?
Jinx’s text echoes in my mind.
For a brief moment, there’s panic.
A sharp, unhinging nausea.
I breathe deeply and slide my hand over my pencil skirt.
It’s been almost a year of teaching and it still happens. That discomfort. Like the first downward spiral of a rollercoaster. The way your stomach flops and jumps to your throat. The way you grip the bar for dear life. The way you scream as your heart is torn out of your chest.
But I can’t scream.
I can only smile. Polite. Put-together.
I can only step through the giant doors every day and enter this world of shadows and money with as much class as I can.
No one knows what I did with Zane Cross in that hotel room.
And no one knows why I’m really here.
As long as I keep pretending that I have it all together, maybe it will start to feel that way.
Smile fixed, I spot one of my students.
“Vanya,” I stop her as she’s rummaging in her locker, “remember to turn in your essay before four p.m. today. I’m not offering another extension.”
“Yes, Miss Jamieson.”
As gently as I can, I remind her, “I understand that you’re busy with the cheer team, but you can’t neglect your studies.”
She nods, studying her sneakers.
The boy beside her—I’m assuming he’s her boyfriend—stares at me with a sleazy gleam in his eyes. His cataloguing sweep ends with a slow lick of his lips.
“Mr. Hall,” I say curtly. My tone demands that his eyes return to my face. Immediately.
“Miss J.” Lifting a hand, he runs his fingers through his brown hair and the fancy watch on his wrist glitters. His Tesla key fob is hanging carelessly from a fisted hand. “I heard you denied my transfer again.”
My smile disappears. Woodenly, I say, “I’m pleased by your… enthusiasm to join my class, but I have a select number of seats. Maybe try again next semester.”
“You said that last semester.”
“And it still applies. If you’ll excuse me—”
He pushes off the locker. “Why are you playing hard to get?”
I freeze, my heels skating against the ground and turning into wooden pillars.
“Next year, I’ll be a senior. It’ll be my last chance. Your last chance.”
“Mr. Hall,” I struggle to keep my tone even, “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“You act all high and mighty with me, but you let Zane Cross bag a seat.” Voice low, he whispers, “Do you two have some other arrangement?”
I tense.
The students around me hold their breath.
Hall prolongs the silence, throwing down a challenge that I can’t back away from.
Prickles of irritation zip down my spine. “Perhaps, rather than worrying about others, you should learn to write your own essays. I’m sure your tutor is tired of doing your homework for you.”
Mottled red stains his cheeks.
I shove the knife in deeper. “Until you can form a cohesive sentence without assistance, it’s best you keep your mouth shut rather than spouting off nonsense. It only makes you look more foolish.”
A chorus of ‘oohs’ pepper around us.
Hall’s face is hard as he stares me down, but he has no comeback.
I maintain eye contact, letting the humiliation soak in.
There’s only one thing stronger than money here in Redwood and that’s the truth. When it’s on my side, I’m not afraid to wield it.
Satisfied that my point has been made, I continue on my way, clasping my books for dear life.
Stupid, Zane.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I pass a private classroom with a card slot.
It’s The King’s practice studio.
If anyone needs evidence that Zane and his brothers run the school, it’s the fact that they have their own dedicated space and permission to play music during class time.
Snots like Theodore Hall understood the hierarchy.
Even if they didn’t like it.
But after Zane threw me over his shoulder last week, he broke the delicate balance. One impulsive move totally destroyed the boundaries I’ve tried to preserve with my male students.
This is his fault.
But ultimately, it’s mine.
Guys like Hall were a menace before and I, obviously, haven’t done a good job at controlling them.
This is Redwood.
A place where the most affluent, powerful, and entitled children are thrown into one extravagant building. Here, rules are foisted upon them that they don’t have to obey out in the real world.
And even inside Redwood Prep, there are some rules that can be broken for the right price.
It’s a scary, sinister game.
I learned very quickly not to show any signs of weakness. In that sense, Redwood has already changed me. Who’s to say if it’s for the worse or the better?
Musical chimes ring out.
I inhale deeply, enjoying the shift in energy as students make a frantic dash for the classrooms.
In a moment, the crowd is gone.
I take my time as I stroll, not ready to go to class yet. As a teacher, that’s my only privilege.
Redwood is particularly stunning today. Sunshine splashes over gleaming wooden statues. The hint of furniture cleaner and a light lemony fragrance fills the air, dragging my memories back to the days when I was more acquainted with the janitor’s closet than any other room.
I can appreciate the school for its beauty—now that I’m not the one preserving that grand display. Giant arched ceilings tower overhead. Delicate windows let in tons of sunlight. I look through them and see the elegantly maintained lawn.
Money. Pretention. Secrets.
It flows through this building’s veins.
Lockers mounted against the wall and the students in uniforms are the only indication Redwood serves a higher purpose. Everything about the architecture feels distant, like a cold cathedral.
I almost laugh. Redwood Prep may have the face of an ancient church, but the acts committed within these walls are far from holy.
My classroom is up ahead. I screech to a stop when I see Zane sitting in the back row. His blue eyes lock on mine, piercing me through the glass.
Unholy secrets.
I have a few of my own to toss on the Redwood Prep altar.
Heels clicking against the ground, I saunter into the classroom and set my purse on the desk.
“Good morning.” Carefully looking away from Zane, I face my students. “Romeo and Juliet. Did anyone read the assigned chapters this weekend?”
Every hand shoots up.
I’m not surprised.
I run a tight ship. The students sitting in these chairs have earned the right to be there. They care about school, about college, about their futures.
My eyes slide past the raised arms until I get to Zane. He’s slouched in the back, the only one without his arm up.
I’ve done everything I can to try and kick him out of my class, but he’s still here, skating by and giving the least amount of effort.
My voice quivers. “Good. Let’s begin.”
As I turn and write on the board, I feel Zane’s perusal.
His heavy gaze is a relentless reminder of that night.
That mistake.
That pleasure.
I turn back around, my palms sweaty.
Zane’s still watching.
Taunting me with those sea blue eyes.
Distracting me with those full lips.
Making me feel like an awful human being for noticing those things about a student.
“Any questions about the chapter you read?” I ask.
A hand shoots up. “Not a question so much as a rant.”
“Go ahead, Maisy.”
“I read Romeo and Juliet and I still don’t understand. Why make life so complicated? If you know you shouldn’t be with someone, then don’t. I’m tired of the drawn-out, forbidden love story. Shakespeare should write something else.”
I lick my lips. “That’s an interesting stance. But I’d like to point out two things. One—Shakespeare wrote many different types of plays. Two—Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy not a love story.”
“I disagree.”
My pulse begins to hum and I look up with the rest of the class to the Redwood prince lounging in his chair.
Unlike the other students who at least try to adhere to the school rules, Zane doesn’t bother. He’s a walking dress code violation from his tight-black T-shirt to his scrunched up jacket sleeves, jeans and military boots.
Tendrils of his violet-black hair skate lazily over his eyes.
I fold my arms over my chest, heat skittering down my spine. “And what do you disagree with, Mr. Cross?”
“A tragedy. A love story.” He moves his drumstick back and forth. “It doesn’t have to be one or the other. It can be both.”
“Love stories should end in happily ever afters.” Maisy is my best student and she’s also competitive.
Her face mashes into a frown. “This play ends with the two main characters dying.”
“But they die because of being crazily in love. You can’t have the tragedy without the romance. That’s like a one-night stand without the sex.” A wicked glint in his eyes, he adds casually, “Romeo and Juliet were banging when they weren’t supposed to. They knew what could happen, but they did it anyway. Even if you don’t call it love, you gotta admit it’s something close.”
Hot pockets of sweat roll down my back.
My nostrils flare.
Zane stares me down. “Right, Miss Jamieson?”
My chest heaves.
I curl my fingers into fists.
Maisy turns to look at me.
So does the rest of the class.
I offer a wooden smile. “I think this is exactly why Romeo and Juliet is still relevant today. There’s a lot to be discussed. Now, if we’ll move on to chapter—”
“Cop out.”
My eyes meet Zane’s sky-blue ones, and I swear, as light as they are, I see shadows gathering like a storm to crowd his gaze.
My back stiffens. “Mr. Cross?”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
I narrow my eyes in response. “And what exactly was your question?”
“Falling for someone you can’t have. Losing everything in the end.” His eyes caress me. “Love story or tragedy?”
The rest of the class falls silent, watching our exchange keenly.
I walk behind my desk and lift my tablet. “Romeo and Juliet are teenagers in the original poem. They made the choices they did because they were young and foolish. When you’re older, when you have more experience, you realize there is no love that’s worth losing everything.”
Maisy pushes her glasses up her nose. “I agree. If it hurts, if it’s difficult, if it makes you want to die, then that’s not love.”
Heads bob in agreement.
“Who says?” Zane twirls his drumsticks. “What if the pain makes the pleasure even sweeter? What if denying yourself is worse than death?”
I can’t help the way my breath catches and my hands shake.
Blinking rapidly, I lift my tablet to cover the way my heart thunders. “Everyone, open your books. Maisy, please start from page 56.”
I finish the lecture with Zane’s stare drilling into me the entire time.
The musical bells chime.
“Your assignments will be in the school app,” I say. “And Mr. Cross…”
Everyone freezes when I call Zane’s name.
“Can I see you for a moment?”
The way I end the question makes it sound like a demand, not a request.
Zane observes me thoughtfully, eyes stripping me apart. I glare back, unable to slip under a guise of professionalism.
Students file past, giving us curious looks.
“Later, Miss Jamieson.” Maisy waves.
I nod.
As the students leave, Zane saunters behind them.
“Where do you think you’re going?” My voice is sharp.
Zane’s shoulder muscles go tense, but he doesn’t stop walking. I’m shocked when he closes the door, locks it and lowers the blinds on the glass pane.
My heart thunders. “Keep the door open.”
Zane turns. A flash of frustration filters through his gaze before he covers it with a practiced smirk. “I’d rather you yell at me in private.”
“We can’t do anything in private,” I snap. “Open the door.”
“No.”
“Zane.”
“You have no idea how often I’ve imagined this. You… asking to see me after class.” He prowls toward my desk, moving like a predator on his prey. “You’re getting me excited, tiger.”
I stiffen. “Don’t call me that.”
Zane stalks closer. With that violet-black hair and black T-shirt, every step he takes seems to gather the shadows. His military boots thump the ground. He’s a brutally gorgeous commander, except his army is the darkness hidden within the human heart.
The cruel twist of his lips makes me jumpy.
Between the brothers, Zane is the one more likely to smile and joke around, but he’s no less dangerous. No less powerful.
I’ve seen the way other teachers cower before him. I’ve heard the whispers in the lounge. They say that Jarod Cross brought this school back to life after the shameful scandal that nearly tore Redwood apart.
They say his sons, by extension, hold all the power in this new era.
I don’t care.
Zane crossed the line for the last time.
I lean in with fire in my voice. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
His lips curl up. Unruffled, as always. “What do you mean?”
A red haze settles on me. I want to punch him in the face so badly that my fingers twitch.
I shouldn’t let him get to me.
And I shouldn’t be holding him back after class when there are so many rumors about us.
But why the hell not?
I’ll never get anywhere if he keeps this up. The only way to reclaim my respect is to fight for it.
“You know what I mean. Your little speech in class!”
“I was defending my position.” He shoves both drumsticks in his back pocket. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“I told you to never mention that incident.”
“What incident?” He arches a brow, his smile getting wider and more wicked.
I glare at him, chest heaving. Refusing to say it.
“You mean our night together.” He circles me like a shark. “The night you let me touch you the way no student should touch a teacher?”
At the mere mention, the ache between my thighs burns with a desperate adrenaline.
“Do you think this is a joke?” I snap.
“You want me to cry then?”
“I want you to grow the hell up,” I growl. “You’re acting like a child.”
His expression shifts in an instant. From careless and cocky to a smoldering wolf. He prowls toward me, all six foot plus of him crowding my space.
My eyes dart fearfully to the hallway. The door is locked, but that doesn’t mean people aren’t listening.
I back up. “Zane.”
He stops an inch away, those painfully blue eyes boring into mine. “Miss Jamieson,” Zane reaches between us and touches one of my curls with his rough, giant hands, “we both know that I am not a child.”
My breathing is coming in harsh pants, and even though I despise my body for turning on me, I can’t deny the effect he has.
The tension between us thickens.
Dark.
Forbidden.
But unmistakable.
I dig my fingers into the edge of the desk. “If this is how you’ll be, don’t come back to my class.”
He laughs.
The freaking monster laughs.
My heart slams against my ribs and I realize that I’m in way over my head.
No wonder the other teachers duck when Zane and his brothers stalk through the hallway. No wonder crowds part to let them pass. No wonder they’re denied nothing—from the principal going down to the lunch ladies.
I forgot.
Or maybe they allowed me to pretend I was different.
Zane was softer with me.
Almost kind.
But there’s no kindness in his eyes now. No hint of affection.
It’s just pure darkness and twisted depravity.
“This little game of ours is getting old.” He narrows his eyes, a frightening chill beneath his words.
“Game? You think disrespecting me at every turn is fun?”
His eyebrows tighten. I feel his heat, his shattered restraint.
Every instinct tells me I should stop pushing, but I can’t. A part of me wants to fight, to scold him, to do everything I can to hide the way my body still aches for him. Still longs to be shattered to pieces again. To spin out in hot, lashes of pleasure like we did that night.
Ridiculous.
Despicable.
I hate him.
I can’t have him.
Damn. I shouldn’t even want him.
“I’m not playing games with you, Zane.” Our harsh breaths mingling, I spit out. “I’m your teach—”
He surges forward, pinning me against the wall and grinding his jeans into my aching core. I flutter my hands over my mouth and push back a moan.
The friction of his big body against mine sends pleasure tearing through me like a storm.
Zane bends to my ear. Too dangerous. Too dark. “I haven’t been treating you like a teacher, Miss Jamieson. Not even close. But now, I think I’ll give you what you’re asking for.”
I should move. Shove him off.
But every instinct is being shoved down by a throbbing, visceral heat.
“You do what I say from now on.” His commanding fingers brush down my hip and tease a circle against the bone. “That’s how I treat my teachers at Redwood.” He slides his hands lower. “Especially the ones who forget their place.”
“Get off—”
His mouth rocks toward mine.
I brace myself for a rough, angry kiss, but he stops just short of meeting my lips. Eyes glittering like a crazed animal, he smirks.
“If you don’t listen like a good little girl,” his warm breath teases my cheek, “I’ll tell everyone I’ve seen what’s hiding under that tight pencil skirt.” His fingers brush my inner thigh. “Not only that.” He bends down to whisper in my ear. “I’ve tasted what’s under that skirt. And if you really don’t behave,” his lips tug on my ear and I feel the quick flicker of his tongue, “I’m going to taste it again.”
A moan escapes my lips that I can’t hold back, no matter how badly I want to. The ache between my legs is about to split me apart.
I glare up into his stormy blue eyes. My voice is breathless. “Are you… threatening me?”
The musical chimes go off.
Without warning, Zane drops his hands and steps back. He sticks one of those long, wicked fingers into his mouth and licks it. “You’re still sweet, tiger.”
The smirk on his face is infuriating, but I can’t do anything because my legs are jelly and I’m barely standing up.
“Make time for me tonight. I’ll send you an address,” he says calmly.
I glare at him, unable to stop the riptide of hatred and anger.
Damn him.
Damn him to death.
He arches a brow. “I expect you to be on time. You don’t want to know what’ll happen if you’re late.”
Zane smiles, punctuating the steel in his voice.
Without warning, he throws the door open and leaves.
I stumble back.
My legs buckle.
Shakily, I press a hand to the whiteboard, curling my fingers against the smooth, cool surface.
I thought Zane was horrible before, but I was wrong. There’s more beast than man inside him. And I think I just unlocked the monster.
Jinx: Snare King got a royal dressing down from Sexy Teach after class. Does it have anything to do with last week’s epic shoulder-throw?
Battle lines are being drawn, but what is Snare King really fighting for? Is this a war to conquer and destroy a rebel or has our dark prince set his sights on a new, forbidden concubine?
One thing’s for sure, Sexy Teach better brace herself. I have a feeling she’s not done getting thrown around.
Until the next post, keep your enemies close and your secrets even closer.
– Jinx
