Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(18)

“You work fast.” He hands me the folder. “I hope you did it all correctly.”

I take it, unsure what I’m supposed to do with it now. He’s supposed to turn my work in for me so that the regular teachers, teachers I’ll never even meet, can grade me.

“You can turn that in to the office.”

This surprises me. “I can walk around on my own?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just stares at me like he would like to say something else. Something more. “Classes are in session right now. Just hurry back. Don’t talk to anyone.”

Who would I talk to? Nodding, I walk out into the corridor, through the haze of stink—the perpetual sweat that hangs in the hall. I can hear the squeak of shoes on the gym floor and know there’s at least one class going on down here now.

I don’t pass anyone as I head up the stairs to the school’s main floor. It’s a straight shot to the office. The same receptionist is there. For a moment, I think she’s going to say something about me being loose in the halls. Out of my cage.

Her lips just tighten like she’s holding her breath. Afraid to breathe around me. She snatches the folder and turns her attention back to her monitor. It’s still strange . . . wounds me. I’m the kid everyone likes. Teachers. Parents.

I was that kid.

Dismissed, I step back in the hall. A couple of students walk past me into the office. They don’t notice me. Specifically, they don’t notice my special badge. And I’m relieved . . . which makes me feel like a coward. Like I’m happy to hide. Like I need to hide.

Feeling a little bit disgusted with myself, I stride down the hall, letting my shoes strike the floor loudly. Like I can make up for my cowardice by injecting force into each stride.

At the top of the stairwell, there’s a trio of students. Two girls. One guy. It’s the guy that catches my attention. He leans back against the steel railing, relaxed. The girls flank him, talking, moving their hands animatedly with every word. They remind me of butterflies ready to launch into air. It’s a scene I’ve seen countless times. When girls are around Zac. They’re so obvious in their attempts to impress this boy.

And the boy is none other than Sean O’Rourke.

Sean. They’re not frightened of him at all. I slow my steps and watch, thoroughly baffled. If I didn’t have to—before I became one of them—I would never deliberately come into contact with a carrier.

As I approach, the girls’ voices register in my ear. I recognize the pitch, the cadence as perfect as a C-sharp. They’re flirting with him. An HTS carrier who’s been imprinted? He’s proven himself dangerous and they’re into him.

One of the girls reaches out and toys with his orange badge. They must be some type of masochists, I decide. They get off on the danger and potential pain a carrier like Sean can inflict on them.

I give them as much berth as possible as I near the stairs. But just the same, I gawk at them like some kind of tragic car accident. I can’t not look.

Sean’s elbows are propped back on the railing. He holds a can of soda loosely in one hand. He’s wearing a gray-and-black graphic T-shirt. HONEST BEES is written across the front and I wonder if it’s a cool band or edgy hot spot in the city that I’ve never heard of. I pretty much stick to a ten-mile radius of my house. Everyone I know does. The streets aren’t safe. Even the streets you know. No sense roaming the streets you don’t know. And there’s a curfew anyway. That always keeps me from staying out too late. Well, that and my parents. The few times I stayed out late I was always with Zac . . . and no more than a couple miles from home.

His gaze fixes on me. He shakes the sun-streaked hair back from his face as if to watch me better with those deeply set eyes. My hand closes around the rail, and I pause, staring back, seeing what they see in him. Confidence. Edge. The sexy, dark, misunderstood hero you see in movies or read about in books. Only this is real life. And he’s no hero. The tattoo around his neck proclaims that.

The girls notice his straying attention. They look over at me, assessing, critical. The blonde one with dark roots asks, “Who’s that?”

He doesn’t answer. His face registers nothing. It’s like he doesn’t even hear her. Just watches me as I begin to descend, but I can’t help wondering what he would say. Who am I? What am I to him?

And why should I care?


I try to pretend I don’t hear the Cage door opening. The clang of steel. The rattle of the latch. The solid tread of feet. The whisper of clothes as he slides into his seat a few desks behind me. I fill my mind with the lyrics of “Casta Diva.” It usually focuses me. The notoriously difficult aria flows through my head. I race along with the high notes, grasping for them, but it’s no good.

I still see Sean in my mind. His image fresh from half an hour ago. That’s how long he stayed upstairs, talking to those girls, I guess.

The cool smoke-blue eyes. The hair shielding a face that begs for an extra look. Even with that too-long hair, the imprint encircling his neck can’t be hidden. Yes, a turtleneck offers temporary cover, but they’re not standard in Texas. And anyone could just tug it down to see, anyway.

And that’s the point. Imprints can’t be denied. Just like bad DNA.

The ink-black band almost an inch wide. The circled H. It reminds me of a cattle brand. Dark. Deep. Permanent. Once you see that, it’s the only thing you see. Not the person. And that’s the purpose.