My clammy palms choked the hem of my shirt. My fingers twitched. A part of my brain—the sane part, presumably—told me not to do it, that it didn’t matter, that the piece was beautiful and enthralling and could open many doors for me. But the rest of me didn’t listen.

I pounced on the statue, ripping it with my fingernails on a roar. The stitched shoulders, the paper heart, the crown of thorns. The only thing I couldn’t smash and ruin was the face, for it was made out of bent metal. Resilient and patronizing, it stared at me coldly as I ripped everything else about it.

He wasn’t even here, and he still watched my every step, ridiculed me, made fun of me.

As I shredded his shoulders and ripped his heart from his chest, I felt arms wrapping around my waist, and before I knew what was happening, I was kicking the air, growling and screaming at the top of my lungs.

I tried to escape the grasp, but Pope hurled me onto my bed like I was a sandbag, taking something out of his trousers pocket and jamming my wrists to my metal headboard. I growled like an animal, bucking in the air and trying to kick him.

He handcuffed me to my own bed. Wanker!

“Take it off. Immediately!” I demanded.

To be honest, I was mad at myself, not Pope, who was just trying to make sure I didn’t ruin all my hard work in a moment of insanity. But still.

I am insane, aren’t I? I thought rather grimly. All arrows point to the same conclusion. How shameful that white is my least favorite color to wear.

“I don’t think I will,” he said evenly, straightening up and examining me with hands on his waist, like I was a wild coyote he watched through a secured cage. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are a bit unhinged.”

He said “a bit” for the sake of civility. Truth was, you couldn’t be a bit unhinged, just like you couldn’t be “a bit” dead. Being crazy demanded commitment, which I certainly showed.

“I guess you like him,” he said mildly.

I did not answer. I didn’t want to confirm Pope’s theory, but it would be stupid to deny it. Vaughn occupied my thoughts more than he ought to. Even subconsciously. I’d made him into a statue without meaning to.

“You had a plan in motion. Why didn’t we execute it?” Rafferty asked.

“Because he never showed up in my room.” I sulked. God, I was such a teenybopper, and it was all Spencer’s fault. He turned my mind to goo. I’d become someone Arabella would get along with nicely.

“Remind him that you exist then,” Pope said, not backing down. “You’re making it easy for him to forget you. You stay in your room all day working. Both of you are such hermits, you lock yourselves in your corners of the castle. He couldn’t forget you when you were in high school, and I very much doubt he can here. Difference is, you’re not dangled in his face, forbidden fruit, a taunting reminder of everything he wants. Be that fruit,” Rafferty said, clapping his teeth together in a teasing bite. “Remind him he wants to eat you.”

I swallowed. He was right. Vaughn kept away because he could. But he was also wrong.

Because Vaughn was definitely coming back. This week, the next, or in a few years.

Whether it was in a bloody bath or hovering over me one night, for some reason, his need to be next to me was stronger than he was.

And I was going to wait. Bide my time.

If he truly wanted me, he’d come here again.

And I’d be waiting.

Fully loaded and ready to fire back.

He came to her room every night.

Not that I was keeping tabs or anything.

I was just in the neighborhood when it happened.

And by in “the neighborhood,” I mean in her hallway, lurking.

And by “in her hallway, lurking,” I mean clearly I needed professional help, an intervention, and a fucking life. I found myself standing behind a Louise Bourgeois statue for hours daily, waiting like some kind of a rabid Belieber.

Sure, I had my reasons. She was the first thing that had resembled a crush for me, no matter how cringe-worthy I found the word (or the girl). It made sense that I would feel somewhat possessive of her, now that she’d opened her legs to Rafferty Pope, who, according to whispers at Carlisle Prep, was working on one hell of a painting.

The pathetic part was that I wanted to visit her.

Lenora didn’t want to see me. But I was notoriously uninterested in what people wanted. I’d have come to her earlier, but I held back because I wasn’t supposed to be at Carlisle Castle.

Shortly after I paid a visit to my little friend Harry Fairhurst, I left a letter on Edgar Astalis’ desk informing him that I’d be gone for the rest of the week to find inspiration. This, of course, was bullshit with a capital B. I didn’t need inspiration. My piece was almost done, months ahead of schedule, and by far the closest thing to perfection I’d ever created.