Chapter 3

Rainey's POV

Shit, shit, shit.

I sprinted through the morning drizzle, my sneakers splashing through puddles as I raced toward the math building. Working until midnight at the café had seemed worth it when I counted my tips, but now, standing outside Mr. Jackson's AP Calculus classroom at 8:47 AM, I was seriously regretting that extra three hours.

Through the window, I could see everyone already seated, notebooks open, pencils moving. My stomach dropped when I spotted Sarah's perfectly styled blonde hair in the third row, Brad's bulky frame right beside her. Of course they were in this class.

I slipped through the door as quietly as possible, hoping Mr. Jackson wouldn't notice. No such luck.

"Nice of you to join us, Miss Ellis," he said without looking up from the whiteboard. "We're just reviewing yesterday's exam results."

Every head turned toward me, and I felt my cheeks burn. I hurried to an empty seat next to Amy, my wet hair dripping onto my notebook as I tried to make myself invisible. Sarah's ice-blue eyes found mine across the room, and the look she gave me could have frozen hell over.

"You okay?" Amy whispered from the seat next to mine. She looked genuinely concerned, probably because I looked like a drowned rat. She started to reach for some tissues from her bag, but then her gaze flicked to Sarah, who was still staring at us with that predatory smile. Amy's hand slowly withdrew.

That's how it worked in Beacon Hills. Even Amy, my only real friend, knew better than to openly associate with me when Sarah was watching. Cross the Sterlings, and suddenly your college recommendation letters might get "lost," or your part-time job applications might mysteriously disappear.

"I'm fine," I mouthed back, opening my notebook to yesterday's assignment.

Mr. Jackson cleared his throat. "As I was saying, yesterday's exam had one particularly challenging problem at the end." He turned to face the class, his expression pleased. "Benjamin, would you mind coming up to demonstrate your solution?"

Benjamin Whitman stood up, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses as he walked to the front. He was wearing his usual preppy uniform—khakis, navy polo and leather loafers. Everything about him screamed future Ivy League lawyer, which made sense considering his dad ran the biggest law firm in three counties.

"Sure thing, Mr. Jackson," he said, picking up a marker and starting to write on the whiteboard. His handwriting was perfect, of course.

As he worked through the problem step by step, I found myself checking my own work from yesterday. I'd used a completely different approach—more direct, fewer steps. I'd been proud of it until I realized that standing out in any way was dangerous when Sarah Sterling was in the same room.

"Excellent work, Benjamin," Mr. Jackson said as the class applauded politely. "This is exactly the kind of analytical thinking the AP graders are looking for."

Benjamin capped the marker and turned to head back to his seat, but then he paused. "Actually, Mr. Jackson, I should mention that Rainey got it right too. I saw her solution yesterday, and she used a much more elegant approach. "

The room went dead silent.

Every eye in the classroom was on me again, but this time it felt different. More intense. More dangerous. I could practically feel Sarah's rage radiating from across the room.

Then a knock on the classroom door interrupted, and I'd never been more grateful for anything in my life. Mrs. Smith, the guidance counselor, poked her head in.

"Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Jackson," she said, stepping into the room with someone behind her. "This is our new transfer student. His academic records show he should be able to handle AP Calculus."

Mr. Jackson nodded. "Of course. Welcome."

As Benjamin walked back to his seat, he passed close to the doorway. I watched him pause for just a second, his nostrils flaring slightly like he'd caught a scent that confused him. His expression shifted to something I couldn't quite read—wary, maybe?

The girls in the front row started whispering to each other, craning their necks to get a better look at whoever was still standing in the hallway. Even some of the guys seemed curious about the mysterious new arrival.

Then the transfer student stepped into the classroom, and my heart practically stopped.

It was him. The one who'd saved me from Sarah yesterday.

He pulled off his worn baseball cap, revealing tousled sandy brown hair and those impossible green-gold eyes that seemed to see everything.

"Please introduce yourself to the class," Mr. Jackson said kindly. "Then find a seat and we'll get you caught up on today's lesson on limits and derivatives."

The new guy scanned the room with those predatory eyes. When his gaze passed over me, I felt like a deer caught in headlights.

"Sunny," he said simply, his voice that same low drawl I remembered from yesterday. He didn't offer any other information, didn't smile, didn't try to make friends. Just "Sunny."

Without another word, he started walking toward the back of the classroom. Toward me.

My pulse quickened as he approached. I tried to focus on my notes, to pretend I hadn't noticed him, but it was impossible.

As he passed my row, something on his backpack—a metal buckle or clasp—caught in my damp hair. I felt the sudden tug and inhaled sharply, my hand automatically reaching up to free the tangled strands.

Without thinking, I pulled my small scissors from my pencil case and quickly snipped the caught pieces. A few wet locks fell to the floor as I freed myself from whatever had caught them.

Sunny stopped walking. He turned and tapped lightly on my desk, and I looked up to find those green-gold eyes staring down at me with an expression I couldn't read.

"Sorry," he said quietly.

"Is everything alright back there?" Mr. Jackson called out.

"Just a small accident," Sunny replied without taking his eyes off me. "Nothing serious."

He slid into the empty seat directly behind mine. Almost immediately after settling into his seat, Sunny folded his arms on the desk and put his head down, like he was planning to sleep through the entire class.

"Alright, class," Mr. Jackson continued, turning back to the whiteboard. "Let's work through another related rates problem. This is another AP exam favorite."

I bent over my notebook, copying down the problem and trying to ignore the way Sarah kept glancing back at me with murder in her eyes.

Sure enough, while Mr. Jackson was writing on the board, Sarah "accidentally" flicked her expensive designer pen in my direction. It hit my forehead right next to yesterday's bruise, adding a fresh sting to the collection of marks she'd already left on me.

I pressed my hand to the spot, feeling the warm trickle that meant the skin had broken slightly. Around me, the other students pretended not to notice.

Because in Beacon Hills, nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of the Sterling family.