Five Years Wasted Now They Beg Her Back novel Chapter 67

The rain was coming down hard that day.

A few boys in St. Clarion Academy uniforms were tying a teenager to the rooftop railing.

The one in the lead was the son of some newly rich tycoon in Jarrow City, arrogant and domineering.

He held a baseball bat, tapping it against the tied-up boy’s cheek again and again.

“Who the hell do you think you are, still acting all high and mighty?”

“You think you’re still the great Damien Clarke?”

“Let me tell you, right now, you’re nothing but a stray dog without a home!”

“Your old man’s in jail. You still got money for tuition? Huh?”

Rain mixed with blood trickled down the boy’s handsome, pale face.

Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth, and his white school uniform shirt was covered in muddy footprints.

But even in this state of utter humiliation, his back remained ramrod straight.

He glared at them, not saying a word.

His eyes burned with unyielding, feral defiance.

A sharp pang went through Grace’s heart.

She saw a reflection of herself in this boy.

The same bitterness and anger of being isolated by the world, of being trampled underfoot by everyone.

She didn’t know where she found the courage.

Perhaps the resentment that had been building for so long finally found an outlet.

From a nearby corner, she grabbed a discarded metal pipe and, with all her strength, slammed it against a large metal drum by the side of the rooftop.

CLANG—!!

An ear-splitting crash echoed across the open space.

The boys who were beating him flinched at the sudden noise.

“Who’s there?!”

They looked warily toward the source of the sound.

Taking advantage of their distraction, Grace took a deep breath and screamed at the top of her lungs.

“The dean is coming—!!”

Her voice, trembling with nervousness and fear, was surprisingly loud.

The boy lifted his head, his gaze falling on her.

There was no gratitude in his eyes, only annoyance and wariness.

“Get lost,” he said.

Grace stopped in her tracks.

She looked at him, but she didn't leave.

She silently pulled a neatly folded handkerchief with a small floral pattern from the pocket of her faded uniform.

It was the only clean thing she had on her.

She walked over to him and, standing on her toes, began to awkwardly and clumsily wipe the blood from his face.

Damien instinctively tried to turn his head away.

But though her movements were clumsy, there was a stubbornness to them.

A soft touch landed on his cold cheek.

Damien froze.

He stared blankly at the girl before him, a head shorter than him and as thin as a reed.