The Girl He Couldn't Break

Chapter 3: Detention With the Devil

Samantha's Pov

The voice wasn't Peter's. It was deeper, smooth, and laced with quiet amusement. I spun around, my heart hammering against my ribs, and found myself face-to-face with a tall boy wearing a silver school emblem on his blazer. He had sharp, intelligent eyes and a stack of textbooks balanced easily in one arm.

"Who the hell are you?" I snapped, my eyes narrowing as i stepped back.

"Marcus," the boy replied easily, not flinching for a second under my glare. "Library assistant. And I'm pretty sure threatening new students violates the school charter."

Marcus looked down at me, offering a reassuring smile. "You've got guts, new girl. But be careful. People like Peter don't like losing."

I spent the rest of the evening repeating his warning in my head.

I barely slept that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Peter’s face again. The coldness in his eyes, the arrogance in his voice, and the way the entire school moved aside for him like he owned the place. Worst of all, I hated the strange, suffocating tension I had felt when he leaned close to me in the hallway. I hated it so much.

By the time morning came, I was exhausted.

The small apartment I shared with my mother felt like a peaceful sanctuary compared to the war zone of West Bridge High School.

The warm aroma of fried eggs and bacon filled the kitchen while soft gospel music played quietly from an old radio near the window.

“You seem distracted,” my mother said gently, placing breakfast on the table.

I forced a smile. “Just tired.”

“Are you sure school is okay?”

For a moment, I almost told her everything. But I stopped myself. She already worked two brutal jobs just to keep our lives stable. The last thing I wanted was to burden her with my problems.

“It’s fine,” I lied softly.

She smiled warmly, kissing my forehead. “You’re strong, Samantha. Don’t let anybody make you feel small.” Those words stayed in my head the entire bus ride to school. Unfortunately, the moment I stepped through the gates of West Bridge, reality shattered my peace.

Students started whispering the exact second they saw me.

“There she is.”

“That’s the girl who fought Peter.”

“She’s actually pretty.”

“I heard Peter’s planning revenge.”

I ignored the stares and marched toward my locker. But just as I reached for the handle, a heavy hand slammed against the metal right above my head.

BANG.

I froze. I already knew who it was before turning around.

Peter.

His dark eyes stared down at me intensely, trapped between his arm and the locker. Two of his friends stood just behind him, watching the show with cruel amusement.

Peter leaned lazily against the locker beside mine. “You really enjoy embarrassing yourself, don’t you?” he asked coldly.

I shut my locker calmly, refusing to look trapped, and faced him head-on. “And you enjoy bullying people weaker than you. Don’t you?”

One of Peter’s friends let out a sharp, awkward laugh. “Damn.”

Peter’s jaw tightened instantly. “You should be careful how you speak to me.”

I folded my arms. “Or what? You’ll slap me again because your fragile ego got hurt?”

The hallway became deathly quiet.

For the first time since meeting him, Peter looked genuinely caught off guard. It wasn't anger—it looked dangerously close to a flicker of guilt. I caught it immediately. His eyes darkened, and he quickly looked away from me.

“I didn’t come here to argue with you,” he muttered.

“Then move,” I snapped.

Peter stared at me stubbornly, his jaw setting. “No, I won't. Do your worst.”

I scoffed in sheer disbelief. “You act like a child.”

“And you talk too much. You are annoying, poor, and wretched.” Peter laughed, but it sounded forced.

I rolled my eyes. “That insult is getting old.”

Something dangerously close to amusement flickered across Peter’s face, disappearing almost as fast as it arrived. But before I could react, a loud, authoritative voice cut through the air.

“Mr. Kingston! Miss Reed!”

We both snapped our heads around. A middle-aged woman wearing sharp glasses stood nearby, holding several heavy grading books tightly to her chest. Mrs. Carter. The literature teacher. She stared at us with deep suspicion.

“I assume you two were responsible for the disgraceful disruption in the hallway yesterday?”

Neither of us answered.

Mrs. Carter sighed heavily. “Wonderful. Since both of you clearly enjoy conflict so much, you’ll spend the afternoon together in detention.”

My eyes widened. “What?”

Peter looked equally furious. “Absolutely not.”

Mrs. Carter raised an eyebrow, her tone icy. “That wasn’t a suggestion. By four o’clock, both of you will report to the literature hall. Don’t be late.”

She turned on her heel and walked away. The hallway immediately exploded into frantic whispers.

Peter Kingston in detention? With the new scholarship girl? It was unbelievable. It was historic.

I turned toward Peter, glaring at him with pure rage. “This is your fault.”

“My fault?” Peter scoffed, stepping closer. “You’re the one always provoking me!”

“Provoking you?” I repeated, my voice rising. “You literally slapped me on my first day!”

Peter suddenly went dead quiet. The tension between us shifted instantly, growing thick and heavy. His expression hardened, but I saw it again—that strange, deeply buried flash of regret in his eyes. He looked away first, running a hand through his hair.

“Just stay out of my way,” he muttered, before walking off with his friends trailing behind him.

I stared after him, completely confused. Why did it suddenly feel like Peter himself didn’t even know why he acted the way he did?

**********************

By four o’clock, the literature hall was nearly empty. Except for Mrs. Carter sitting at her desk grading papers, the room was a tomb.

Peter was already there. He sat at the far right end of the room, lazily spinning an expensive pen between his fingers. He looked completely calm, and unaffected by the punishment.

I purposely chose a desk as far away from him as possible.

Mrs. Carter looked up briefly. We both braced ourselves, expecting a long, agonizing lecture about our behavior. Instead, she just dipped her pen in red ink and pointed to the floor.

“You two will organize these books in the library section. And no fighting.”

For the first time, I noticed the massive piles of books gathered at her feet. There were American classics by F. Scott Fitzgerald, J.D. Salinger, and Nathaniel Hawthorne. Beside them sat the heavy British plays of William Shakespeare.

Ironically, both of us absolutely hated literature.

Neither of us said a word. We quietly stood up, walked to the heavy stacks, and began our punishment in complete, suffocating silence.