A Higher Education: A Modern Retelling of Pride and Prejudice

by Rosalie Stanton

“Uh huh,” Will drawled, sounding about as enthusiastic as Elizabeth felt. “More likely you’re looking to get laid. You might as well forget it—her friend’s decided to nominate herself Chief Cockblocker, so she’s more trouble than she’s worth.”

So un-Darcy-like but I love it.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use the word cockblocker,” Charlie said. “I assume you’re talking about the friend.”

“You know I don’t like these things.” He sighed—one of those sighs that originates somewhere in the bottom of the stomach and emerges with a growl. It damn near rattled the door. “And you always do this. You always beg me to come along—”

“Well,” Charlie said, “from what Jane said, she’s really nice.” Will barked a short laugh. “Nice. Perhaps when her fangs aren’t showing.” “You’re not exactly a people person yourself, you know.” “I don’t go biting the heads off of random strangers.” “Well, no. That’d be hell on your teeth.” “It’s just… I don’t know.” He paused, seeming to struggle to find the right words. “Not attractive.” A pang struck Elizabeth in the center of her chest—hard, unforgiving, and familiar. Just as familiar as the resounding swell of anger that rippled from the impact, rolling hard toward a boiling hot explosion.

Stifling a growl, she jerked the door open. It caught Will in the shin on the out swing, and he released a woof of pain before his eyes found hers. And the color promptly drained from his pompous face. “And here I so badly wanted you to like me,” she spat. “I… I…” Charlie picked his jaw up from the floor and started to laugh. Elizabeth ignored him. “This might come as a shock to you, assface,” Elizabeth continued, slamming the door shut with enough force that a few heads turned, “but my self-worth is not dependent on whether men find me attractive. Especially not over-important douchebags like you. So you can take that 1950s attitude of yours, ball it up real nice, and shove it up your ass.”

Badass

“How goes the homework?” He cast a mournful eye to the notebook on the table. “Well, it’s hard to tell at the moment. The morning’s been a little tense. It gets mouthy with me, I get mouthy with it, we both say things we regret, and getting back on track just seems to take longer the more often we fight.” She snorted. “You often anthropomorphize your work?” “That was an impressive word, that. Really impressive.” “It means to give inanimate objects feelings.” Wickham’s eyes went wide. “Shh,” he rasped, bracing his hands over the notebook.

“No, you need to talk about it. I need to get back to my night.” She waved at her bed in demonstration, which she realized, a moment too late, had been a mistake. Her dildo was only partially covered by her blankets and, thanks to the soft lamplight in the room, visibly slick. Elizabeth felt her stomach drop. Shit.