Page 11 of Shattered Ice
“I expected you to be late,” I say, sliding a practice problem forward. “Which younailed.”
His gaze flicks to the page, then back to me. “What’s in it for you?” The question is sharp, probing for a weakness.
“My scholarship is tied to yours,” I say, the words tasting bitter. “If you fail, I lose everything. This isn’t about helping you. It’s about my survival.”
That makes him still. “They told you that?”
“Not directly. But Lansing made it clear. You’re an asset. I’m a safeguard.”
He taps a knuckle against the table. “Asset. Safeguard. Same thing.” His tone is flat, dismissive, but I see the barest flicker ofa muscle in his jaw, a split-second glance away before his eyes lock back on mine, colder than before. His hands tense on the table for a moment, like he’d rather break something than admit it stings.
“Fine,” I slice back. “Asset or not, you need a seventy-two in Statistics. We’re starting with conditional probability. Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“Do you want to?”
His stare sharpens. “I want to get this over with.”
For ten minutes, I teach, breaking down the logic. He doesn’t write a single note. He just watches, eyes narrowed. It’s not boredom; it’s scrutiny. He’s studying me, not the formulas, and the intensity makes a bead of sweat prickle under my collar. Finally, he mutters the calculation under his breath, and I see it click. He’s not dumb. His brain just runs on different circuitry.
“Try this one yourself,” I say, nudging a pencil across the table.
He picks it up and leans over the page, the scratch of graphite loud in the narrow alcove. When he finishes, he tosses the pencil down. “You always this patient?”
“Only when something’s salvageable.”
His mouth tilts, humorless. “So I’m salvageable?”
“You’re balanced on a blade, Hale. One slip, and you bleed.”
A sharp laugh escapes him. “You don’t act like a tutor.”
“No?”
“You act like someone who’s never learned how to lose.”
I slot the pencil back into its pouch. “You act like someone who’s never been told no.”
That earns a thin, dangerous smile. His gaze flicks to my bare wrist. “Most tutors watch the clock. You haven’t checked the time once.”
My hand stills. “You noticed that?”
“Inotice everything.” It’s not a brag; it’s a warning. His stare clings, dissecting, claiming.
“I’m not your opponent,” I say, sharper than I mean to.
“You sure?”
The silence stretches, knifelike. I snap my folder shut. “That’s enough for today. Same time Wednesday.”
“I have practice.”
“Then move it.”
His jaw ticks. He doesn’t push back. “I’ll be here.”
I shoulder my backpack and stand. He doesn’t move, just watches as I walk out, the weight of his stare burning between my shoulder blades. I nearly collide with Talia Addison in the main corridor. She’s heading in the other direction, a stack of what looks like quiz papers clutched in her arms. Her eyes meet mine, wide with a kind of weary sympathy. She gives me a small, tight smile—a silent acknowledgment of the thankless job we now share. I nod back, grateful, but as I pass, the thought claws at me:being seen walking out of this room is dangerous.One wrong pair of eyes, oneChroniclewhisper, and I’m not a tutor. I’m the scholarship girl chained to the captain.
