Page 37 of Shattered Ice
I push the worksheet forward. “First problem.”
He doesn’t take the pencil. Instead, he leans forward. “Tell me why you think I can do this.”
I steady my hand on the page. “Because you can read patterns. Angles. Speed. That’s all math is.”
His gaze drops to my mouth like a stone into still water. “Careful, Harrington.” His voice scrapes low. “You make it sound easy.”
“Maybe it is,” I reply, my pulse anything but steady.
Finally, he takes the pencil. His hand brushes mine, a jolt of hot electricity shooting up my arm. He notices. Of course he does. A flicker of dark triumph flashes in his eyes—the old, instinctual reaction—but it’s immediately replaced by something I can’t read. Frustration at himself, maybe.
He leans over the page, working the problem slowly. The scratch of graphite fills the silence. My chest is tight, hyper-aware of his arm shifting with each stroke. When he finishes, he drops the pencil and leans back, his thigh knocking mine beneath the table. Not an accident. The press of his knee is a steady, quiet shackle.
I mark the problem correct. “Good.”
“That sounded reluctant,” he drawls.
“You’re used to people clapping when you breathe,” I shoot back. “I’m not impressed that easily.” I press my knee back. Not an inch gifted.
For a split second, his expression is unguarded—a flash of something that looks almost like respect. Then the predatory grin slides back into place. “Keep telling yourself that.”
I slide the next problem closer, my fingers brushing his hand again, this time on purpose. His knee presses firmly into mine, a steady, unwavering pressure. The same claim of territory as before, but tonight it feels less like an invasion and more like an anchor. Part of me leans into the stability of it. The other part screams that anchors are just a prettier word for chains.
“You don’t seem afraid of me,” he murmurs.
“Should I be?” I reply, my voice catching slightly.
He doesn’t answer, just stares, long enough that the air between us tightens and grows hot. He scrawls another answer.
“Wrong,” I say, tapping the line.
He smirks. “Maybe I like being corrected.”
The words snag deep inside me. My throat goes dry. “Then get used to it.”
We go another round. The proximity builds. At one point, he leans forward, and the sheer size of him sends a jolt of pure panic through me. He notices. His mouth tilts, but the usual cruel satisfaction isn’t there. He just looks… observant. As if he’s filed away another piece of data.
“Distracted?” he murmurs.
The sound snaps me back. The fear is real, but it’s tangled with a confusing, traitorous flutter. “No,” I say, my voice tight.
We keep going until it stops being tutoring and feels more like sparring. By the end, my skin is too hot where his arm brushed mine, where his knee never moved. I stack the papers with clipped, precise movements, my voice steady when I speak. “Same time next week.”
His gaze lingers on my hands before lifting to my face. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
The air feels scorched as I slide my notes into my bag. My pulse won’t settle, and I hate that he knows it. But the flicker of victory in his eyes wasn’t just about getting under my skin. It was more complicated. It was the look of a man losing a war against himself, and not knowing if he’s relieved or terrified by it.
He can mark the paper with his answers. He doesn’t get to mark me.
Not yet.
Chapter 22
Clara
Theespressomachinehisseslike it’s tired of me, spitting scalding droplets that leave angry red constellations across my wrists. Steam clings to my skin like a second layer, my hairline damp under the café’s fluorescent lights that buzz like trapped insects. My forearms throb, muscles quivering from tamping shot after shot. The smell is thick enough to chew: a miasma of burnt beans, cloying caramel rot, and the buttery sweat of day-old croissants. The stink crawls into the seams, something that won’t wash out.
I’m halfway through wiping down the marble counter, scrubbing at a stubborn mocha stain with my thumbnail, when the door jingles. The bell’s last ring hangs like a warning. It’s Zoë, but she’s not alone. Talia is with her, looking just as outof place in the café as I feel. She offers me a small, sympathetic smile as Zoë plants herself at the counter.
