Page 12 of Breaking Isolde
I shake my head. “Just curious.”
She rolls her eyes. “About what? How fast I can run?”
I sit on the edge of the desk. “You’re not running.”
She bristles, but doesn’t argue. “So what do you want?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I reach for her notebook. She snatches it away, fingers locking down.
“Don’t touch my stuff.”
I let my hand fall. “Fine.”
She watches me, suspicion in every line of her body.
We’re at an impasse.
I break the silence. “Why are you here?”
She doesn’t blink. “You know why.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
She considers, “I’m here to take back what you stole. The truth.”
I nod. “Fair enough.”
Her eyes widen a fraction. She wasn’t expecting agreement.
I push off the desk, crowding her just a bit, watching the way her breath speeds up. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“So are you. And for the record, you Boys think you’re the only ones with secrets, but you’re not.”
For a moment, it’s almost funny. She thinks she can outlast me. That she can outplay me, but she can’t.
“Now fuck off, asshole.”
She goes to stand, grabbing her shit and throwing it into her bag before trying to move past me, but I don’t let her get that far. Grabbing her wrist, I swing her into me.
She jerks back, mouth opening for a scream or a curse, but I’m faster. I back her into the wall, not hard, but with enough force that she feels the cold stone at her spine. My hand slides to her throat, thumb pressing just under the jaw, not choking, just a lever. The rest of my body follows, pinning her in place, the crowd flowing around us as if we’re a rock in the stream.
She makes a sound—half gasp, half growl. Her hands come up, nails raking at my wrist, but I’m expecting it, and the pain is nothing.
Her breath stutters. I can feel her pulse, frantic and erratic, under my thumb.
We’re close enough that I can see every shade in her eyes, the ring of blue inside the gray, the little crack of red in the left sclera from a broken capillary. I can smell the shampoo in her hair, the sharp tang of sweat on her skin, the after-ghost of coffee.
The hall is full of students, but the volume drops as we collide. No one wants to intervene. They see the uniform, the familiar shapes, and they avert their eyes. Westpoint’s unwritten rules:never insert yourself into a predator’s kill.
She meets my gaze, furious and unblinking. “Let. Me. Go.”
“No,” I say, and lean in until my lips are just above her ear.
Her pulse jumps.
I could kill her, right here, if that was the game. But it isn’t.
“If I’m not the only one with secrets,” I whisper, “what are yours?”
