Very dignified.
I winced internally as I hurried to keep up with his long strides.
Really?
Was it not enough that he looked like some sort of devastatingly attractive celestial war machine?
Did he also have to walk like the ground wasn’t even worth his time?
“Then get a tutor,” he said without looking back.
“I’m trying!” I snapped, breath already coming faster as I struggled to match his pace. “But you keep walking away!”
That got his attention.
He stopped.
Abruptly.
And I walked straight into him.
Of course I did.
I grabbed his arm to steady myself.
Bad move.
Very bad move.
His gaze dropped instantly to where my fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve.
And something in his expression—something sharp and barely controlled, something that felt like a warning—had me trembling in my boots.
“Don’t,” he said, voice low, controlled in a way that made my skin prickle. “Touch me again.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
Not loud.
Not cruel.
Just final.
I let go immediately, heat flooding my face.
“Sorry,” I muttered, taking a step back. “Your legs are, um, excessively long, and I’d prefer not to pass out mid-conversation trying to keep up with you.”
Fucking hell.
Why did I say things like that?
Why was I like this?
I pressed my lips together, trying to recover some shred of composure.
Too late.
Always too late.
