Page 23 of The Bargain

Forcing a neutral smile onto my face, I say, “If it makes you more comfortable, then fine. We’ll add it to the rules.”

He laughs, quietly, almost sweetly. “All these rules, love. Makes me wonder what would happen if we broke ’em.”

“Why would we?”

“Because breaking rules is fun.”

“Breaking rules is for people who have nothing better to do.”

He rolls his eyes. “Spoken like someone who never has fun.”

“My idea of fun, I can imagine, is vastly different to yours.”

“Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” he says, throwing me a look from beneath lowered lids. “One way or another.”

Inexplicably, a shiver runs through me, scattering goosebumps up my arms. Elias laughs again, low and mocking, pushes past me out of the shed, and walks away with a casual wave of his fingers.

Zafira catches me the following day, while I’m rushing on my way to a prefects’ meeting.

Our friendship is an odd one: during school, we both tend to keep to our own circles. She’s a bit of a loner and doesn’t really hang out with the rest of my friends. Instead, we spend most of our time on the tennis court.

What I like most about her is that she’s a fast learner and a fierce competitor. The kind of opponent who wouldn’t offer victory as a consolation prize to anyone—not even if her opponent was a crying child.

“I’ve got a meeting in five,” I tell her as she firmly loops her arm through mine.

She’s the only girl in our year who’s as tall as me. She grins, showing sharp white teeth.

“Perfect. Five minutes is all this is going to take.”

I throw her a look. “I can give you advice on how to improve your backhand later.”

“Nice try.”

Zaffy pulls me suddenly off course, half-dragging me into an alcove, her body blocking off the flow of third year students heading to lunch. A marble bust of Marie Skłodowska Curie watches down on us, her iconic updo crowned with a halo of sunlight.

“What’s going on between you and Elias Lennox, then?”

“Who told you there’s anything going on?”

“Don’t be so difficult.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Don’t be so nosy.”

“How could I not be?” Zafira smirks. “This one’s not like the others.”

A wave of heat rises into my cheeks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zafira pokes my cheek. “None of the others ever made your face that red, for one.”

I bat her hand away. “Drop it.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll report you for breaking uniform regulations.”

Zafira glances down at herself. She wears the Spearcrest uniform a bit the way you’d see the token rebel in a boy band wear one: loose tie, buttons undone over a wife-beater, golden chains, one bearing a gilded hamsa pendant. The waist of her skirt is rolled up, showing long bruise-smeared legs, knee-high black socks and combat boots.

“I don’t get it?” she says, looking back up. “We look the exact same?”