Page 127 of Allegiant

“What are you doing here?” I blurt out. Several faces turn in my direction, but only one has my attention.

“I’m here for class.”

I drink up the details of him. The cautious gleam in his eyes. How his beard is a little shorter, like he’s trimmed it. Even his hair looks tidier. Like he isn’t as broken by this as I am. I wonder if there’s a reason for his sudden appearance. It’s only been a couple of days, but it feels like an eternity.

I can’t stop looking at him. Samson seems to be doing the same with me. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s trying to stop himself from striding across the room to grab me. To kiss me. To hold me close.

Well, he can’t. He lost that right the second his lies were uncovered.

A woman to Samson’s left clears her throat. “Are we in the right studio? I know we weren’t expecting you to be teaching until after the show.”

Her question snaps me back into the present. As much as I want to kick Samson out, I don’t want to cause a scene.

Which is likely exactly what Samson is banking on.

I grind my teeth together as I force myself to glare at him. I want to cry, want to break down, but I can’t do that here. Not when everyone is watching, not when it will make me look weak. And really, does he think this will be enough? That turning up to one of my classes is going to make me miraculously forgive him?

The nerve. The fucking audacity. I should call security and have him escorted from the building, but doing that would show him just how much he’s bothering me.

Fine, I tell myself. Let him stay. He’s just another student. He’s not anyone important.

God, how I wish I believed that. I don’t know what’s worse—the obvious lie or how the emptiness lifted when I spotted Samson. Okay, so the anger I’m feeling isn’t much better, but it turns out I prefer it.

Forget fifty. I’m seventy shades of fucked up.

I don’t look at him as I greet the class. Not even when he comes to stand directly in front of me.

My nostrils flare as I catch a hint of a sheepish smile from the corner of my eye. Samson really thinks this is going to work. That he can just plant himself in my path and force me to pay him attention.

Nope. Not happening. If I do that, I will crack. And I can’t crack.

Guess I’m going to be teaching on the move this evening.

That’s exactly what I do.

I demonstrate on the fly, the whole class rotating as I zip around the edges of the room, demonstrating the steps. Then I’m weaving in between them, offering feedback, praise, and tips.

I don’t stop by Samson. Not even once.

I know he’s struggling. From how red his face is and the loud huffs he keeps expelling, half the class does. If anyone thinks it’s weird that he’s the one student I’m actively avoiding, they don’t call me on it.

It’s the most unprofessional I’ve ever been inside this studio, and I hate it.

Oh really? More unprofessional than the time you and Samson almost fucked in here?

I exhale slowly. Not everything needs to come back to him.

Except it always does.

Every one of my thoughts returns to him, as they have done these past few days. I try to keep my gaze off him, but my eyes betray me. My feet try too, but I fight against them. Against the urge to walk right up to him, throw myself into his arms, and beg him to never hurt me again. To beg him to say he’s sorry again, to grovel so I can forgive him.

But I can’t. I won’t. He can’t be trusted.

He’s proven that already.

What I don’t understand is why he’s here. I’ve made it pretty fucking clear that we’re over.

Maybe he’s here to finish the job. The one he was originally given.