Page 151 of Twisting Beauty

Deargán lifted his gaze to me, a sneer on his face as if I disgusted him. “I wasn’t addressing you, boy.”

I switched to Russian. “I know who you are, Mikhailov.” I practically spat his fake name in his face. “Now, back off before I teach you what happens to men who put their hands where they don’t belong.”

His eyes moved over me, taking in my stance. The fists at my sides. The angle of my body, planted between him and her.

“Such vehemence,” he said. “Such violent attachment to your sister. Protective instinct, perhaps?” He paused. “Or… a toxic pathology.”

A low uneasy ripple drifted through the class.

I lifted a finger into his face. “You⁠—”

“Sit down, Mr. Lasair,” he interrupted as though my threats bored him. “Powell’s notes suggest you’re already skimming the edge of failure. I doubt your father will forgive another disgrace.”

The flashback hit before I could brace.

“You have let her become your weakness. Pathetic.”

The crack of my ma’s violin breaking across my back. The pieces of it, of her, scattering on the floor. Alistair standing over me with the snapped neck still in his hand.

“Let me show you how easy it is to control you now. From now on, whatever punishment you earn, she will take.”

I slammed back into my body in that damned lecture hall.

If I stayed standing, my father would hear about it, and he would hurt her.

Sitting was the best protection I could give her.

My body fought me on the way down, knees locking against the shame, spine resisting, every muscle wanting to lunge back up and slam a fist into his face. I fought against it all and sat anyway.

“I thought so,” Deargán said. Only then did he turn and walk back to the front of the class.

Her hand found mine. The squeeze she gave me was different, steadier. I’m here.

I wove my fingers between hers, something lightening in my chest. She was here with me and nothing else mattered.

“Now, Miss Lasair,” Deargán called out from lectern, his voice level. “Answer the question.”

She took in a deep breath and lifted her chin. “It’s only a betrayal,” she said, “if you are right and he is truly your enemy. But what if he is not?”

Her grip tightened on my fingers.

She was defending me.

Defending me to the man she cared about. The man she’d made promises to before me.

I answered her with a slow brush of my thumb along the side of her hand.

Across the room, pain flashed behind Deargán’s eyes for a second before it was gone.

“Careful, Miss Lasair,” he said. “Forgetting who your enemy is always has a cost.”

He turned to the board, picked up the chalk, and started writing again.

The class returned to taking notes.

He was talking about something but I wasn’t hearing him.

Because his name surfaced again. Bron Deargán. I’d heard it spoken before.