Page 95 of Twisting Beauty

Nuala was talking. I was nodding at the right intervals and hearing none of it.

A prickle of awareness raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

Across the courtyard, Lorcan sat with Finn, Rafe, and Breezy at the far stone table, one arm slung along the back of his chair.

He was looking straight at me.

Shite.

He lifted two fingers and curled them once, a come-here motion you’d use for a dog. Or a lewd gesture of what he’d done to me while he had me in the straitjacket.

The back of my neck went hot.

For one savage second I considered flipping him off.

But the memory of the deal I’d made with him stopped me cold.

I owe you.

My own words. In my own voice. The grin on his face when I’d said it.

I stood up. Nuala rose with me automatically, already scanning the courtyard for whatever had made me move.

Every step across the cobblestones felt like it had an audience. Students tracked me with open, avid attention.

I kept my chin up and my face neutral as if strolling across the courtyard into sacred Hot Boy territory was something I’d chosen to do.

Lorcan didn’t look up when I stopped in front of him. He was still talking, mid-story, gesturing with one hand. “…but Coach made me run laps anyway, the sadistic bollocks.”

Rafe lost it. Breezy’s whole body shook.

Lorcan let the laughter run out before he glanced up at me.

“Fetch me a coffee,” he said, loud enough that all heads nearby turned toward us.

I forced a smile, the effort of it pulling at something behind my back teeth. “I’ll try not to poison it.”

“Try harder not to spill it,” he said and dropped his gaze back to the table.

I turned away before my face could betray me and stomped all the way to the coffee cart.

Nuala fell into step beside me, her voice dropping the moment we were clear of his table. “What the hell is going on?”

She watched me fumble for coins with hands that were not quite steady.

“Since when do you fetch Lorcan Lasair anything?”

“Since I woke up cursed, apparently,” I muttered, because I couldn’t afford the truth.

She didn’t laugh. I could feel her eyes on the side of my face, taking inventory of what I wasn’t saying. “Liath,” she said quietly.

My name in her voice, low and careful, like she was worried about the answer.

I stared too hard at the stack of coffee lids beside the urn. “Long story.”

My fingers found the lid on his cup before I turned back. I pressed it down, then eased it just slightly loose. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that it would slosh if he tilted it, hopefully all over his expensive dark jacket.

The childishness of the thought only made me hate him more for reducing me to it.