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“Like I care.”
His tone was a smack to the face.
But what did she expect?
She traced a fingertip over the tattoo on his forearm, something scripty and long. She recognized the symbols as Arabic or Persian or something, but she couldn’t read the language. “What’s this really say?” she said, making her voice provocative. “Something dirty?”
He smacked her hand away, as if she were a troublesome fly.
“So touchy,” she whispered mockingly.
“You don’t need to be here,” he said. “I told Silver I didn’t need you.”
“You and Silver are besties all of a sudden?”
“Let’s just say he didn’t climb in my lap to get his point across.”
Well, that stung. She sat in silence after that, letting the last bits of rain collect in her hair and chill her neck. She didn’t want to be sitting next to him now, but getting up and leaving would let him know he’d gotten to her.
After a minute, Hunter sighed, a breath full of weight, like he was going to apologize.
But he didn’t.
They sat there for the longest time, just breathing the same air, waiting for the end-of-class bell that would send students through the doors.
Maybe she was the one who owed him an apology. Or at least an explanation.
“I was never trying to play you,” she said quietly.
His posture tightened, as if he was going to snap back—but then he didn’t say anything. It gave her courage to continue.
“When I got here,” she said, “I didn’t know who you were. I was just supposed to find the Merricks and figure out how hard they’d be to kill. You were kind of like . . . a wild card.”
He didn’t say anything, but he was listening. She could feel it.
“That first day—you defended me in the school office, but then you had some issue with Calla, and then the fight with Gabriel Merrick—I couldn’t figure you out.” She paused. “I still can’t.”
“I can’t figure you out, either,” he said, his tone sharp. “I mean, you throw yourself at every guy you see—”
“I do not!”
He gave her a look.
She sat up straight and gave him one right back. “What?”
He sighed and turned his attention back to the rear door of the middle school.
Then he abruptly looked back. “What happened to your face?”
She blinked. “What?”
“You have a bruise.”
Kate put a hand to her face, and he shook his head, reaching out to touch her opposite cheek. “Here,” he said.
His hand was warm, and she was surprised how it almost made her breath catch, just that little bit of contact.
If she said something about it, he’d probably mock her. So she brushed his hand away. “Sparring with Silver.”
