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He rolled his eyes. “Can’t wait.”
As he stepped out of the main office, he considered that there’d once been a time when he wouldn’t even have thought of walking out on a teacher—much less acting like that in her presence. Then again, there’d once been a time when he’d had expectations to live up to.
He wondered if Becca would talk to him. He’d sent her a text during the week school had been closed, and he’d been surprised to get an immediate response.
Then he’d read it: No offense, but no one trusts you, Hunter.
But here, at school, she might be more receptive. Especially if he told her what Calla had said.
In fourth-period World History, Becca was sitting with Chris, as usual, her dark hair hanging down over one shoulder. She looked up as soon as Hunter walked into the room, and the intensity in her gray eyes almost pinned him against the doorjamb.
When he’d first moved here, he’d sensed that Becca was a Fifth, like he was, but he’d known right away that she wasn’t a Guide. Becca was too trusting. Too kind. He’d liked her right away—but he’d come here to finish his father’s task of destroying the Merricks, and she was an easy link through her friendship with Chris. So Hunter had used her.
And he’d lost any chance he’d had with her.
She stared at him for a long moment, then turned her head to whisper something to Chris.
Hunter felt a flicker of . . . something. Not quite regret—and not quite longing, either. He begged the air to carry her words to him, but it refused.
Maddening, especially when Chris laughed under his breath and gave Hunter a look.
Hunter wanted to stride across the room and hit Chris Merrick in the face. He pictured it happening, aiming his punch through his target like his father had taught him, imagining the way bones would give way under his hand.
“Excuse me.”
He was blocking the door. Hunter shifted to the side to let the girl pass. He forced his hand to unclench.
Then he caught the aroma of cinnamon and apples, the sheen of light on blond hair. The new girl from this morning was frowning at a blue paper. “Is this World History?”
“Yes.” He racked his brain for something intelligent to say, but then her eyes lifted from the paper and stole every coherent thought from his head.
Like what you see?
Inexplicably, he wanted to touch her, to feel her heartbeat under his fingertips, to catch some of that scent on his palm.
Now he was glad he couldn’t speak. He’d probably sound like a psycho.
She shifted the bag higher on her shoulder. “You’re big on staring, huh?”
He jerked his eyes away, feeling heat course up his neck. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Just don’t blame me for staring back.”
He swung his gaze back. Again, he had no idea whether she was flirting. Her tone was so . . . direct.
“I have a theory about piercings,” she said.
“I’d like to hear it.” He could be direct back.
Mr. Beamis, the ancient History teacher, cleared his throat behind them. “Perhaps we could all take our seats?”
The girl didn’t move, so Hunter didn’t, either.
Three empty seats were available in the classroom. One immediately to their left, the desk almost touching the teacher’s. One at the back, directly behind Becca. And one in the third row, two seats over from Hunter.
“Where do you sit?” the girl said.
He nodded toward his seat in the third row. The desks were arranged two-by-two, and he’d been paired with Monica Lawrence for the semester project.
