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Perhaps she had believed it would spare Tresa any unnecessary pain.
However, the die had been cast, and regret lingered too late in the wake of my merciless words.
Just as I said that, the girl I had been talking about, Skye, emerged from the gate and started walking towards us.
She looked just as stunning as I had pictured in my mind, but there was something different about her, something that caught my attention.
She had transformed, and I found myself liking the change. My focus instantly shifted from Tresa to the captivating figure coming my way. There was an air of innocence and serenity around her that sent my heart racing with anticipation. In that moment, a vivid recollection flooded my mind, accompanied by a downright filthy thought. I couldn't help but imagine pulling her close and covering her with an endless stream of passionate kisses.
I couldn't keep denying it any longer. It hit me like a ton of bricks—I was head over heels in love, hopelessly and irreversibly, with Skye.
Chapter Ten
Dax
In that moment, as i gazed upon Skye for what must have been the hundredth time (although i had long lost count) Skye's presence, even from across the bustling hallway, was a discordant note in the symphony of my day. Her mere existence threw my carefully orchestrated apathy into disarray, planting an unwelcome seed of curiosity in the barren soil of my usual indifference. Watching her, studying her, had become a perverse pleasure, a secret addiction I couldn't quite shake.
So when our paths collided, Tresa and her posse flanking me like loyal attack dogs, the shift in Skye's demeanor was a delicious morsel. The flicker of unease in her eyes, the way she scurried for the shadows, it was a thrill I couldn't resist savoring.
My effortless smile widened as she veered, seeking refuge in the anonymity of the crowd. A beckoning wave sent to Greg, my loyal shadow, was met with a nod and a toss of my backpack. Then, with a predator's grace, I stalked after Skye, the hunt a game I couldn't lose.
Her retreat was a mere formality, a predictable dance I'd orchestrated countless times before.
But as her pace quickened, those delicate hands flying up to shield her face like a flimsy veil, a spark of something unexpected ignited within me.
The stares, the whispers, they were mere background noise, irrelevant against the symphony playing in my head. I exuded confidence, charm – it was my armor, my currency.
But Skye, with her hesitant steps and averted gaze, refused to play by the script. Her disdain, etched into her every turn, was a challenge I couldn't ignore. So, I closed the distance, a predator closing in on its prey. Her wrist, a fragile butterfly caught in my calloused grip, ceased its futile struggle the moment my fingers found their mark.
The air crackled with unspoken questions, a storm brewing beneath the surface. My eyes, cold and calculating, held hers, daring her to break. This wasn't just about dominance; it was about a hunger I couldn't quite define, a need to unravel the mysteries locked within her guarded heart.
The game had just begun, and Skye, the unwilling pawn, was about to discover that the rules I played by were far from ordinary. The stage was set, the spotlight focused. And as I watched her defiance crumble under my touch, a twisted smile danced on my lips – the taste of her fear, the promise of a game far more intricate, far more intoxicating than any I'd ever played before.
The defiance in her voice was a delicious spark, a flicker of rebellion against the iron grip I held on her wrist. "Let go!" she hissed, but the fire in her eyes was tinged with a vulnerability that only fueled my amusement.
The whispers and stares, those whispers of our little game, only served to heighten her blush, her embarrassment a delicate bloom on her porcelain skin.
"Can't you ever stand still?" I feigned frustration, my voice a hush whisper. But the truth was, her skittishness was a dance I reveled in, a push-and-pull that kept me endlessly intrigued.
Her gaze met mine, a flicker of curiosity battling the defiance. "What do you want now?" she asked, her voice surprisingly steady, considering the grip I held on her. It was like watching a wild bird, trapped but undaunted.
"Just a talk," I rasped, the word falling heavy on my tongue. In that moment, the facade of gentleness I'd struggled to maintain crumbled, revealing the predator beneath the mask. I craved a change, a shift in our dynamic, but the bully in me, the puppeteer relishing the strings of control, always seemed to claw its way back.
Suspicion clouded her eyes, a storm brewing in their depths. "In private," I added with a plea, desperation lacing my voice. "Unless you enjoy the spotlight, the whispers of judgment that follow us like flies." The words were a lie, a desperate bid to tip the scales in my favor. Her opinion, the sting of her judgment, it mattered to me in a way I couldn't explain.
My vulnerability hung heavy in the air, a silent admission of the power she held over me. The lines, once so clear, blurred and shifted, and for a fleeting moment, I wasn't the predator, but the prey, caught in the web of my own desires.
"What do you want to talk about?" she finally asked, a hint of curiosity battling the annoyance in her voice.
My answer, a whispered invitation cloaked in the shadows, hung in the balance, a promise of a game far more intricate, far more dangerous than any I'd ever played before. The taste of her fear, the thrill of the unknown, it was an intoxicating cocktail I couldn't resist.
"Come with me," I rasped, my hand still a firm clasp on her wrist. "And then, maybe, you'll find out." Skye's darting eyes swept the scene, flicking like trapped butterflies against the harsh light of curiosity. The whispers of our audience, a chorus of judgment, seemed to press in on her, turning her cheeks into a canvas of blushing embarrassment. It was a discomfort I relished, a vulnerability that cracked open her carefully constructed shell.
But the discomfort shifted when her gaze landed on Tresa, the flicker of unease morphing into something darker, something I couldn't quite decipher. It was then I realized the hold I had on her hand wasn't just about control; it was about grounding her in the present, a lifeline amidst the swirling storm of her own anxieties.
"Class," she stammered, the word a fragile shield against the weight of attention. "I need to go to class."
"Forget class," I countered, my voice low and steady. My grip tightened around hers, a silent reassurance against the encroaching whispers.
