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"I already told you I don't have feelings for you, Tresa. But Skye…"
The mention of her name was like a punch to the gut, and Tresa, bless her pitiful instincts, whipped around like a startled deer, checking for eavesdroppers. I knew it stung, the way Skye's name hung in the air like a forgotten melody. It was my weapon, this unspoken affection for the girl who could barely look me in the eye.
"What about Skye?" Tresa whispered, her voice thick with a hurt I secretly relished. "What about the way you look at her like she's spun from moonbeams and stardust?"
I smirked, a cold, predatory thing. "Let's just say, Tresa, that some puzzles are more interesting to solve than others."
And as her face crumpled, I knew this game had just begun.
"What is it about Skye that captivates you?" Tresa asked with curiosity, speaking quietly to maintain privacy. "I mean, I have certain physical features that I consider attractive." Tresa motioned towards her body to highlight her attributes. Tresa did indeed possess an appealing figure, including ample breasts and curvaceous buttocks, but I had already come to terms with that fact. My attention shifted to Tresa's shirt, noticing that one button was undone, partly revealing her chest. She wasn't wearing a bra, and her nipples were visible. Tresa always had a way of surprising me in these situations. "You seem intrigued," Tresa remarked flirtatiously, catching me in my gaze at her partially exposed cleavage. I quickly looked away.
"Yeah, right..." I scoffed dismissively.
"Don't act like you're not curious, Dax!" Tresa said, attempting to arouse my interest. Well, she was mistaken.
The scoff ripped out of me before I could stop it. A rude, guttural sound that echoed my disbelief.
"Don't play games, Tresa," I countered, my voice rough with irritation. Her act, the provocative tilt of her head, the way she brushed a stray strand of hair away from her chest – it was all so calculated, so transparent. "Like I haven't seen a pair of breasts before. Big ones, small ones, everything in between. And yours, trust me, aren't exactly winning any awards."
Her smile faltered, a flicker of hurt crossing her usually confident eyes. But it was gone as fast as it came, replaced by a steely glint. "But mine are the best you've touched," she shot back, her voice a low, dangerous purr.
A bitter chuckle escaped my throat, scratching at the raw space between my ribs. "Last so far," I spat, rubbing my lips with the back of my hand. It wasn't Tresa's curves I craved, not the ones she flaunted like some prize peacock. My gaze, sharp as a switchblade, flicked across the classroom, landing on Skye. Two seats ahead, she sat with her back ramrod straight, a book shield against the world. She didn't need the cheap tricks Tresa relied on.
The air in the classroom thickened with Tresa's simmering jealousy. Her voice, usually a honeyed drawl, dripped with venom. "Why you always lookin' at her like that, huh?"
The words were a challenge, a gauntlet thrown. I smirked, a cruel twist of my lips. "Because," I drawled, savoring the sting in her eyes, "her silence is more intoxicating than your empty chatter. And her skin," I leaned in, relishing the flush creeping up her neck, "it's got the moon jealous."
Tresa's nails dug into the plush armrest, her knuckles white. I knew she hated the way my gaze lingered on Skye, the way it painted her as a pale, ethereal wisp compared to Skye's flamboyant fire. But it was the truth, raw and unapologetic, and it fueled the fire in my gut.
Skye, for all her quietness, was a storm brewing beneath the surface. I saw it in the way her eyes flickered when I spoke, the subtle tremor in her hand holding the book. She was a challenge, an untouched puzzle I yearned to unravel, and Tresa, with her predictable curves and predictable anger, was as dull as dishwater.
So I let the jealousy fester, let it curdle in her chest. It was a weapon, a way to keep her off balance, to carve a space for myself in Skye's guarded world. And as long as my gaze lingered on her, as long as Tresa's fingers dug into the chair, I knew I was winning.
"Ouch," she spat, the word barbed with anger, not pain. "Planning your next masterpiece of cruelty, I suppose? Because that's your specialty, Dax, not hearts." Her jab landed, a flicker of satisfaction igniting in her eyes.
"Cruelty?" I scoffed, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "Let's call it fascination, Tresa. A burning curiosity about the secrets buried beneath that porcelain exterior." My gaze flickered to the empty chair across from me, a phantom image of Skye etched against the fabric. "And I'm not the only one curious, am I?"
A tremor ran through her, a flicker of doubt betraying the fire in her gaze. "Skye's not some fragile doll you can pick apart and reassemble on your whim. She's a storm waiting to break, and you're playing with forces you can't control."
"Second chances, Tresa," I drawled, leaning back with a predator's smile. "They're like whispers in the dark, begging to be heard."
"Whispers you've drowned out with your own roar," she shot back, her voice a whip cracking in the tense air. "Manipulations, threats, mind games – that's your repertoire, Dax. Don't dress it up in fancy words."
"Why settle for the predictable," I countered, my lips curving into a wolfish grin, "when the truth is so much more intoxicating?" Her skepticism was a nectar I couldn't resist savoring. "Gullible? You underestimate her, Tresa. This time, she won't be the pawn. She'll be the queen, playing my game, her every move a desperate plea for my touch."
Tresa's bravado faltered, a flicker of fear dancing in her eyes. "Skye's no puppet, Dax. She'll see through your charade a mile off."
"See me?" I chuckled, the sound like ice cracking. "But that's the delicious irony, isn't it, Tresa? She knows I'm coming, but the pull, oh, the pull she can't resist. No one walks away from Dax unscathed."
Her voice, sharp as a shard of ice, shattered the charged silence. "Don't delude yourself. She rejected you once, remember? I know Skye better than you ever will. She'll run screaming."
A low growl rumbled in my chest. "Running? Not Skye's style. She'll fight, spit fire, but eventually, she'll crumble. And when she does," I leaned in, my voice a hungry whisper, "I'll be there, waiting with open arms and a heart full of promises."
The challenge was laid, the dance begun. Tresa could doubt, could mock, but I knew the truth. Skye was a melody yearning to be played, and I, the maestro, would conduct her every note, every tremor, until she surrendered, a symphony of surrender in my arms.
Tresa's words were acid on my tongue, turning every drop of admiration I once had for her into acrid bile. The gall of her, playing the righteous martyr, painting me as the villain in some twisted schoolyard fairytale. "Skye wouldn't spit on me if I was on fire," I spat back, the image a bitter truth I couldn't deny.
But the fear, insidious and cold, slithered through me. What if she felt the same? What if the icy indifference I projected mirrored her own, a silent wall she'd built around herself after years of my torment? The thought of rejection, of being the one girl in Rosedale to turn me down, was a bitter pill I couldn't swallow.
