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She scoffs. “Or maybe I’ll take yours.”
I laugh. “Please do, Theodora. I’ll offer it up freely. I’ll even give you my second and my third, and all the ones after that—every kiss, if you want. I’d give you anything you’d ask for. If your love demanded my prostration, I’d get on my knees for you, I’d kiss the ground at your feet. I’d do everything you’ve ever thought about in those secret midnight moments and everything you’ve never even dared to imagine. I’d melt all that ice in your skin, Theodora Dorokhova, and replace it with flames. All you need do is ask.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” she hisses, eyes wide with panic, cheeks flooded with colour. “You need to stop.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying, and I mean every word of it.” I tilt my head. “Would you like me to prove it to you? Do you want to claim your gift right now?”
“I’ve not spoken to Mr Ambrose yet,” she says, backing away in quick steps.
“Mm.” I grin at her. “You’re right. Better do that first and claim your prize second.”
“I’ll go speak to him now. As for your gift, you can keep it to yourself.”
She gathers her stuff hastily, piling her laptop and books and throwing them into her bag. I watch her, leaning on the wooden desk separator, not bothering to hide the idle smirk of satisfaction on my face.
When she’s all packed up, she shoulders her bag and throws me an imperious glare. “You know you’ve messed up, right?”
“How so?”
“Because you’ll never get your victory now.”
I laugh. “You’re certain of that?”
It’s her turn to smirk. “Certain beyond doubt.”
MrAmbrosewasn’texaggeratingthe nature of the programme. By the end of September, I find myself forever climbing a pile of work that only ever seems to grow however hard I work.
There is reading for my A-level classes, practice papers and essays and research assignments, and then there is the Apostles work. The first assignment Mr Ambrose gives us is a research project asking us to write a detailed explanation, history and comparison of Plato’s Akademia and Aristotle’s Lyceum, with our essays exploring a mix of both our opinions and references from notable scholars.
It’s an enormous project which takes me upwards of fifteen overall hours to complete. The night before the deadline, I’m in the library—on the top floor, but not in Theodora’s territory. I know she’s there—I can almost sense her presence—but I don’t want to be accused of trying to distract her for fear of sullying my eventual victory.
I’m proofreading my assignment, headphones on and reeling off my proofreading playlist, which consists mostly of Satie and Debussy, when a pale form appears from the shadowy corridor of an aisle. I look up with a slight start and immediately relax.
Theodora’s hair is gathered in a twisted bun at the top of her head, loose strands framing her face, almost silvery in the low late-night lights of the library. She’s out of her uniform and dressed plainly in high-waisted jeans and a white silk top. She looks more like an air-borne nymph than a student crumbling under the pressure of too many assignments.
She looks perfectly beautiful.
I take my headphones off and smile up at her.
“What an unexpected pleasure, Theo.” I raise an eyebrow. “You’ve not come to claim your prize, have you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Believe it or not, it’s not a priority right now.”
She stops near me and peers at my laptop screen. Her perfume wraps around me as she leans on my shoulder, eyes across the document displayed on my laptop. I fight the urge to place a kiss on the ivory column of her neck.
My mind trails off after that thought, imagining all the places I would love to kiss and taste.
“You’re working on the Plato-Aristotle project?” Theodora asks, bringing me back to reality.
“Mm-hm,” I answer her, my eyes still on her throat. “I’ve just finished. I’m proofreading.”
“Perfect—me too.” She hesitates, pursing her lips a little. “How would you feel about proofreading each other’s work? I’m so tired, and I’ve re-drafted and re-read mine so many times it feels like I’m trying to read a palimpsest.”
“That’s surprisingly trusting of you,” I say, genuinely a little surprised. “You don’t fear sabotage?”
“Not for a second.”
“No?”
