Chapter 3
1393 Words
Hannah
By Monday morning, my ankle had healed enough to get me to school.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t healed enough to let me escape quickly when someone stopped me beside the lockers.
“Did you really fall off Damien Cross’s motorcycle?”
I stared at the girl from my English class.
“No.”
“Oh. Because somebody said—”
“A car nearly hit me. I fell down the bank. Damien helped me.”
She glanced at the support around my ankle.
“Right.”
She didn’t sound convinced.
I opened my locker, wondering whether I could fit inside it until graduation.
Behind me, she added, “I didn’t know you two were friends.”
“We aren’t.”
That answer came out faster than necessary.
I took my books and shut the door.
Apparently, having a terrible birthday wasn’t enough. Now everybody needed an explanation for why Damien had found me having it.
⸻
He was outside English with a girl leaning against his chest.
Not beside him.
Against him.
She stood between his boots, laughing while he held a lighter above her head. When she reached for it, he lifted it higher.
“You’re awful,” she told him.
“Yet you keep coming back.”
She shoved his chest.
He laughed.
I looked away before he noticed me watching.
Too late.
“Morning, Ellis. Walking already?”
The girl turned.
I recognized her face from school, though we’d never spoken.
“The birthday girl?”
Heat climbed my neck.
Damien’s gaze sharpened.
“What?”
She glanced between us.
“People were talking.”
“Clearly.”
I tightened my grip on my books.
“Excuse me.”
He stepped aside immediately.
I went into the classroom and sat near the window, trying to decide which bothered me more: that he’d told her about my birthday, or that I cared whether he had.
Probably the second.
⸻
Damien took his usual seat behind me just before the bell.
“You’ve got admirers,” he murmured.
I turned.
“What?”
He nodded toward the window.
Two girls in the corridor looked away.
I faced forward.
“They think I fell off your motorcycle.”
“I heard.”
“And you find that funny?”
“Not particularly. Suggests I can’t ride.”
I looked back at him.
He smiled.
I didn’t.
For a moment, the smile stayed there without anything supporting it.
Then he leaned forward.
“What did the clinic say?”
The question caught me off guard.
“Sprain. It’s healing.”
“And your hand?”
I glanced down at the faint pink scratches across my palm.
“Fine.”
He nodded.
Before I could decide whether that counted as concern, our teacher entered.
Damien tipped his chair back.
“Chair down,” the teacher said.
“Morning to you too.”
“Feet on the floor. Phone away.”
“It’s in my pocket.”
“Then we’re both having a successful start.”
Someone laughed.
Damien’s mouth curved, but he lowered the chair.
I turned back to my notebook before he saw me smiling.
⸻
Halfway through the lesson, a folded piece of paper landed beside my elbow.
I looked at it.
Then over my shoulder.
Damien was apparently fascinated by the board.
I unfolded it beneath the desk.
Are you always this cheerful, or am I special?
I should have ignored it.
Instead, I wrote:
You require effort.
I passed it back.
A moment later, it returned.
Been told that before. Usually sounds more affectionate.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
Then wrote:
Ask one of those people to entertain you. I’m listening.
His reply came almost immediately.
No, you’re not. You’re writing to me.
I pressed my lips together.
“Hannah?”
My head snapped up.
The teacher stood beside the board.
“Could you answer the question?”
I stared at the diagram behind him.
There were dates.
Several of them.
None looked helpful.
A quiet laugh came from the back.
My face burned.
Beside my book, another note appeared.
Trade restrictions.
I looked up.
“The trade restrictions?”
“Exactly. And their effect?”
Damien’s pen scratched.
Increased prices.
I answered.
The teacher nodded and turned back to the board.
Behind me, Damien leaned forward.
“You’re welcome.”
I wanted to hit him with my textbook.
I also wanted to laugh.
That was considerably more irritating.
⸻
At lunch, I went to the courtyard with a sandwich and the activity folder I’d brought from the daycare.
I worked there three afternoons a week, helping supervise the younger children. On Sunday, I’d missed my shift because of my ankle. I’d promised my supervisor, Mrs. Bell, I would prepare Thursday’s craft activity instead.
So far, I had drawn one rabbit that looked like an anxious potato.
“That yours?”
I looked up.
A boy from our year stood beside the bench, pointing at the page.
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Cross move on already?”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Heard you got a ride Saturday. Didn’t realize you were his type.”
My stomach tightened.
“I didn’t ride with him.”
“Sure.”
“I fell. He helped.”
“Very helpful guy.”
He grinned toward his friend, who waited a few feet away.
I closed the folder.
“I’m trying to work.”
“Relax. It’s a compliment.”
“No,” Damien said behind him. “It isn’t.”
The boy turned.
Damien stood with his jacket over one shoulder. Beside him was another boy I recognized immediately: Justin, our Alpha’s son and Damien’s usual partner in whatever teachers were complaining about.
Justin glanced at my folder.
Then at the boy.
“Find another table.”
The boy gave an awkward laugh.
“We’re talking.”
“You’re finished,” Damien said.
Nobody raised their voice.
Somehow, that made it worse.
The boys left.
I looked down at the rabbit.
Damien sat opposite me without asking.
“Popular morning.”
“Please don’t.”
His expression changed.
Justin lingered beside the bench.
“I’ll get food,” he said. “You two enjoy whatever this is.”
⸻
For a moment, Damien watched me.
Then he reached toward the folder.
I put my hand on it.
“Don’t.”
“Was admiring the rabbit.”
“It’s for work.”
“Good. Thought you’d discovered something in the woods.”
A laugh escaped before I could stop it.
I looked away, annoyed.
Damien smiled.
But this time, he didn’t look as though he’d won.
“Did you tell that girl about me?” I asked.
“Which girl?”
“Outside English.”
“Your birthday?”
I nodded.
“No.”
I studied his face.
“She said—”
“She heard people talking. Same as everyone else.”
“Oh.”
He leaned back.
“Disappointing. Had your accusation prepared?”
“Yes, actually.”
He laughed.
I felt my own mouth lift.
Then he pointed at the rabbit.
“Ears are wrong.”
“Are you offering to help?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then keep your criticism to yourself.”
He took my pencil.
I reached for it, but he was already drawing.
Two quick strokes changed the ears. Another altered the little face.
He slid the page back.
It looked like a rabbit.
A smug rabbit.
I looked at him.
“What?”
“You can draw.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Why?”
“Terrible for business. Girls might start asking me to do things.”
I glanced toward the cafeteria, remembering the girl pressed against his chest.
“Wouldn’t want that.”
His eyes narrowed with interest.
Before he could say anything unbearable, I pulled the folder closer.
“Thank you.”
“For the rabbit?”
“And earlier.”
He shrugged.
I watched him take a cigarette packet from his pocket, glance toward a passing teacher, and slide it away again.
“You don’t make it easy,” I said.
“Make what easy?”
“Thanking you.”
His gaze settled on mine.
“Maybe stop sounding so surprised you have a reason.”
This time, I couldn’t blame him for the silence that followed.
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