Nixon’s POV
"Let go of me," Scout muttered, her fingers clawing at my forearm.
I did not loosen my grip on her wrist. I kept my stride even, pulling her through the heavy glass doors of the conservatory and into the stone corridor. My boots clicked against the marble floor. Her bare feet dragged, slipping slightly on the polished surface.
"You are burning up," I said.
I looked down at her. Her face was flushed, a deep crimson that ran from her cheeks down to her collarbone. The red marks on her skin were raised and angry. They looked like fresh whip lines under the harsh corridor lights.
"I said let me go," she rasped, her voice cracking.
She planted her heels, trying to use her weight to stop me. I barely felt the resistance. I turned the corner toward the private wing, my grip tigh
