“Can you do me a favor, Gemma?” His voice was sweet, genuine. Maybe even a little desperate.
I paused, my heart slowing. Placing my pencil down on the desk, I gulped a big lungful of air before looking over at him. Strangely enough, another wave of warmth went through my body. It was like I had taken a steaming cup of tea and gulped it down quickly, feeling the hot liquid coat my throat all the way to my stomach.
“Um, sure.” I hated how my voice came out like a whisper. I’d always been a quiet person. Richard used to ask if I was afraid of my own voice, and honestly, around him, I was.
Cade tilted his head across the room, his jawline sharp as he angled it away from me. “Can you go over to that door right there.” I followed his line of sight. “Yeah, that one,” he confirmed. “Can you go and move that curtain out of the way? The end of it blew onto the statue that I’m drawing. Probably from the air vent.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.”
“Thanks. I just don’t want to lose my line of sight by walking over there. Drawing doesn’t come easy to me.” His eyes shot down to my sketch. “Unlike you.” His smile was soft, and two dimples formed on his cheeks. He seemed nice, but when I glanced back at his eyes, they said something different. I couldn’t pinpoint it exactly, but where his smile said he was innocent, his eyes did not. Either way, I chose to ignore it because there was no sense in being outlandish. I was nice, and it was okay to help someone, even if I was always taught to keep to myself. I hopped off my stool and began walking over to the statue he was drawing, feeling proud that I wasn’t letting old habits decide my every move at St. Mary’s, despite how out of my element I was.
The art room was the one place in this entire school, at least so far, that wasn’t dimly lit. There were recessed lights above my head and a million other standing lamps placed all over the room. It was bright in here, so bright it took my eyes a moment to adjust when I’d first crossed the threshold.
Just as I was passing by a dark, half-opened wooden door on my left, likely a supply closet, a hand wrapped around my upper arm, yanking me into a dark area that smelled of acrylic paint and old, musty art supplies.
I yelped, immediately looking down to the hand on my arm, which was pointless because the room I was pulled into was dark. The only light source was the door outlined from the other side.
A gritty voice simmered in the darkness. “Who did you tell?”
My heart slammed against my ribcage as the hand on my arm tightened. My stomach bottomed out as I was dragged even farther into the closet only to be pushed forcefully up against a shelf with my next breath.
My eyes immediately began scanning the area, straining against the bleak darkness for a way out. Always look for an escape first. There was only one door, the one I was pulled into, and the person in front of me was blocking it, so that was out. Look for a way to protect yourself second.
Wait. I shook my head, clearing my thoughts and bringing myself back to the present. You’re not in that place, Gemma. You’re at school.
A short burst of air left my mouth. “Get your hand off my arm,” I very calmly demanded, keeping my voice steady and my feet firmly on the floor. The rising anxiety was there in the back of my head, scratching the walls of my brain with panic, but I pushed it away, knowing I had been in much more compromising situations in the past. Being shoved into an art closet in the middle of art class was like child’s play.
The firm grasp on my arm dropped, the scent of something enticing gone, and then I heard a shuffling noise before the click of a light which then shined down on my head. I glanced up to the single light bulb swaying above me before coming down and almost choking on air.
Isaiah’s head tilted as our eyes collided. His gaze was like an icy stake being thrust into my chest, cooling me and burning me at the exact same time. The feeling was new and perplexing, and I felt my head tilting too. What was it with him? Why did it feel like he shocked me to life when he was near?
“Who did you tell?” Isaiah snapped again, this time while running a hand through his dark hair. His jaw clenched on the sides as his plump lips turned into a disapproving scowl. My body grew hot. The sip of tea I metaphorically had earlier when Cade looked at me, warming me on the inside, was nothing compared to latching onto Isaiah. It was similar to walking under a steaming shower after rolling around in the snow, the hot water washing over every inch of my flesh, burning the coolness instantly.
“Wh—what?” I stuttered, unable to catch my breath.
Isaiah’s eyebrow hitched as he crossed his arms over his school uniform. “I knew you were eavesdropping yesterday when I talked to my uncle—in the privacy of his office, might I add—but I didn’t peg you to be like the rest of the girls here. I didn’t think you’d run your gossiping little mouth, especially after only being here for what? Twelve hours?”
My cheeks caught fire.
I was eavesdropping. I’ll admit that. But I didn’t tell anyone a single thing. Who would I have told?
My lips parted, and his eyes instantly flew down to my mouth. I felt a tugging on my stomach that was beyond unfamiliar, so I brushed it away before saying, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A rough chuckle rolled out of his mouth as he threw his head back, the muscles along his neck growing more prominent with each echoing laugh. “Here’s the deal,” Isaiah whispered, taking a step closer to me after abruptly ending his laughter. My eyes widened as his chest brushed against mine. My back was firmly pressed into the shelf behind me, causing a lone paintbrush to fall down to the ground with a slight thud. My breathing had quickened, and my pulse was speeding, but it wasn’t out of fear. Isaiah was strong and commanding. He was definitely confident, and after seeing him this morning in the dining hall, and how everyon
e else seemed to gravitate around him, I understood why. But he didn’t scare me—not in the way I was used to, at least.
Isaiah’s chest was still pressed against mine as he gingerly reached up and brushed a stray hair out of my face. My cheek tingled where his fingers touched. “Oh, Good Girl.” He laughed under his breath in a condescending tone. “You kind of owe me now.”
That stupid nickname he had obviously given me after meeting yesterday stirred up a bunch of shit that I’d pushed away from the moment I got into that town car to attend St. Mary’s. It sent me straight to the red, and although I had a really good hold on my emotions, anger especially—a survival tactic, no doubt—I found it hard to keep myself in line when he said that. My hand reached up, of its own accord, and I smacked his away from my face. I peered up into his smug expression and seethed, “Do not call me that.”
Whoa. Did I really just do that?
His lip twitched at my tone, and I could feel the weak girl inside of me, the one that was shattered long ago, pulling me back. But I stood my ground, tilting my chin upward as my brown locks fell behind my shoulders. “And I don’t owe you anything, Rebel.” He wanted to give me a nickname? I’d give him one right back.
Surprise flashed across his face—and probably mine too. Why was I acting like this? I knew right then that Isaiah was dangerous to be around. He did something to me. Breathing his air gave me confidence and a feeling of power that I had never felt before. I found myself relishing in the feelings he was planting inside of me.
I went to push my way around him, eager to get out of the tiny, dark room that apparently had me morphing into someone I wasn’t, when his hands clasped onto my wrists.