“Greyson.”
“Grey,” I automatically correct.
She narrows her eyes.
I shrug, going for nonchalance. “Violet and Grey? Makes sense to me.”
Luckily, she drops it. And with that, I slide off her. I’ll bring this back around another day, but I’m mollified by the few questions I asked. A monstrous dance teacher who spanked his students for punishment—not pleasure.
Shame. The two should always go hand in hand.
But definitely not when she was… “How old were you?”
She covers her face again. “Ten.”
I make a face. Definitelynotfor pleasure then. My mom had her own brand of punishment, but it came in varied, unexpected ways. It was meant to knock me off-kilter, I think, rather than hurt. Dad just went for the pain as a reminder not to fuck up.
After she has her Advil, she slips into the bathroom. She has a slight limp, but it’s barely noticeable. The only reason I notice it at all is because I watch her ass as she passes, and there’s an unevenness to the sway of her hips.
My phone chirps.
Rebecca (Publicist)
All set to publish. Roake approved it.
I swallow and cast a glance toward the closed bathroom door.
No going back now.
33
VIOLET
The trip organizers rented out one of the conference rooms for breakfast. There’s a congregation of CPU students in the room, spread out across tables, at the buffet line. I ignore them all, though, in my hunt for Willow.
I never ended up texting her last night, and I feel a pang of guilt. It eases slightly, though, when I see her sandwiched between Knox and Amanda.
Grey stops beside me. Hearing that I’ve used a nickname he likes—especially coming from me, I guess—does weird things to me. Good things. Strange things. It’s a step in a direction I wasn’t expecting. Like our truce. Like pretending not to hate each other.
I’m pretty sure I have frostbite on my ass, though.
“Hungry?”
I glance up at him. “A bit.”
He smiles. “Go sit. I’ll grab us something.”
“No, it’s okay.” I head toward the buffet.
He snags my wrist. “Vi.”
“Grey.” I narrow my eyes. “I have a weird relationship with food, okay? Don’t fight me on this.”
He appraises me, understanding lighting his expression. He finally nods and releases me, but he stalks close behind. I get the sense that he’s taking notes of what I take, what I waver over, and what I pass by without hesitation.
“Are you trying to dance again?”
I stiffen. “What?”