I sit in the back, not hearing a word the professor says, my mind replaying the image of the painting, the scorch marks on the wall, the look in Raiden’s eyes last night. The pieces of the puzzle are swirling around me, but they form a picture I’m too terrified to look at.
As the professor dismisses the class, I gather my things, my only thought to get to the arena, to find Raiden.
“That was brutal, right?”
I look up. It’s Chase, the volunteer with the untangled lights, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. I hadn’t even noticed we were in the same class.
“Professor Davies could make the apocalypse sound boring,” he continues with an easy grin. “Heard about the fire. That sucks, man. After all our hard work.”
“Yeah,” I say, distracted, inching toward the door. “It sucks.”
“Well, if you need any extra hands for cleanup, let me know. We’ll get it back in shape.” He walks out the door just ahead of me, turning to give my shoulder a quick, firm pat. “Hang in there, Patton.” The touch is weirdly familiar, a little too forceful, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I step out into the crowded corridor, my mind still snagged on Chase’s odd gesture, and then I see him.
My breath catches.
Raiden.
He’s standing by a tall window directly opposite the lecture hall, bathed in the pale winter light. He’s not leaning. He’s standing stock-still, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark jeans, his shoulders squared. And he’s looking right at me.
I’ve never seen him look so tense, not even in the final seconds of a tie game. His jaw is so tight I can see the muscle jumping from across the hall. He’s watching me from under his brow, his expression a thunderous mask.
A wave of stupid joy washes over me. He’s here. He was waiting for me. I fight the smile that wants to break across my face, sensing it would be the exact wrong thing to do.
So I school my features into a neutral mask and walk toward him, the sea of students parting around him like he’s a rock in a stream.
As I get closer, I feel the sheer force of his presence, the dangerous energy rolling off him in waves.
“Hey,” I say when I finally reach him, my attempt at casualness sounding ridiculously thin. “I was just about to come looking for you.” I offer a small, nervous chuckle. “Sorry I didn’t call. Turns out I don’t have your number.”
His eyes flicker from my face down to my shoulder—the one Chase just touched—and then back up. His voice, when it comes, is a low, flat rumble. “Yeah. I can see you’ve been busy accepting pats on the back.”
I blink, completely thrown.
Then the meaning sinks in, and the most bizarre, idiotic feeling unfolds in my chest. A warm flutter of pure happiness. He’s really jealous.
He saw that brief, meaningless interaction and he isgut-wrenchingly, undeniablyjealous. I try to quash the feeling, to tell myself how pathetic it is to be thrilled by this cavemanpossessiveness, but my traitorous heart doesn’t listen. It’s singing.
“I just got out of class,” I say, my voice softer now, trying to soothe the unseen beast. “He was just… talking about the fire. I was even going to look for your teammates. Ask them to give me your number.”
“You have my number,” he grinds out, his gaze unwavering. “I put it on the volunteer list. Same as everyone else.”
Oh. Right. The list. With the fire and the painting and my entire world tilting on its axis, I’d completely forgotten I had access to his number the whole time. I must look as stupid as I feel, because the corner of his mouth ticks downward.
I can’t help myself. The emotional impulse is too strong, this sudden need to bridge the gap between us, to touch him. I look around the bustling corridor. It’s a terrible idea. I do it anyway.
I reach out and touch the knuckle of his index finger—still inside his pocket—with the tip of my own finger. It’s a tiny, fleeting point of contact, but it feels like a lightning strike. I pull his hand slightly, a silent plea.Come with me.
His blue eyes widen almost imperceptibly. His entire body goes rigid. Then, with a suddenness that makes me gasp, he leans forward.
He moves so fast, a predator closing the distance, his head dropping down to mine until our faces are inches apart.
His eyes bore into mine, pupils blown wide, and for one heart-stopping second, I think he’s going to kiss me. Right here, in the middle of the hallway, in front of everyone. He’s going to demolish my world right here and now.
Panic lances through me.
I jerk my head back. “Are you crazy?” I whisper, my voice frantic. “Not here. Let’s go.” The last two words are mouthed, and I give a tiny, almost invisible nod down the corridor to ashort, less-trafficked hallway that ends in a series of janitorial rooms.
