“No one expects you to actuallyparticipate,” I snap, stepping closer and reaching for the paper. “So give it back.”
He raises it higher. Of course he does. Because he’s six-foot-three and I’m five-nine on a good day, and he knows exactly how humiliating this is.
“Maybe the list includes milk,” one of his friends says with a smirk. “So Patton can finally grow up a little.”
I turn toward the speaker, anger flaring hot in my chest, but suddenly Raiden is right in front of me, blocking my view.
“I think you forgot to say the magic word,” he says softly.
I freeze.
He’s looking at me with that intense focus again, the one that makes me feel like I’m under a microscope. His eyes are so blue they’re almost unreal.
“The magic word to get your list back,” he adds, his mouth curving slightly.
He meansplease.
My throat goes dry. There’s something about the way he says it…
“You know what?” I force myself to sound steady. “Actually, I have an electronic version of this list. You can keep the paper. Maybe it’ll help you finally learn the alphabet.”
For a second, nobody moves.
Then Raiden’s mouth twitches into a half-smirk. “Get out of here,” he says to his teammates without looking at them.
“But—”
“Now.”
They exchange glances but leave, their footsteps echoing across the courtyard.
And then Raiden starts walking toward me.
I take a step back instinctively. He keeps coming. Another step back. He matches it.
We’re moving into the shadowed archway that leads to the east wing—a narrow passage that’s always dark and empty this time of day. My back hits cold stone.
He plants his hand on the wall beside my head.
“You’ve been very brave lately, Patton.”
My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it. “I’m hoping for a Christmas miracle and that your brain will finally get fixed.”
But my voice shakes. Betrays me.
His eyes narrow slightly. He notices. Of course he notices.
He leans in closer. So close I can feel the heat radiating off him. His other hand comes up to brace against the wall on my other side, caging me in completely.
“You seem old enough not to believe in Christmas miracles,” he says quietly.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything except stare at him.
This close, I notice something I’ve never seen before. His right eye—there’s something wrong with the pupil. A dark, irregular shape bleeding into the blue, like ink dropped in water.
“What happened?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He goes very still. “What?”
