Slow. Deliberate. Trying to make her squirm.
"I know I do." She doesn't back away, looks down at our feet. "You need me to be convincing. To play a role. I can't do that if I'm miserable."
Another step. We're close enough now that I can see the pulse hammering in her throat. Close enough to smell her perfume—creamy vanilla and sunlight.
"You're assuming I care whether you're miserable."
"You do." Her voice drops. "Because if this falls apart, you're stuck marrying whoever your father picked. And something tells me you'd rather eat glass than let him control you."
Smart girl.
I reach up, slow enough that she can see it coming, and brush my thumb along her cheekbone. Her skin is soft, warm, and she doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away. Just holds my gaze with those hazel eyes.
Her breath hitches—just slightly—but I catch it. Catch the way her pupils dilate. The way her lips part on a soft gasp that I don’t hear.
She's scared. Furious. Trapped.
And attracted.
The last part surprises me. Surprises her too, judging by the way color floods her cheeks when she realizes her reaction as well.
Well, this just got even more interesting.
"You have guts, Miss Mancini. I'll give you that." I let my hand drift down to her jaw, tilt her face up slightly. "But guts without sense gets people hurt."
"Then hurt me." She challenges. "Add it to the list of things you've already done."
I step back, putting distance between us before this goes somewhere I'm not prepared to take it. Not yet, anyway.
"What are your conditions?" I ask, straightening my cuffs.
She blinks, clearly thrown by the sudden shift. "W-What?"
"Your conditions. You said you had some. Let's hear them."
"I—" She swallows, regains her footing. "I want to keep teaching."
My brows shoot up. I expected her to ask for money. For her mother to be moved to a better facility. For some guarantee of safety or freedom.
Not a job that pays thirty thousand a year and comes with construction paper stuck to everything.
"Teaching," I repeat.
"Yes. My students need me. I won't abandon them."
"Your students will be fine. Schools have substitute teachers."
"No." The word is flat, final. "That's non-negotiable. I keep my job, or you can find someone else to play dress-up with."
I study her face, looking for the angle. The manipulation. But all I see is fierce protectiveness—the same expression she probably wears when one of her seven-year-olds is being bullied.
She actually cares about those kids.
Huh.
It's such a foreign concept in my world that I almost don't recognize it.
"Fine," I say. "You keep the job. But if it interferes with what I need from you, it goes. Clear?"
