She startles violently when she sees me.
I cannot help the small smirk that forms.
“Good morning, mishka.”
She presses a hand to her chest, wide-eyed. “What are you doing in my bed?”
“In your room,” I correct. “Not your bed.” I lean forward slightly, letting my voice drop. “Not yet.”
She stiffens immediately. Her gaze flicks away. She is not pleased to see me. That pinch of her brows, that guarded inhale.
Why is she not happy?
My mind leaps too quickly, connecting dots that may not exist. Did someone else get her attention? Has she found comfort somewhere else? A man. A protector. Someone she believes is stable. Someone not born from fire and lies.
I grind my teeth.
The Council meeting replays. They could use her to get to me. They know I’m vulnerable through her. They saw it in my anger when they spoke her name.
I wanted to deny it. But now, looking at her cold expression, it’s undeniable.
I need to trust her. I want to trust her. I just do not know how.
She sits up. Her hair is messy from sleep, and she tries to tame it with quick, agitated fingers. She glances at the clock and gasps.
“I’m late,” she mutters, scrambling out of bed. She dresses in a flustered rush, tugging on her jeans, pulling her sweater over her head, and running a brush through her hair. She slips into her shoes and opens the door.
She pauses.
Micha isn’t there.
She turns back to me, confused. “Where is he?”
I step behind her and hold up her coat for her to slip into. She blushes faintly and obeys. That pleases me more than it should. I smooth the collar and kiss her forehead. She freezes.
“Today,” I say, “I escort you. Not Micha.”
She narrows her eyes. “Other bosses don’t follow people around like this.”
“Most women here are not married to a boss.”
Her cheeks warm, though she tries to hide it. She walks beside me as we exit the dormitory. Her breath huffs in irritation as soon as the cold air hits her.
“This weather is evil,” she grumbles. “I miss the sun. I miss warmth. I miss everything that doesn’t feel like frostbite.”
I chuckle. “This is mild.”
She shoots me a dirty look. Then she complains about class, mean girls, the cafeteria food, the lack of privacy, the homework, the ‘dumb’ etiquette seminars. All things she did not complain about before.
I taunt, “Wait until your self-defense classes start. You will really hate it.”
She glowers, not amused.
She is testing me. Wanting me to react. Wanting me to feel her agitation.
Before I can soothe her, a trio of her schoolmates pass by. They slow noticeably, their eyes dragging over me with reverence and fear. One whispers something that makes the others laugh nervously.
Peighton groans in embarrassment. “Great. They’re going to talk about me all day now.”
