Whatever she sees there—whatever softness I didn’t mean to show—turns her features sharp and cold.
“Well,” she purrs. “Finally.”
Wren stiffens beside me.
“Isabelle,” I say. Flat. A warning.
This is my fault. I gave Isabelle ammunition.
Her attention slides to Wren with a slow, poisonous smile. Then she glances at me again, recalibrating.
“Oh, Kieran,” she says softly. “Such...progress.”
The bet sits like lead in my stomach. Every word Isabelle says to Wren now carries the weight of what I agreed to.
My jaw flexes. I keep my expression neutral. “We’re heading back for a tutoring session,” I say lightly, the subtext clear:drop it.
Isabelle tilts her head, pretending to think.
“Of course,” she murmurs. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt anything.”
Her emphasis slices cleanly.
I hold her gaze for one sharp second.Surprise and irritation flicker across her face, quickly turning cold and mean.
“Well,” she says, fully facing Wren now, “some girls do move quickly.”
A soft, cutting pause.
Then she slips into French.“Alors, chérie…tu crois vraiment que c’est sérieux? Tu sais qu’il s’ennuie vite.”
The space between us turns dangerous.
“Isabelle—” I hiss, stepping in front of Wren, instinct kicking in hard and fast. Whatever she said was meant to cut—and I let it happen.
That’s the truth I can’t dodge.
But Wren shocks the hell out of me.
She presses a hand to my chest—firm, decisive, not asking permission. Moving me aside like I’m the one who needs protecting.
Then she speaks, and my jaw actually drops.
“Peut-être. Mais ce n’est pas à vous d’en décider.”
That’s when I realize Isabelle didn’t underestimate Wren.
She underestimated what it would cost me to watch this happen.
The quad gasps. Someone snickers. Someone else whispers, “Holy shit.”
And me? I’m standing here watching the quietest girl I know go full lioness in a second language, staking a claim.
On me.
My chest does something complicated and warm. Heat slams through me so fast I’m surprised I don’t combust right here on the quad.
This woman. This fucking woman.
