Page 66 of Wicked Little Secret
It’s how I’ve tracked her. It’s the method I’ve used to spy on her whereabouts and stalk her activity. As she seemingly ices me out, what else am I supposed to do?
I log onto her cloud expecting no real update since last night.
She’d come home early, ordered delivery, and spent hours pouring over her latest sculpture—a clay recreation of blooming flowers. It was simplistic in theory but incredibly detailed down to every unique petal she molded. I wondered if she’s starting early for the next art festival…
Sighing when I discover I’m right about no real updates, I set down my phone. She can’t possibly plan to ignore me the rest of the semester. She can’t possibly think she’ll be able to pretend what happened between us never did.
Later that morning, it’s apparent that’s exactly her plan.
For the third time this week, Nyssa sits mute in my class. She avoids my gaze at every turn. Her head bows as if she’s more enthralled by the text in the book than my live instruction.
I grit my teeth as the clock strikes half past eleven and everyone in the class begins packing up.
“Miss Oliver,” I say loudly, uncaring who hears. “I’d like a word. Please stay behind.”
Most students pay little mind, simply happy the class is over. They carry on with their things, filing out of the room. Only Heather Driscoll lingers a second longer than she should, casting a curious glance between Nyssa and myself.
The door clicks shut behind her.
Nyssa’s remained in her seat. For the first time this morning, she’s chanced a look at me. Her deep-set eyes are a boundless mystery. They reveal next to nothing as I stridetoward her, my loafers thudding against the wooden flooring.
I stop directly in front of her desk, peering down at her, a scowl fixed onto my face.
The tension feels suffocating. It expands between us like a third presence in the room, highlighting the unresolved conflict between us.
She’s studying me like I’m studying her.
Trying to solve the puzzle of my mind while I attempt to do the same.
Her slender throat works in a slow swallow, and then she says, “I have other classes this morning. I have to go?—”
“You’ll go nowhere,” I hiss. “Not until we have an understanding, Miss Oliver. Which is that you’re to participate in my class. You’re to answer my questions. You’re to make eye contact. You’re to be engaged the entire time. I want your full, undivided attention at all times.”
Her brows knit. “That’s not fair?—”
“Who said anything about fair?” I crack half of a grin, my pulse beating faster. “If you insist on doing your best to ignore me—on pretending that night never happened—then my hand is forced. I’ll have your attention any way I can. Including right now. After class.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Sit!” I snap. As she half rises out of her chair, my hand shoots out and grabs her throat.
We both freeze, breathing heavily, eyes hooked on each other.
I can feel her pulse thrumming against my fingers. Her warm flesh against my hand as I hold her by the throat and we admire each other so close, I could crush my lips to hers.
She’s tempted by the idea.
Instinct tells me this.
Her little pink tongue—the same one that had played with mine only a week ago—pokes out to wet her lips.
Her eyes glimmer. Dark but bright all at once as she challenges me much in the same way she had on the first day of class. No one else may get it, but I do. I can see the awareness in her gaze, dripping from her, as she understands me like I do her.
We get there’s something here.
Something forbidden and wrong but addictive and unpredictable; something we’re both struggling to resist.
She swallows, throat muscles flexing against my hand. “Professor, I’m leaving. Let go of me.”