Page 59 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

“Let go,” I hiss, twisting in an attempt to pull free, but his grip is tight. “What else do you want, Thatcher?” I snap, barely managing to keep my voice steady as I glare up at him. “What else do you want me to do?”

He doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze locked on mine with a calm intensity that only infuriates me further. Then, without a word, he laces his fingers through mine and starts walking.

“Thatcher!” I yank against his hold, but it’s like trying to move a boulder. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even look at me, his stride unrelenting as he leads us toward the building. “What are youdoing?” I hiss, my voice low and urgent, acutely aware of the stares we’re beginning to draw.

“Walking you to class,” he says simply, his tone maddeningly indifferent.

“You can’t just—”

“Relax, Dove,” he cuts me off, glancing down at me with a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s just a little walk. Don’t make it a scene.”

The nerve of him. So calm, so in control. It’s enough to set my blood boiling. But as much as I want to scream, to make him let me go, the weight of curious gazes pinning me in place keeps me silent. I can only let him guide me through the entrance, my heart pounding with equal parts anger and embarrassment.

As soon as we step into the corridor, the noise of students chatting and moving between classes surrounds us, but it does nothing to drown out the tension. His grip on my hand remains firm, unyielding, and every step feels like an act of defiance on his part. Like a silent claim that makes my skin crawl.

“Thatcher,” I whisper harshly, pulling against his hold again. “Let me go. Now.”

He glances down at me, his expression maddeningly calm, as if my words are little more than background noise. “We’re almost there, Dove,” he replies, his voice low and composed, as if this is fucking normal.

I can feel the weight of curious eyes on us, whispers bubbling up from the crowd as people take notice. My cheeks burn with humiliation, but Thatcher doesn’t seem to care, or maybe he loves this shit.

Before I can pull away, Thatcher pushes open the classroom door with an easy confidence, tugging me along with him. The chatter inside comes to an abrupt halt as heads turn, curious eyes flicking between us. My stomach churns.

The moment I spot Connor near the back of the room, my heart sinks further. He’s seated in my usual spot, his easy smile fading into a look of confusion as his gaze lands on Thatcher and me. His brows furrow, his eyes darting to where Thatcher’s hand is still firmly wrapped around mine.

My stomach twists painfully, the humiliation bubbling up to a breaking point. Connor’s expression shifts, a flicker of concern softening the confusion, and that only makes it worse.

Thatcher, oblivious or simply uncaring, keeps walking, pulling me along as if nothing is wrong. The room feels stifling, the whispers louder now, and I can feel the weight of every pair of eyes on us.

“Thatcher, stop!” I hiss under my breath, tugging against his grip. My voice is tight, strained with desperation, but he doesn’t falter.

He doesn’t let me go until we’re literally standing over Connor, who is only more confused as his gaze shifts between us. The tension is palpable, thick enough to choke on, and I want nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

“Get the fuck out of her seat.”

Connor blinks, the confusion on his face shifting to a mixture of surprise and irritation.

“Excuse me?” he says, his voice calm but laced with disbelief.

“Her seat,” Thatcher repeats, his tone flat yet commanding as he gestures toward the chair. “Move.”

I feel my cheeks burn hotter, mortification twisting in my chest. “Thatcher, stop it,” I say through gritted teeth, my voice low and urgent.

Connor, to his credit, doesn’t immediately react. He looks at me, his concern cutting through the tension. “Rhea, do you want me to move?”

Before I can respond, Thatcher cuts in, his smirk sharp. “She doesn’t have to say anything. I’m telling to get the fuck up and move.”

Connor’s brows shoot up, surprise flashing across his face before it hardens into something unreadable. The whispers in the room seem to grow louder, a low buzz of curiosity and tension that sets my nerves on edge. Slowly, he stands, his jaw tight as he picks up his bag. He spares me one last glance, his expression a mix of confusion and disappointment. Then he steps away and heads toward an empty seat a few rows back.

The silence in the room feels deafening as I stand frozen, my cheeks burning under the weight of everyone’s stares. I don’t even realize Thatcher has sat down in the vacant seat beside the one Connor just left until he leans back, relaxed as if nothing just happened.

He pushes out the seat with his foot and motions to it.

“Sit.”

The weight of the room’s attention presses on me, the silence deafening as I stand there, my entire being vibrating with defiance. Every nerve in my body is screaming to walk away, to lash out at him, to find another seat, but his commanding tone cuts through my hesitation like a blade.

His eyes are locked on me, unreadable. He doesn’t need to say another word. The unspoken challenge is there, clear as day.

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