Page 33 of Spearcrest Knight

“Anything else you want to say, Sutton?” Evan’s voice drips with arrogance. “Get it off your chest. Go on. I can take it.”

He’s goading me. But he’s so close, and even though I’m forever cold, I’m running too hot under my coat and scarf. I want to grab him by his stupid baggy sweatshirt, shove him, punch his chest and slap the smirk off his face.

“Step back,” I snap. “You’re standing too close.”

“Too close?” he asks, his voice rough. “Too close for what? What is it you’re afraid of, Sutton?”

“Certainly not you.”

“Are you sure?”

He reaches for me and I resist the urge to stumble back. I stand my ground as his hand closes around my thick scarf. With slow movements, he unwinds it from around my neck and pulls it off.

“Let me help you with that,” he murmurs. “You look like you’re too warm. Your cheeks are very red right now, Sutton.”

I try to grab the scarf from him but he tosses it behind his back.

“I would love to know what you’re so afraid of, Sutton.” His hands slide down the lapels of my coat. “What could possibly frighten someone as brave and strong and tough as you?”

He unbuttons my coat, pulls it off my shoulders. Underneath it, I’m wearing a white shirt, an oversized jumper, a skirt, black tights—enough layers that he gets nowhere near my skin—and yet the way he slides my coat off me is so intimate it sends a strange, gliding heat deep into my belly. My breath is short, and I have to swallow hard before I speak.

“Why don’t you just stop playing games and tell me what you want?” I ask, imbuing my voice with all the disdain I have for him.

“Want?” he repeats in a soft murmur. He leans down until his face is inches from mine, and I can smell him: banana milkshake and fresh sweat, cedarwood and frost. He’s close enough for his breath to ghost across my lips. For a terrifying, tantalising moment, I’m sure he’s going to kiss me. “I want you,” he continues, his voice low and rough, “to prepare me for thatstupid fucking exam.”

Then he steps away from me and strides out of the kitchen.

I stumble back and almost collapse onto a stool, my legs buckling underneath me. Whatever mind games Evan is playing, he must be getting better at them, because I’m definitely more shaken than usual.

I’m trembling, blushing and panting, absolutely furious, and utterly humiliated.

He comes back with a shit-eating grin, carrying a pile of books, notebooks and papers, asking in a bright tone, “Where do we start, then?”

I glare at him, but he settles himself on a stool across the kitchen island. The space he’s ceding is about as much as I’m going to get from him in terms of victory. So I swallow back my anger, my confusion, my resentment—and whatever strange other feeling is lurking deep inside me.

“Since the exam is about Hamlet,” I say, trying to keep my voice from betraying how shaken I am. “I guess we should start with that.”

It’s a capitulation.

But the war’s barely starting.

11

Aggression

Sophie

WhenIreturntothe battlefield on Thursday, I’m better prepared and better armed. Last time, Evan caught me unawares, on the backfoot. It took me all of Tuesday night and Wednesday to recover, but I’m not known to let myself be flattened by a defeat.

Thursday afternoon, I arrive at his house with an accordion folder full of textbooks and printouts. If Evan thinks he’s going to be wasting my time for two hours every Tuesday and Thursday until Christmas, he’s going to find out very quickly how wrong he is.

I slam the door knocker, and Evan opens the door in less than ten seconds. His hair is damp, loose curls obscuring one eye. He smells like he’s just showered, the crisp, masculine perfume of cedarwood and frost. He’s wearing a long-sleeved white t-shirt and black sweatpants, a go-to look for him. Even in baggy clothes, his tall, muscular frame stands out.

He greets me with a grin, but before he can say anything I shove the box at his chest.

“What’s this?” he asks with a frown.

“Your work. This is how I’m going to get you to pass the exam.”

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