Page 46 of Spearcrest Knight

She doesn’t even have the courtesy of looking sheepish. Instead, she shrugs and sneers down at me in the same dominant way she looked at me before.

“I said 'let's race'.” Arrogance drips from her voice. “I never said anything about swimming.”

And with that cocky smirk plastered all over her face, she gives me the middle fingers, turns around and walks away.

After she’s gone, what lingers with me isn’t her dishonesty and treachery—part of melikedher dishonesty and treachery.

Instead, what lingers with me is the red-hot memory of her waist pinned by my arms and her thighs wrapped around my hips. The husky arrogance of her voice, her heavy-lidded eyes as she stares imperiously down at me.

Sophie fucking Sutton. She really is full of surprises this year. And yet I can already tell the memory of this moment is going to be making frequent invasions into my fantasies. Especially when I’m in the shower.

So much for coming here to get my mind off Sophie fucking Sutton.

15

Deadly Serious

Sophie

BythetimeIget to Evan’s house on Tuesday, I’m too tired to worry about the repercussions of my actions at the pool. To my surprise, he doesn’t even bring it up. Instead, he lets me in, makes coffee and we pretty much get straight to work.

I find myself wondering if he does care about the exam after all. He’s done all the work I set him and has even been revising his notes. I pull out some practice papers for him to work on, and he doesn’t even complain when I do.

He looks through them for a moment and then looks up. “You’re not doing Hamlet for your exam, are you?”

“No,” I answer, a little taken aback by the question. “Our class is doing Othello. Why?”

He gestures at the papers. “These have got all the questions in them. Do you wanna do some Othello questions while I work on Hamlet?”

I frown. Has some form of guilt finally gotten to him?

I’m not sure how to respond, and he adds, “The exam’s tomorrow, and I can pretty much work through these on my own. Why don’t you just work on your stuff while I write, then you can tell me how you think I did at the end?”

It’s more than reasonable, but reason is a little unexpected from him. Still, I haven’t been doing anywhere near as much work on Othello as I should have, and could definitely do with the practice.

“Alright. Let’s do that, then.”

We work in a sort of strangely amicable silence for a long time. After several rounds of extended analysis, we finally stop so that I can have a look at Evan’s work.

He stares at me expectantly as I read through what he’s written. Today, he’s wearing a baggy grey sweatshirt that makes his eyes look lighter than usual. His sandy curls fall over his forehead, the tips hanging over his eyes.

I don’t know how he can’t find it distracting—it’s distracting me just looking at it.

“Well?” he prompts.

“I mean, it’s not exactly profound or even perceptive… but you sound like you at least know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t get it. What are you saying? Is it good or not?”

“Well, it’s goodfor you. I’m not saying that to be mean. Given where you started, this is decent.”

“Right, right,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “But will I pass?”

“Mm…”

I gaze down at his work. Passing is never something I’ve worried about. My parents never set “passing” as a goal for me, it’s always been “excel” and “exceed” with them. I can’t exactly say this to Evan, but I try to give him an honest answer.

“It looks good enough to me, but remember, I’m not a teacher. Really, if you’d done mock papers with Mr Houghton, he would have been able to tell you.”

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