Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
TALON
She’s magnetic.
I know that sounds dramatic, but it’s the only word that fits. The kind of person you can’t look away from even when you know you should.
All through class I watch her.
Not obviously—at least, I try not to be obvious, but every time she moves, every time her hand lifts to fix a strand of hair, I’m gone.
The blue of her blouse hits the light and makes her skin glow like it remembers last night too.
That kiss still burns in my memories. She bit me, shoved me away, and I still can’t think about anything else.
Maybe I should drop this class. Take one of her excuses off the table. She can’t keep saying you’re my student if I’m not.
But then I wouldn’t get to see her every other day. Wouldn’t get to watch her chew the end of her pen when she’s grading or the way her brow furrows when someone gives a dumb answer.
Yeah. No. I’m staying.
Maybe I should tell Brose about her extracurriculars. Let him fire her. Then she wouldn’t be my TA anymore, and she wouldn’t have that excuse to hide behind.
The thought twists something in my chest, half excitement, half guilt. I don’t actually want to ruin her. I just want her to stop pretending she doesn’t want me too.
Brose hands out worksheets and drones on about group behavior and deviance, like he’s the authority on anything that doesn’t fit the mold. I fill mine in half-assed and hand it back at the end. The second he dismisses class, I’m on my feet.
I hang by the door, pretending to scroll on my phone while everyone else files out.
She’s still at the front, talking to Brose.
He says something. Then his tone shifts—sharp, clipped.
My head lifts. His voice rises. I can’t make out the words, but I hear enough of the edge to know he’s chewing her out.
My hands ball into fists before I even think about it.
A minute later, she walks out fast, eyes shiny, lips pressed together like she’s holding everything inside.
“You okay?” I ask.
She stops, shoulders stiff. “Don’t pretend to care.”
“I’m not pretending.”
She looks up at me then, and the sight hits like a gut punch. Her eyes are glassy, one tear sliding free before she can stop it. I reach up and wipe it away with my thumb before I can talk myself out of it. Her skin’s warm, soft, the kind of touch that burns into memory.
“I’m fine,” she mutters.
“You’re not. Let me take you out. Cheer you up.”
She exhales hard. “Talon, no.”
“Come on. Tomorrow’s Friday. Let’s do something fun.”
“Friday’s club night,” she says, folding her arms. “Saturday too. Sunday I have plans. Sorry, no time for dating.”
“So Monday,” I say, grinning.
She gives me this look—half annoyed, half amused. “You’re persistent.”
“I know what I want.”
“Fine.” She sighs, the word all breath and resignation. “But it’s not a date. We’re doing classwork. Your worksheet was trash.”
“Deal.” I laugh.
“Want me to go in there and knock that fucker out for making you cry?”
Her mouth twitches. “No. He’s just an asshole. Always has been. Usually he doesn’t get to me, but… last night was a lot.”
I rub the back of my neck. “Sorry, my mom’s a bitch.”
That gets a small, real smile. “She makes my dad happy, but yeah… she has a way of picking apart everything I do. My major, my future, even my dinner choices.”
“She’s judgmental as hell. Always has to keep up with the Joneses. That’s why she sent me away. Why she keeps Minxy locked in a schedule like a show pony? She’s all about control.”
“You’re an adult, Talon,” she says softly. “Why do you still let her control you?”
I grin, even though the question cuts deeper than she realizes. “I’ll tell you more about that on our date.”
“Not a date,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Tutoring.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, baby.”
She laughs—low, reluctant, but it’s there—and turns away. I watch her walk down the hall, hips swaying under that skirt like gravity bends for her.
Yeah. I’m completely fucked.
But I’ve got a plan.
If Brose thinks he can talk to her like that, he’s got another thing coming.
No one makes my girl cry.
The cheap glow of my phone lights up the car’s interior as I plot three moves ahead. I don’t plan on asking questions. I plan on making him wish he’d never raised his voice at her.
I follow him off campus without looking like I’m following him. He’s predictable—two blocks to his car, a quick stop for coffee, then the gym. I tail at a distance, keeping to the shadows, waiting for the right moment.
When he parks and disappears through the gym’s door, I pull into the lot across the street. The engine idles, and I change in the driver’s seat. Black jeans, black hoodie, sneakers. I slide a ski mask up over my face and tuck my glasses into the roof compartment with practiced ease.
I sit for a beat, feeling the mask hug my face. The world narrows to the hum of the engine and the distant clatter of weights from inside the gym. After slow breaths, my pulse steadies, and I open the car door.
My phone buzzes. Minxy. I see her name, and a weird sort of heat presses at my chest like nothing else does.
“Hey, baby sis,” I answer, keeping my voice low.
“Hi, big bro. How’s life?” She laughs, as if everything’s all stupid and fine.
“It’s life,” I tell her. “I’m back home, going to college.”
“Following the witch’s rules then?” she jokes.
I huff, a sound that holds more anger than I want to admit. “I am. It’s the only way she’ll let me see you.”
There’s a long pause, and then I swear I hear her sniffle.
“It’s been years, Minx. I want to see your face in person. Not photos, not FaceTime. I want to hug my favorite sister and make sure you’re okay. I’ll do whatever I have to so she lets you come home,” I say. “Chad seems cool.”
“Yeah.” She sighs. “He seems nice from what Abi describes of him. I heard he has a smoking hot daughter who’s older than you.” She giggles.
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“There’s a dude here who knows her. Says her mom used to be his therapist.” Minxy sounds like she’s rolling her eyes on the other end.
“That can’t be right. Her mom died when she was nine.” My voice drops.
“Maybe. The dude is my psych teacher, and sometimes he sells me pot.” She laughs again, then the sound cuts off.
“Minx,” I growl through the phone. “You told me you were done with that.”
“Trying, Talon. This place sucks. I pass the time however I can.” There’s a crack in her bravado.
“Okay, fine. Don’t let Mom find out, and stick to pot. Don’t tell me this psych teacher touches you. I’ll drive there and…” The rest of it I don’t say out loud. I don’t need to say it to make my point.
“Eww, no. He’s uglier than sin, but he’s the hookup. He’s not a creep.” She clears her throat. “Promise.”
Brose exits the gym, towel over his shoulder, headphones over his head. He moves slowly, like he’s the main character in someone else’s life, oblivious to everything. He crosses the parking lot, opens his car door—perfect timing.
“Gotta go, sis. I love you, Minx. Text me later.”
“Love you too, bro.” She hangs up, and I toss the phone onto the passenger seat. My palm goes flat to the wheel for a second, the tightness in my ribs loosening as I step out. I close the door quietly, not fully latching it so the click won’t travel.
I follow him, walking silently and small as a shadow.
He can’t hear me. Those headphones have him wrapped in his own world.
He senses me before he actually registers me.
Maybe a flicker of motion in his peripheral vision or a shift in the air.
But his reaction is delayed. His head snaps up too late, pupils blown wide, mouth forming a tiny O.
His jaw works once, twice, like he’s trying to swallow the surprise, and the color drains from his cheeks until he looks paper thin.
I shove him against the car hard enough that the air leaves his lungs.
“Don’t you ever talk to her like that again,” I say. “Penelope. Hurt her, and I won’t be nice when I come for you.”
He sputters something—a pathetic apology—holding his hands up as he attempts to speak again.
I don’t wait for him to form words. My fist finds his cheek with a wet, muffled thud.
The sound bounces off the metal of the trunk and into my ears.
His head snaps to the side, mouth opening, no coherent sound, just a ragged inhale—then he straightens, hands clawing for purchase on my sleeve.
He tries to shove back, but his push is slow and sloppy, the kind you do when surprise still has the upper hand.
I don’t stop. My knuckles sting when they connect again. After a punch to his abdomen, he doubles over, air expelled in shock, before his knees wobble and give way to gravity. I drive my foot into his gut; the impact folding him forward, and his palms smack the pavement with an ugly sound.
“Next time,” I say, cold as ice, “it won’t be just an ass-beating. Keep your fucking tone polite and your words nice. Tell a soul about this, or touch Penelope, and I’ll remove your fucking tongue.”
Brose’s face goes white. “You’re bluffing,” he rasps.
“Try me,” I say. “And tell a soul about this and we’ll see how fast they launch an investigation into a professor with a TA who looked upset after she left his class and another student who says he saw the professor touch her.”
He swallows, because he knows how these things look on paper.
I walk away before he can find his feet. My heart bangs in my chest, and a stupid, wide grin spreads across my face. Haven’t done something like that in a long time.
I slide back into my car, pull the mask off, and put my glasses back on. My hands are steady now. If Mom ever saw the blood on my knuckles, she’d lose her mind, but she doesn’t need to know.
I drive home slowly, thinking about Penelope’s face when she cried, about Minxy and how fragile she sounds, about my mom and the neat little kingdom she’s trying to build. I don’t regret what I did. Not one second.
Protecting people isn’t pretty. It isn’t clean. But it’s what I do.