12

KAYDEN Someone is staring at me. No. Glaring. The vicious eyes skim the back of my head like a breeze—or more accurately, wind. Turbulent, stormy wind. I rip my gaze from the PowerPoint and face the class, then I slip a hand into my pocket as I meet that glare. It’s a real effort not to let my lips fall into a smile. An honest struggle. Carson is sitting in the very last row, sliding his pen back and forth without looking at his notebook. He seems to have lost his grip on his usual calm façade, gradually disintegrating into my chaos. See, he’s truly a mastermind at masking his true emotions. I’ve seen how he exudes a collected demeanor with friends, looking the ideal part of a harmless kitten when, in fact, he’s harboring a demon. Hell, during that night I first saw him, he wore a poker face even after I shot him. And I thought he was putting up a front, but I’m starting to believe that’s just his default—looking so terribly disinterested at the whole world. This week, however, in our