Amber

Chapter 8: The Game Begins (Amber's POV)

Ignoring Adrian Blackwood should have been easy.

It wasn't.

I was trying. Really, I was. But ignoring someone is hard when they're sitting right next to you, practically radiating amusement like they know you're failing.

I refused to look at him.

I refused to acknowledge the fact that he smelled unfairly good—like cold air before a storm.

I refused to react when he leaned back in his chair, stretching, his arms flexing slightly as he moved.

I was fine. Completely fine.

Until he spoke.

"Silent treatment? Cute."

I gritted my teeth. Do not respond. Do not respond.

"I didn't think you'd last this long," he murmured, sounding way too entertained. "But now I'm curious… how long can you keep pretending you don't want to talk to me?"

I snapped my head toward him before I could stop myself. "I do not want to talk to you."

His lips curved. "Then why are you?"

Damn it.

I huffed, turning back to my notebook. "You are the most irritating person I have ever met."

"And yet," he mused, tapping his fingers lazily against the desk, "you still sit next to me every day."

"Assigned seating," I muttered.

"Mm." His golden eyes flickered with something unreadable. "You could ask the teacher to move."

I tensed.

Because I could.

I could have switched seats on day one. I could have gone to the teacher and said, Hey, I think my seatmate is a mysterious demon, can I sit somewhere else?

But I didn't.

And the worst part? I didn't want to.

Adrian's smirk deepened. "Ah. I see."

I scowled. "You don't see anything."

"On the contrary," he murmured, voice low and infuriatingly smug, "I see everything, sweetheart."

I stiffened. "Do not call me that."

He tilted his head, like he was considering it. "Amber, then?"

I exhaled. "Yes. Amber is fine."

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Amber."

My pulse jumped.

I hated him. I hated him so much.

But I hated myself more for the way my breath hitched at the way he said my name—slow, deliberate, like he was tasting it.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His smirk widened. "Interesting."

I glared at him. "What?"

He tilted his head. "You react when I say your name."

"I do not," I said way too fast.

"You do," he countered smoothly.

I turned away. "Maybe I just don't like the way you say it."

"Or maybe," he mused, voice dropping slightly, "you like it too much."

My fingers tightened around my pen.

"You're insufferable," I muttered.

"And you," he whispered, lips curling at the edges, "are fun to tease."

I turned toward him, ready to argue—but then his eyes dropped.

I followed his gaze, and that's when I realized—

My pen had rolled off the desk. And landed near his foot.

For a moment, we both just… stared at it.

Then, before I could react, Adrian reached down and grabbed it.

His fingers wrapped around the pen effortlessly. But instead of handing it back..he just held it. .

Waiting.

I sighed, extending my hand. "Give it back."

Adrian twirled the pen between his fingers. "Ask nicely."

I blinked. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious."

I groaned. "Fine. Adrian, can I please have my pen back?"

He smirked. "That was awful. Try again."

I stared at him, scandalized. "It's a pen!"

"It's my entertainment," he countered smoothly. "So go on. I'm waiting."

I inhaled sharply. "Adrian, I swear to—"

Before I could finish my sentence, he caught my wrist.

My breath froze.

His grip wasn't tight, wasn't rough—just deliberate. His fingers curled loosely around my wrist, his skin ice cold, burning into mine like frostbite.

And then?

He slowly, deliberately placed the pen into my palm.

But he didn't let go.

Not immediately.

Instead, he just… watched me.

Golden eyes sharp, calculating. Like he was memorizing the way I looked right now—breathless and frozen under his touch.

"You're warm," he murmured, almost like he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

I shivered. "And you're freezing."

His gaze flickered to my lips.

Just for a second. Barely noticeable.

But I noticed.

And my stomach flipped.

I pulled my hand back too fast, gripping my pen like it was a lifeline. "Don't touch me."

His smirk returned, slow and deliberate. "You touched me first, sweetheart."

I opened my mouth, closed it, then groaned and turned away.

This was dangerous.

And the worst part?

I liked it.

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