The hallway was a stream of voices, shoes, backpacks. Among them Vanessa – her phone like a weapon in her hand, the display bright as a trap.
Her smile wasn't an expression of joy, but rather the anticipatory smile that comes right before a glass falls, knowing that something is about to shatter.
"Texts are cute," she cooed, "but a photo says more. Especially when it's from the weekend."
Weekend.
The word echoed inside me, heavy, dangerous. My stomach tightened. Beside me, I felt Alaric take half a step forward, every line of his body tense. Reflexively, I placed my hand on his arm.
"Don't," I whispered. It was barely audible, but he stopped. His muscles were like wire under my hand – controlled violence, at the breaking point.
Vanessa grinned even wider, waving the phone. Two girls from her clique leaned forward curiously, a boy behind her whistled softly, as if he could see more than he should.
