Page 253 of Ruthless Court
Three more phones rise.
The corridor narrows beneath the crush of bodies. Students who never looked at me twice before today suddenly want a reaction, a quote, proof that Kane Haverhill’s classmate is either sleeping with him or planning to.
My grip tightens around my bag.
Kane notices.
His smile disappears.
He steps in front of me, broad shoulders blocking the nearest camera.
“Move.”
The student laughs. “Come on, Haverhill. One question.”
“You got your clip.”
“Is she the girl from the game?”
Kane doesn’t answer.
He turns slightly, creating a space between his body and the wall.
“This way.”
No hand at my waist.
No fingers around my elbow.
He waits until I choose to follow.
I slip through the opening.
He stays behind me as we cut across the hall, taking every camera angle with him. Someone calls my name. Another person shouts Tortoiseshell.
My shoulders climb.
Kane reaches for me.
His hand stops an inch from my back.
Then drops.
I notice that more than I would have noticed the touch.
He opens an unmarked door near the faculty offices and ushers me into a concrete stairwell.
The door shuts behind us.
Silence lands.
No cameras.
No hashtags.
Only the low buzz of emergency lighting and both of us breathing harder than a walk down one hallway should require.
Kane leans against the door.
