Alina Nightshade doesn't think much about James Potter. Only that he seems rather keen on being annoying.
James Potter thinks Alina Nightshade is a mystery all wrapped up in a very pretty girl. And he is keen on trying to be her friend.
James Potte...
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Alina concludes that she must have lost her mind last night. What other explanation could there be for kissing James? Again, she might add.
Apparently, her brain has decided to shut down entirely, succumbing to those Bambi-brown eyes, choosing to kiss first and think later. Brilliant.
Merlin, she's furious. Furious at herself for letting it happen.
Furious at the fact that she wants to do it again. And again. Until she knows every sound James Potter can make.
And furious that she's still angry—furious at the entire bloody world.
Her emotions surge, overwhelming her until she spirals into that familiar, hollow numbness. That blank, suffocating space of apathy and loathing where her mind retreats after too many emotions crowd in.
Her eyes trace the emerald green silk of her bedsheets. She hasn't slept much.
After kissing James, she'd dragged herself back to the dorm and spent an eternity under scalding hot water, scrubbing away the feelings—and the fake blood—from her skin.
Her nails bite into her palms, the sharp sting jolting her back to reality.
She can ignore it. Surely. Pretend it never happened. She's done it before.
Rising from the bed, her bare feet meet the chill of the dormitory floor. Alina forces her mind to retreat to that numbing emptiness as she sets about her morning routine.
It's fine.
She's fine.
It has to mean nothing. It can only mean nothing. She's engaged, after all. Even if she has no intention of going through with it, no one else knows that—only her.
She dresses quickly, the minutes slipping away as she pulls on her uniform.
There's class today. Maybe watching her classmates struggle to stay awake and mask their hangovers will distract her.
Sliding on her shoes and rings, she grabs her bag from the bed with a sigh.
James claimed he'd forgotten about the bet once he realized he liked her. Is it true?
Probably. He's a terrible liar.
Maybe that's why she's so furious—because she didn't catch on earlier. She didn't see the signs, didn't notice what was right in front of her.
And if he's telling the truth—and she's almost certain he is—the guilt is probably eating him alive. She has never seen someone feel so much in a single day.
Alina shakes the thought from her mind, forcing herself to focus on the present as she walks to her dormitory door. She cracks it open, glancing around to ensure no one is nearby before slipping out and closing it softly behind her. Then closing the painting too.
