Beatrix sees colors. Colors that defined the rest of people's lives. Her grandmother called it a gift. Beatrix sees it more as a curse. A curse that forced upon her the knowledge of exactly when a person was going to die, and she couldn't do a damn thing about it.
"I didn't ask to be in the middle of your ego-battle," I grumble. Blake pins me to my locker, hands resting on either side of my head. "Well, you got it in anyway, Darling," he whispers. His face is inches away from mine and damn me for licking my lips. I am NOT falling for these guys. And then, at the corner of my e...