o_18vdqvms01tdp1ck54q91frg17mg2d.pdf

"Look at me," he ordered.
"Dimitri—"
"Look at me."
No matter our close history, he was still my instructor. I couldn't refuse a direct order. Slowly,
reluctantly, I turned toward him, still tilting my head slightly down so the hair hung over the
sides of my face. Rising from his chair, he walked over and stood before me.
I avoided his eyes but saw his hand move forward to brush back my hair. Then it stopped. As
did my breathing. Our short-lived attraction had been filled with questions and reservations, but
one thing I'd known for sure: Dimitri had loved my hair. Maybe he still loved it. It was great
hair, I'll admit. Long and silky and dark. He used to find excuses to touch it, and he'd counseled
me against cutting it as so many female guardians did.
His hand hovered there, and the world stood still as I waited to see what he would do. After
what seemed like an eternity, he let his hand gradually fall back to his side. Burning
disappointment washed over me, yet at the same time, I'd learned something. He'd hesitated.
He'd been afraid to touch me, which maybe—just maybe—meant he still wanted to. He'd had to
hold himself back.
I slowly tipped my head back so that we made eye contact. Most of my hair fell back from my
face—but not all. His hand trembled again, and I hoped again he'd reach forward. The hand
steadied. My excitement dimmed.
"Does it hurt?" he asked. The scent of that aftershave, mingled with his sweat, washed over me.
God, I wished he had touched me.
"No," I lied.
"It doesn't look so bad," he told me. "It'll heal."
"I hate her," I said, astonished at just how much venom those three words held. Even while
suddenly turned on and wanting Dimitri, I still couldn't drop the grudge I held against my
mother.