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“Un-freaking believable,” Damian muttered when he saw the History project pairing list. Paired with Anya. Again.
He lowered his gaze toward the front of the room, jaw tightening. It was Master Henderson’s last semester before retirement, and lately the man seemed especially fond of putting the two of them together. As if it were amusing. As if it were some grand social experiment.
It was infuriating.
His eyes drifted—traitorously—to the familiar sight a few rows ahead: long pink hair cascading over narrow shoulders, catching the glare of the new full-spectrum lights the school had just installed. The strands shimmered when she moved.
She was impossible to work with. Always tossing some sharp little comment over her shoulder. Always teasing him instead of focusing on the assignment. Head perpetually in the clouds, that ridiculous smile curving across her face like she knew something no one else did.
And worse—far worse—she was beautiful.
Green eyes that flashed like polished gemstones when she was excited. Cheeks that flushed rosy when something delighted her. The kind of details he absolutely did not need catalogued in his brain.
He swallowed and scowled at his desk.
Why did his thoughts always turn like this? Every single time. No matter how thoroughly she exasperated him—how fundamentally incompatible they were—his heart refused to cooperate with his logic. He had been hopelessly undone since that humiliating sucker punch in first grade.
Pathetic.
He despised that weakness most of all. His mind knew better. His pride certainly knew better. And yet his heart stubbornly refused to fall in line.
One day—one day—he would finally say everything he’d been holding back since the beginning.
She wasn’t terrible. Not exactly. Just insufferable, inconsiderate, and absurd.
And entirely too important to him.
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“Mr. Henderson’s doing it again, isn’t he?” Anya smirked when she walked up to the table beside him in the library that afternoon. “He really needs a new hobby.”
She dropped into the seat with an exaggerated sigh and leaned back far too dramatically, arms and legs sprawled without care. Her Imperial Scholar cape slipped from her shoulders and spilled onto the floor behind her.
Damian rolled his eyes. “Stop acting ridiculous. It’s a History project. Try not to embarrass yourself.”
He very deliberately kept his gaze on his notebook. Very deliberately did not notice how her legs stretched—long and lithe—beneath the table. No longer the awkward proportions of childhood. He scowled harder and forced his focus onto the page.
Stupid heart…stupid stupid stupid—
“So,” she groaned, tilting her head toward him, “what’s the topic this time?”
“‘Cultural Implications of the Valestrian Empire,’” he replied, aiming for neutrality. The subject genuinely fascinated him—but there was no reason to hand her fresh material to tease him with.
Her brows lifted. “Oh, so it’s right up your alley, then.” She straightened and leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in her hands. “What do you want me to do that won’t ruin your grand master plan?”
She sounded painfully uninterested.
His shoulders stiffened. There it was again—her talent for turning something worthwhile into a chore.
“Sometimes I question how you managed to earn Imperial Scholar the same term I did,” he said coolly, flipping a page. “It’s borderline scandalous.”
“Excuse me?” Her palms hit the table with a sharp crack. “I earned my Stellas just like you did.” His name rolled off her tongue with obvious irritation. “You’re not some untouchable genius, Damian.”
“At least I’m not pulling C-minuses.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Grades aren’t everything. If you relaxed once in your life, maybe you could finally get that stick outta your a—”
“Keep it down over there!” The Librarian hissed from across the room. “I’ll have you both banned! I don’t care if you’re Imperial Scholars or not!”
Damian threw one of the thick books at her from the stack in front of him.
“There,” he muttered. “Try contributing. Find something useful about Valestrian social customs.”
He added a few choice words under his breath and bent back over his own text, determined not to look at her again.
It was nearly half an hour later when Anya suddenly shifted. She pulled her chair in with a quiet scrape and leaned closer to the book, pink hair spilling forward onto the pages as her expression sharpened with interest.
The movement caught Damian’s attention. He glanced up, mildly annoyed.
“What.”
She hummed softly, like she was savoring something. “Did you know that in Valestrian culture, when two opposing parties wanted to settle a grievance, they were required to seal the reconciliation with a kiss?”
Slowly—far too slowly—she lifted her gaze from the page.
Her emerald green eyes were twinkling with mischief.
Damian’s stomach dropped.
He knew that look.
It was the same look she’d worn on the first day of orientation—right before she’d sucker-punched him.
The same glint she’d had when she stood up to the Red Circus leader on that hijacked bus.
The same reckless resolve she carried into the abandoned school building.
The same unwavering fire in her eyes when she’d sworn to uncover who framed Henderson.
It was the look that meant she had already decided something.
And that something was about to become his problem, too.
“Anya—” His tone carried a warning.
“I have a bone to pick with you, Lord Damian.”
He shot her a viscous glare but his heart skipped a beat. What the hell was she doing?
“Anya, I mean it. Cut it out.” He felt his chest break out in a full flush. She was going to be the death of him.
“I don’t appreciate your sanctimonious attitude. You’re haughty, judgmental, and rude. You can’t manage to find one kind word to say to me without burying it within an insult. And I’m tired of it.” Her eyes flashed.
He narrowed his eyes. “What are you playing at, Anya? Whatever it is, it isn’t funny.” He swallowed nervously as she stood up and started walking around the table toward him. He had flashbacks to her sucker-punch apology in the cafeteria. He felt his breath catch as she stood over him, casting a shadow across the table.
“Stand up, Sy-on Boy.”
He knew better than to protest. He glanced nervously at the Librarian, who had his face in the large monitor at the circulation desk.
He stood up. “Anya, I don’t want to get kicked out—”
His words died in his throat as she splayed her hand over his chest and pushed him backwards, nearly toppling him over into the rolling cart of books behind him.
“What are you doing?!” He hissed, scrambling backwards toward a small alcove of bookshelves. “Anya, you’re going to get us in loads of trouble!”
“Shut up and apologize for being a jerk, Damian,” her voice was low and dangerous. She leaned into his space and pushed him against the wall.
“I–I’m sorry, okay?” His eyes widened. She was way too close. “I’m sorry for being a jerk. I shouldn’t have said that thing about the Imperial Scholar stuff, okay? I didn’t realize you’d take it seriously.”
Her frown faltered as she thought about his response for a moment. The hand on his chest disappeared.
Now he could breathe again.
“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” He saw her expression soften and breathed a sigh of relief.
“I forgive you.”
Then she smiled. That impish smile. Before he could process what was happening, she was already in his space.
The surprise of her soft lips as they gently but deliberately met his sent a thrill racing down his spine. He was no stranger to warm cheeks or the restless buzz that settled in his chest whenever she stood too close—but this was different.
This was electric.
The sensation spread before his mind fully caught up, and then instinct took over. He moved toward her in one unsteady surge, hands lifting—awkward, uncertain—until they found her shoulders.
Anya let out a small squeak when he spun her around and her back bumped against the bookshelf, but she steadied almost immediately. Damian pressed into her space, breathing sharply through his nose as though committing every detail to memory.
She tasted faintly sweet—like strawberries—and the realization nearly unraveled him. He eased back just enough for their lips to brush again, slower this time, the contact lingering.
His heart was pounding. After seven long years of denial, restraint, and stubborn pride, it was finally getting what it had been longing for.
“Damian—” Her quiet gasp was a tickle against his inexperienced lips.
“Yeah?” he breathed, the word uneven. His eyelids fluttered closed as he tried—and failed—to focus on anything other than the warmth of her breath and the light brush of her nose against his cheek.
“I knew you’d be agreeable to my field research.”
The smile in her voice was enough to tempt his lips into a hint of a smile. He pulled back so they were nose to nose; still so close.
“Yeah? So?” He opened his eyes to find himself drowning in green. He tried to swallow again, his throat impossibly dry.
She just smiled. That infuriating, knowing smirk that had set him alight on the very first day they’d met. He leaned in again, closer this time, fingers finally threading into the soft silk of her hair. He’d imagined doing that more times than he cared to admit. Never once had he found the nerve.
“Shut up, uggo,” he muttered softly, his voice holding no malice as he tenderly caressed his nose against her cheek. “What would you know, anyway?”
“I know you’ve wanted to kiss me ever since our first dance,” she murmured back, her bottom lip grazing the line of his chin.
A low chuckle slipped from him as his gaze wandered over her face, memorizing every detail. “Oh yeah? And how could you possibly know that, hm? Did you read my mind?”
“Yes, Sy-on boy,” she whispered, voice feather-light. “I read your mind.”
And before he could argue the finer points of telepathy and Valestrian cultural norms, she closed the distance and pressed her lips to his once more.