Josie
Varen's grip on my arm was firm—almost bruising—as he dragged me down the narrow corridor. His silence burned louder than his voice ever could. The further we went, the more the noise of the others faded, until the only thing I could hear was the echo of my heartbeat and his harsh breathing.
The door to his room slammed shut behind us, the sound cracking through the air like a gunshot. Before I could even take another breath, he spun me around and pinned me against the wall. The impact forced a sharp exhale out of me, and his eyes—dark, molten, unreadable—held mine hostage.
"Talk," he said, his voice gravelly, low, dangerous.
I blinked at him, a hint of a smile tugging at my lips despite the tension. "You know, I actually like it when you get possessive."
His jaw flexed. "I'm not being possessive."
