Page 32 of Sweet Violence
“It is, actually.”
His mouth pressed thin, the corners tightening before he smoothed them out again. “That’s not what I?—
“You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to go looking for leverage in places you have no right to touch.”
Jackson stood there a second too long, like he was still trying to decide whether this was something he could talk his way outof—whether there was a version of this conversation where he didn’t come out on the wrong side of it.
There wasn’t.
“I think this has been taken out of proportion,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I think you knew exactly what you were doing.” I stepped back, just enough to let him go. “Enjoy your afternoon, Mr. Randolph.”
Jackson lifted his chin, holding onto what little composure he had left. He cleared his throat, stepped around Archie, and started down the hallway.
Finally.
I turned to find Archibald exactly where I’d left him, the tension still pulled tight beneath the surface like it hadn’t been given anywhere to go.
His glasses were still crooked.
I reached for him without thinking.
My fingers found the frame, nudging it back into place. The side of my thumb brushed lightly against his temple, just enough to feel the warmth of his skin beneath it.
A strand of hair had fallen loose again, catching against the edge, and I smoothed it back into place without breaking contact.
His lips parted.
Warm breath ghosted over my cheek.
“Rabbit,” I murmured, thumb brushing his temple, just enough to keep him with me. “Don’t let him decide what matters about you.”
“Henry.”
Christ.
It was the first time he’d said my name. Not Professor. Not Rothwell. Just….Henry.
Something in me snapped tight.
For a second, I forgot where we were.
Forgot the hallway.
Forgot everything except the way he said it—like it belonged to him.
8
ARCHIE
“You’ve handled it so well.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it.
People said it like it meant something—as if they’d reached a conclusion after skimming the surface.
“You’ve handled it so well.”
