Chapter 16 Detention Games

Chapter 16 Detention Games


Detention stretches time like taffy. Minutes melt into each other, sticky and slow, until I swear the clock above the glass wall is moving backward.

The proctor yawns into his phone, scrolling with one hand, oblivious to the storm brewing on the other side of the table.

Across from me, Jace has given up pretending to work. He’s slouched in his chair, long legs stretched out, tapping a pen against his notebook. Each tap is deliberate, steady, like a drip of water wearing down stone.

I want to tell him to stop, but that would mean admitting he’s getting to me. And with Jace, every reaction is a win. So I keep my eyes on my own paper, though my pen scratches random loops and meaningless notes.

Finally, I can’t take it. “Do you ever shut up?” I snap.

He grins, not even pretending to misunderstand. “I haven’t said a word.”

“The tapping.”

“Oh.” He raises the pen, twirls it between his fingers. “Sorry. Nervous habit.”

I don’t believe that for a second. Nothing about Jace Langston screams nervous. But I don’t push, because if I do, he’ll twist it into another game.

Instead, I fire back. “Funny. I thought you were above nerves.”

For once, he doesn’t immediately answer. He just studies me, expression unreadable. The silence stretches until I squirm under it. Then, finally, he leans forward, elbows on the table.

“You really want to know something about me, Sinclair?” His voice is low, careful. “I don’t trust anyone.”

I want to laugh it off, make a jab about how shocking that is for the prince of Blackridge. But his tone pins me in place.

So I ask the question anyway, soft and hesitant. “Not even yourself?”

The look he gives me makes my stomach flip. Like I’ve touched a nerve no one else has ever dared.

“Especially not myself,” he says.

It rattles me more than it should. I try to mask it, looking back at my notebook, but the words blur on the page. My mind is replaying his voice, the sharp honesty that slipped through his usual armor.

We lapse into silence again, but it isn’t the same as before. It’s thicker, heavier, charged. Every time I lift my eyes, he’s already watching me, stormy gaze unreadable.

I tell myself to stop, to stay on guard, but curiosity is a dangerous thing.

“So why are you here, then?” I finally ask, gesturing around the sterile glass box. “What’s the great Jace Langston doing in detention?”

He smirks, mask sliding neatly back into place. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Not really.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Liar.”

I open my mouth to deny it, but the proctor clears his throat. We both stiffen like kids caught passing notes, though he doesn’t even look up from his phone.

When he’s distracted again, Jace leans across the table, voice just above a whisper. “Let’s just say some people don’t like it when I don’t play nice.”

The answer is vague, but his eyes are sharp, daring me to dig deeper. I don’t. Not yet. Because the last thing I want is to show him I’m curious.

But I am.

God help me, I am.

The clock ticks on. My pen scratches empty lines. Jace hums under his breath, some low, lazy tune that shouldn’t sound good but somehow does.

And then, out of nowhere, he asks, “Why are you really here, Sinclair?”

My head jerks up. “What do you mean?”

“At Blackridge.” His gaze is steady, cutting straight through me. “You don’t fit. Not because of the rumors—those are garbage. But you don’t… belong here. Not with them.”

My heart slams against my ribs. He’s too close. Too perceptive.

I force a scoff. “Maybe I just like marble hallways and overpriced uniforms.”

He smiles faintly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe. Or maybe you’ve got a reason.”

I grip my pen tighter, nails digging into my palm. If I let this go on, he’ll keep pressing until he gets something real out of me. And that can’t happen.

So I shoot back, sharp as I can manage. “You talk like you’ve got me all figured out.”

He tilts his head, considering. “Not yet. But I will.”

The words send a chill down my spine. He says them like a promise.

The proctor finally calls time, gathering his things. Chairs scrape as we stand. I shove my notebook into my bag, eager to get out, to breathe air that isn’t thick with Jace Langston’s presence.

But he doesn’t make it easy.

As I move for the door, he falls into step beside me, close enough that his shoulder almost brushes mine.

“You know what your problem is, Sinclair?” His voice is low, meant only for me.

I grit my teeth. “I’m sure you’re dying to tell me.”

“You play like it’s checkers.”

I freeze.

The hallway stretches ahead, empty and echoing, but all I hear are Noah’s words, whispered years ago across a chessboard. Always five moves ahead, Ava.

My pulse races. Jace doesn’t notice, or maybe he does. His smirk is sharp, knowing.

“Better learn the rules fast,” he adds, leaning close enough that I feel his breath against my ear. “Because in chess… pawns get sacrificed first.”

He pulls back, giving me one last look, and then he’s gone, footsteps fading down the corridor.

I stand rooted in place, chest tight, his words ringing in my skull.

Because either Jace Langston is toying with me…

Or he just told me exactly how to win.