Chapter 30 The language of my skin
Chapter 30: The Language of Skin (Elena’s POV)
The red paint on my locker was still a wet smear in my mind, but the heat of Liam’s hand on my chin was what actually burned.
He had protected me. He had stood between me and Jax like a wall of solid ice, but the way he looked at me afterward—the sheer disgust in his eyes—reminded me that I was still just a "stain" in his perfect world.
"Open the book, Liam," I said, my voice flat.
We were in the Vance library. It was seven in the evening, and the house was eerily quiet. My father was out at a "crisis meeting" with the Millers, and the maids had been dismissed for the night. It was just us, surrounded by thousands of leather-bound books that smelled of old paper and wealth.
Liam didn't move. He was slumped in the velvet armchair across from me, his hockey jersey pulled tight over his shoulders. He looked exhausted. The arrogance was still there, but it was chipped at the edges.
"I’m not in the mood for Calculus, Elena," he muttered, staring at the fireplace.
"I don't care about your mood. Your father is paying me to ensure you don't fail, and after the stunt you pulled today, you're going to need every academic point you can get."
Liam finally turned his head to look at me. The library light caught the sharp line of his jaw. I hated how well-defined it was. I hated the way his hair fell over his forehead, messy and dark, making him look less like a star athlete and more like a boy who was drowning.
"You really don't stop, do you?" he asked, leaning forward.
As he moved, his jersey rode up slightly, revealing the hard line of his obliques. I froze for a split second, my eyes trailing the way his muscles tensed. He was a playboy for a reason—the gym had been kind to him. His skin looked bronze against the white fabric, and for a terrifying moment, I wondered if it felt as warm as it looked.
Stop it, I screamed at myself. He poured oil on your head. He’s the reason your leg aches every morning.
"I stop when the job is done," I said, my voice coming out breathier than I intended. I cleared my throat and pushed the textbook toward him. "Solve for X. Now."
Liam groaned but reached for the pen. As he leaned over the table, our fingers brushed. It was a tiny, accidental contact, but it felt like a static shock. I pulled my hand back as if I’d been burned, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs.
"You're shaking," Liam said, his eyes flicking up to mine. A slow, mocking smirk spread across his lips. "What's the matter, Bookworm? Is the 'stain' starting to catch feelings?"
"In your dreams, Vance," I snapped, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. My hands were definitely trembling. "I’m just tired of looking at your face. It’s a very taxing visual experience."
"Liars go to hell, Elena."
He didn't go back to the math. He stayed leaning forward, his eyes locked on mine. He smelled like expensive soap and the cold air of the ice rink. It was a masculine, heavy scent that seemed to fill the small space between us.
I found myself observing him, despite every instinct telling me to look away. I noticed the small scar near his eyebrow—probably from a puck. I noticed the way his eyelashes were thick and dark, casting shadows on his cheekbones. He was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous, like a jagged piece of glass that you wanted to touch even though you knew it would make you bleed.
"You have a smudge of red on your neck," Liam said softly.
He didn't wait for me to react. He reached out, his thumb grazing the skin just below my ear. His touch was electric. My entire body went rigid, my breath hitching in my throat. I should have slapped his hand away. I should have stood up and walked out.
Instead, I stayed frozen, trapped by the heat of his skin against mine.
"Jax really did a number on you," he whispered, his thumb moving in a slow, hypnotic circle. The disgust he’d shown in the hallway was gone, replaced by something dark and unreadable.
For a second, the air in the library changed. The hate was still there, but it was being smothered by a tension so thick I could barely breathe. I looked at his lips, then back at his eyes, and I realized with a jolt of pure terror that I wanted him to lean closer.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
"Don't touch me," I whispered, though I didn't move.
"I'm just cleaning the paint, Elena," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low vibrato that made my toes curl. "You're so messy. Always causing trouble. Always making me do things I don't want to do."
He was inches away now. I could feel the heat radiating from his chest. The "Playboy" was back—the version of him that knew exactly how to make a girl forget her own name.
"Liam..."
"What?" he breathed.
The door to the library slammed open.
I jumped back, my cane clattering to the floor. Liam sat up straight, his face instantly smoothing back into a mask of cold indifference.
Chloe stood in the doorway, her chest heaving, her eyes darting between the two of us. She was still wearing her school uniform, but it was disheveled.
"I knew it!" she shrieked, pointing a finger at me. "I knew you were in here doing more than just 'tutoring.' Liam, how could you? With her? In your own house?"
"Chloe, go home," Liam said, his voice flat and exhausted. "We’re studying."
"Studying? You were practically on top of her!" Chloe marched over to the table, her face twisted in a mask of jealousy. She looked at me, her eyes full of venom. "You think you're so slick, don't you, Elena? Moving in here, trying to seduce him because you have nothing else. You're pathetic."
"I'm pathetic?" I stood up, leaning heavily on the table. The spell Liam had cast over me was broken, replaced by a cold, familiar rage. "You're the one who broke into a private residence at eight PM because you're insecure about a girl you call a 'Ghost.' If I'm so beneath you, why are you so afraid?"
Chloe lunged across the table, her hand swinging for my face.
Liam caught her wrist mid-air. He didn't do it gently. He shoved her back, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp anger. "I said, go home, Chloe. Now."
"Liam!" Chloe cried, her voice breaking. "You're choosing her again!"
"I'm choosing to have a quiet house," Liam snapped. "Get out before I call my father and tell him you're trespassing."
Chloe looked at him, then at me, and I saw the moment she broke. She turned and ran out of the library, her sobs echoing down the marble hallway.
Liam didn't follow her. He didn't even look at the door. He just stood there, his back to me, his shoulders tensing.
"Get out, Elena," he said, his voice sounding raw.
"Liam—"
"I said get out!" he roared, turning around. The disgust was back, ten times stronger than before. "I don't want to look at you. I don't want to smell you. You’re ruining everything. Just go to your room and stay there."
I grabbed my cane and hobbled toward the door. As I passed him, I stopped for a second.
"You can hate me all you want, Liam," I said, my voice trembling but clear. "But you were the one who touched me. Don't blame me for the fact that you can't control yourself."
I walked out, the thump-click of my cane sounding like a heartbeat in the silent house. I made it to the West Wing and locked my door, leaning against the wood as I tried to catch my breath.
My neck still burned where his thumb had been. I looked in the mirror and saw the faint red smudge of paint he hadn't quite cleaned off.
I hated him. I truly, deeply hated him. But as I touched the spot on my neck, I knew I was lying to myself. The "Playboy" wasn't just in my house. He was under my skin. And I didn't know how to get him out.