9

                                    

                                          
The door to my study was ajar, though I was certain I had closed it. Someone was inside. I could hear the soft rustle of pages turning. Slowly, I approached and peeked through the gap.
Clark stood with his back to me, reading intently. A book?
Wait—my journal!
"You bastard!" I shouted, striding into the room. I lunged to snatch it, but he raised it out of my reach, grinning smugly.
"Such a beautiful handwriting, darling," he teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
"Give it back!" I leapt futilely, trying to grab it.
"I will—after I finish reading this last page."
"You've read enough!" I yanked at his arm, but my efforts only seemed to amuse him.
"One more page, and it's yours," he bargained, his voice softening slightly.
"Don't you understand the concept of privacy?" Desperation made me bold. I stepped onto his feet to gain height, stretching my hand toward my journal.
We were close. Too close. Our bodies were mere inches apart, noses almost touching. His smile, so insufferable from afar, was even worse up close.
He looked into my eyes, and for a moment, the air between us thickened. Then his face softened—a mistake on his part. I seized the opportunity, slipping my hand swiftly into his pocket and pulling out the first thing I found.
A piece of paper. Laudanum.
"What's this?" I demanded.
"Nothing."
"Are you sick?"
"No."
"Is someone else sick?"
"I'll answer if you let me finish reading your page."
Tempting. I wanted information I could use against him. But letting him read my private thoughts was out of the question.
I returned the paper to his pocket and continued my search. My fingers found only a key to his study. His other pocket was empty.
"You're declining my offer, then?" he asked, amused.
"You assume correctly." I smiled, slipping my hand into his jacket's inner pocket. He looked momentarily startled.
"I'd advise you to keep your hands to yourself, Whitewood."
My fingers closed around something metallic. Just as he grabbed my wrist, I pulled it out—a golden watch.
Clark's expression shifted from smug to flustered. He still held my journal high, but now his other hand gripped my wrist.
"In need of a third hand, darling?" I taunted.
He exhaled. "Let's make a trade. My watch for your journal."
"Deal."
We eyed each other warily as I opened my palm, revealing the watch. He lowered my journal, but hesitation knotted my stomach. Could I trust him? No.
In one fluid motion, I snatched my journal and darted away, his watch still in my hand.
I sprinted down the corridor, mind racing. What next?
"You little liar!" Clark shouted, his footsteps pounding behind me.
"Never trust anyone!" I called back, pushing my legs to move faster.
"Especially you."
The corridor ended abruptly. I veered into a random room, trying to slam the door shut, but his foot wedged in just before it closed.