Arthur's POV
I should've left her there.
I should've turned my back when the chanting started and let her deal with the fallout she practically walked into. But the moment she raised the fifth glass with that sharp grin and shaky fingers, something in my chest clicked—and snapped.
She didn't flinch. Not even when the poison started kicking in.
But I did.
Now here she was.
In the passenger seat of my car.
Mumbling something about "glowstick ceilings" and tapping her fingers against the window like it was a piano.
Jesus.
This girl was a walking migraine dressed in black leather and dagger eyes.
And somehow, she was also the most captivating mess I'd ever seen.
⸻
I didn't take her back to school.
Too risky.
St. Arthelios didn't tolerate this kind of party, and Isla Durova stumbling in half-drugged was the kind of thing that'd start rumors, or worse—calls to her side of the mafia line. I wasn't going to be responsible for that.
So I took her to the one place no one would look.
A sleek, high-rise loft in the older part of the city. Hidden elevator. Keypad entry. Soundproof walls and an entire floor to myself. My private escape. My fortress.
Tonight? Isla Durova was crashing it.
And crashing everything else.
⸻
The moment we stepped in, she spun in a slow, wobbly circle and gasped. "Whoa. Fancy-brooding-mysterious-man lives in a magazine."
I closed the door behind her.
"Don't touch anything," I warned.
So naturally, she touched everything.
Tossed her heels into the corner like she owned the place. Poked at the wine bottles lined up neatly by the bar. Opened a cabinet, pulled out a silver spoon and stared at it like it told her secrets.
"Do you have any soup?" she asked with wide eyes.
"What—no."
"Then why the spoon, Arthur?" She pointed it at me like it was a weapon.
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
This was going to be a long night.
⸻
She ended up curled on my expensive couch, wrapped in a blanket she dragged from my room like a raccoon hunting treasure. Legs bare, black skirt riding high, one sock halfway off. And somehow, despite the chaos, she looked like a damn painting.
"You keep looking at me," she slurred.
"I'm making sure you don't die."
She giggled. "Aww. That's romantic."
"It's not."
"You like meee."
"I don't."
"You're lyinggg."
I pressed my lips together. Hard.
She flopped onto her back, arms sprawled, and stared at the ceiling.
"You ever just… want to punch the whole world?" she mumbled.
"All the time."
"Same. Maybe we should punch it together."
I turned away, hiding a stupid smirk.
⸻
She was quiet for a moment.
Then, completely unprompted, she got up, grabbed one of my books off the shelf, stood on my coffee table—and started reciting nonsense like it was Shakespeare.
"And the Queen of Daggers declared: I shall smite thy GPA and eateth all your snacks!"
I blinked. "What the hell—"
"Silence, peasant!" she yelled, pointing at me with dramatic flair.
She lost her balance mid-sentence and stumbled—right into my arms.
I caught her. Of course I did. Muscle memory at this point.
She clung to my shirt for balance, and then, without warning, her fingers slid up to my face. She cupped my cheeks like she was trying to mold me out of clay.
"Arty," she whispered with a crooked smile.
My brows knit. "What did you just—"
"Arty." She squished my face between her hands, her nose almost brushing mine. "Gosh, you're handsome. It's disgusting."
My throat tightened.
"But I hate you," she added, voice like honey and gasoline. "So much."
Then she let go, spun away like a drunk ballerina, and collapsed dramatically into the couch again like nothing happened—leaving me frozen, processing, and wondering what the hell just hit me.
She hated me.
She was calling me Arty.
And apparently, I was "disgustingly handsome."
She wouldn't remember any of this tomorrow.
But I would.
Every damn word.