Betrayed

Why couldn't I learn the first, or even the second time?
    Then my foot came down squarely in the middle of a dry branch. Crack! I gasped. Nala grumbled a very loud complaint (I was inadvertently squashing her to my bosom). The head of the figure under the tree snapped up and it turned around. I tensed to get ready to either scream and run from a red-eyed malevolent ghost, or to scream and fight a red-eyed malevolent ghost. Either way a scream would definitely be involved, so I sucked in air and"Zoey? Is that you?”
    The voice was deep, sexy, and already familiar. "Loren?"
    "What are you doing out here?”
    He made no move to come closer to me, so out of pure awkward fidgeting I grinned as if I hadn't been scared poo-less just seconds ago, shrugged nonchalantly, and joined him under the tree. "Hi," I said, trying to sound grown. Then I remembered that he'd asked me a question and I was glad that it was dark enough that my blush wasn't totally obvious. "Oh, I was walking back from the stables and Nala and I decided to take a long-cut." A long-cut? Had I really said that?
    I thought he'd looked tense when I'd walked up to him, but this made him laugh and his completely gorgeous face relaxed. "A long-cut, huh? Hello again, Nala." He scratched the top of her head and she rudely, but typically, grumbled at him and then leaped neatly from my arms to the ground, shook herself, and still grumbling, padded delicately away.
    "Sorry. She's not very sociable.”
    He smiled. "Don't worry about it. My cat, Wolverine, reminds me of a grumpy old man.”
    "Wolverine?" I raised my eyebrows.
    His gorgeous smile went all crooked and boylike and, unbelievably, it made him even more handsome. "Yeah, Wolverine. He chose me as his when I was a third former. That was the year I was completely into the X-Men.”
    "That name could account for why he's so grumpy.”
    "Well, it could have been worse. The year before I couldn't stop watching Spider-Man. He came within an inch of being Spidey or Peter Parker.”
    "Clearly, you're a great burden for your cat to bear.”
    "Wolverine would most definitely agree with you!" He laughed again and I tried hard not to let his overwhelming hotness make me giggle hysterically like a pre-teen at a boy band concert. I was, for the moment, actually flirting with him! Remain calm. Don't say or do anything idiotic.
    "So, what are you doing way out here?" I asked, ignoring my mind babble.
    "Writing haiku." He lifted his hand and I noticed for the first time that he was holding one of those cool, ultra-expensive leather-bound writer's journals. "I find inspiration being out here, alone, in the hours before dawn.”
    "Oh, gosh! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt you. I'll just say bye and leave you alone." I waved (like a dork) and started to turn away, but he caught my wrist with his free hand.
    "You don't have to go. I find inspiration in more things than being out here alone.”
    His hand was warm against my wrist and I wondered if he could feel my pulse jump.
    "Well, I don't want to bother you.”
    "Don't worry about that. You're not bothering me." He squeezed my wrist before (sadly) letting it go.
    "Okay, so. Haiku." His touch had left me ridiculously flustered and I tried to regain my façade of good sense. "That's Asian poetry with a set meter count, right?”
    His smile made me ever so glad I'd actually paid attention in Mrs. Wienecke's English class last year during the poetry unit.
    "That's right. I prefer the five-seven-five format.” He paused and his smile changed. Something about it made my stomach do a little fluttery thing, and his dark, beautiful eyes locked on mine. "Speaking of inspiration—you could help me out.”
    "Sure, I'd be happy to," I said, glad I didn't sound as breathless as I felt.
    Still looking into my eyes, he lifted his hand so that it brushed my shoulder. "Nyx has Marked you there.”
    It didn't sound like a question, but I nodded. "Yes.”
    "I would like to see it. If it wouldn't make you too uncomfortable.”
    His voice shivered through me. Logic was telling me that he was only asking to see my tattoos because of how freakishly different they are, and that he was in no way coming on to me. To him I must seem nothing more than a child—a kid—a fledgling with weird Marks and unusual powers. That's what logic was telling me. But his eyes, his voice, the way his hand was still caressing my shoulder—those things were telling me something completely different.
    "I'll show it