TWISTED ꜜ LOUIS PARTRIDGE

⟾ 8 | MARK WHAT'S MINE

"What knife?" I lied innocently.

He sighed. "Don't play dumb, Ash, I can see the sheath-belt on your skirt."

I ignored his comment, hoping he'd let it go. I decided to focus on his new look instead. A navy jacket over a plain white shirt, the British flag enrested over the left lapel, and black jeans. Oh.

"New outfit, Partridge?" I said, clearing my throat.

He shrugged. "It's a Saturday night."

"I suppose you were dressed up for a better occasion, then."

Not that I cared, but I wondered if he was dressed so sharply and classy for a night on the town. Maybe a pub or a skate park. Or maybe he had a date when I decided to spring this fight on him so suddenly. Pfft, scratch that rubbish thought, there's no way Louis Partridge would have a date, hah!

"No, I dressed for this one," he said, approaching me, "and besides, you've never seen how I dress on a Saturday."

Maybe I should start causing chaos on the weekends then.

No, what the hell am I thinking?

It must have been a trick of the moonlight, because even as he stopped inches away from me, I couldn't take my eyes off of him. His hazel eyes looked much deeper in thought than usual, and the structure of his face seemed more defined. He looked grown, maybe. More mature, less 'I'm an arrogant son of a gun' in a sense.

Maybe I should have worn something else, other than my usual black tank and skirt (with shorts on underneath, I'm not bloody stupid, jeez). For intimidation purposes, of course, and to throw him off.

"What are you thinking about, Ash?" He said, titling his head to stare harder at me.

I blinked. "None of your business."

"Technically it is my business, if you're staring at me with a strange look on your face while you 'think'," he laughed under his breath, "are you judging me, criticizing me, or hating me this time?"

"What if I said all three?"

"I'd believe it."

Good.

At least he knows the truth—I need to figure out why I'm suddenly losing my grasp on life, at the present moment. Maybe I'm just worried I'd lose again once we started fighting. He was certainly better at combat than I was, but I would rather die than to give up, so I had to train as much as I could.

"Shall we?" I coughed out, taking a step back.

He was getting too close to me, and I needed to make sure he realized we were still enemies. Did he get chummy with all of his targets? I'd hardly think so. It didn't seem normal for him to be so comfortable pressing his face inches away from someone he hated.

But he held out his hand.

"Give me the knife, Ash," he said.

I scoffed. "Are you bloody mad?"

"You said no weapons, yet you brought one."

"Because I don't trust you."

He wiggled his fingers as if it would hypnotize me into handing it over. "But I showed up without defense, so that should say something at the very least."

"It shows that you're a daft idiot," I smirked.

"No, it shows that I trusted you," he said, tilting his head, "to a small extent, I'll admit, but still some."

He was definitely playing mind games.

Why in the Hell would he trust his enemy? The person who was set on killing him if he couldn't catch her. Something was wrong, and at first I thought it was me, but now I think it's him. Does he know something I don't?