Darksoul Read Online Free PDF Page A

touching, really, for people who’d barely spoken twice. I tucked my legs closer to my chair and scooted away. He made no move to close the distance between us again.
    “Tha t’s a nice offer,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it. “But the three of you look like a handful.”
    “Don’t worry. Only Ash, the idiot in the group, is a handful. Sumi and I are awesome.”
    “Sumi,” he echoed. “The one with the pink hair?”
    “Affirmative.”
    “She’s hot.”
    Oh, for crying out loud. “Don’t even think about it.”
    There it was again. A glimmer of amusement. “No?”
    “You’re not her type.” I switched to a darker s hade of blue, tucking my bangs behind my ear.
“And she’s my Sumi. Prove yourself worthy to me and I might let you date her.”
    “Prove myself worthy,” he repeated. “To you?”
    “To me,” I confirmed. “In fact, you have to apply for the position. You get a free ticket to hang out with us—you know, since we’re so cool and all—but to get to that next level? And with my Sumi, to top it off? No. I have to see your credentials.”
    “Credentials.” Jesus, did he look amused. Was that a dimple surfacing on his cheek?
    Just as I was about to respond, Ms. Sanchez swept in and slapped a thick portfolio on the table. Before Slade, the universe, or I could stop her, she flipped it open. Asshole Slade pressed his lips into a straight, unreadable line. She gave him an apologetic glance and turned to me.
    “These are Hunter’s portraits of you,” s he said, a kind smile curling her lips. She took out one of them and laid it in front of me. It was no small painting. It was huge. “They’re lovely, Hazel. Take a look.”
    And I did look.
    No. I stared. Gaped. Gawked. Everything in between.
    Distantly, I heard her ask me, “Are you sure you want another partner?”
    Did I ever.
    I leaned forward and, wonderstruck, picked up one of t he acrylic ones. It wasn’t a portrait. It was a freaking masterpiece. Me sitting under a tree, my camera strewn on the grass beside my crossed legs, the strap resting on my thighs. Such vivid color, such attention to detail. I was laughing at something and had been about to tuck a caramel tuft behind my ear, not looking at the viewer. Not even aware that there was a viewer.
    I continued on, nodding when Ms. Sanchez asked if I didn’t think these were amazing. The other pieces were just as spectacular. There was always me. Frowning, narrowing my eyes, raising an eyebrow. At school, at a restaurant, at the park. There was something uncomfortably personal about the shots, as if they’d been painted in the moment they’d been happening. If they’d been happening.
    Wait. Uncomfortably personal?
    No. It was as though the artist knew me. As if he’d captured me, Hazel, the girl who’d been his neighbor since the beginning of time. The girl he knew everything about. The girl who laughed and cursed without batting an eye.
    Ms. Sanchez called the class to come and look at Slade’s—Hunter’s—masterpieces, spacing them out on the table. Hunter’s face was as cool and even as ever: no emotion, no dismay, no…anything.
    “See, my dears,” she said, clapping her hands twice. “When you do a p ortrait, you don’t have to draw the face. The piece simply has to embody the person you’re trying to portray; whether by an action or an object, you can choose. Look at these lovely examples. Very nice job, Hunter.”
    Everyone stared in awe. A slight chatter ran through our classmates as they reached out to touch them, hold them, feel the paint under their fingertips. Hesitantly, I turned toward him. “Aren’t you…proud of these?”
    He didn’t bat an eye. “Not my finest work. I didn’t have the best subject.”
    “What?”
    “Your face is painfully easy to draw. I couldn’t just do a portrait of you. I’d be bored to tears.”
    My lips parted, but then I tightened them once again.
    “The surrounding environment was the focus,” he