"Camella." The voice cut through the ambient chatter of the dining hall.
She glanced up from her barely touched meal to find a black-haired young man with wine-red eyes standing beside her table. Without missing a beat, she promptly ignored him and returned her attention to pushing food around her plate—a futile attempt at appearing busy.
"Mella," he tried again, his voice softer this time.
She felt someone grasp her wrist, and she didn't need to look up to know who it was. With deliberate precision, she placed her fork down and spoke.
"Don't touch me."
The next instant, her hand turned so cold that the young man felt like he was literally gripping a chunk of arctic ice. His fingers began to sting, then burn with the peculiar pain that came from extreme cold.
