The crack of Helena's palm against Marisol's cheek had barely finished echoing when the world seemed to tilt. For a fraction of a second, everything was suspended: Marisol's head snapped to the side, a strand of her blonde hair whipping across her face.
Helena's chest was rising and falling with furious breaths and my own pulse was roaring so loudly in my ears it drowned out the sounds from the corridor.
Then Marisol's eyes flashed with pure rage.
She recovered from the slap faster than I expected. Her hand flew up not to cradle her cheek, but to strike back. I saw the intention in the tightening of her shoulders, in the way her fingers curled, claws just threatening to peek through.
"Oh, she's about to make a spectacularly poor life choice," Nyla muttered dryly inside my head. "Do I get popcorn?"
Marisol swung her hands.
