Chapter One
It’s official. I’m in love. Not with my overly peppy tour guide, an excitable blonde ballet major who vanished somewhere between nonfiction and fantasy, but with Waversea Academy.
The library breathes history, the kind that wraps around your ribs and holds you in its grip.
I trail my fingers along the aged spines, following the shelves to a glass wall protecting a section of first editions.
The paper inside appears brittle and worn, only to be handled with gloves and under supervision.
Deeper inside, I happen upon a leisure area.
Oversized armchairs nestled in a nook beneath a wooden sign that labels this as the Silent Zone.
I smile to myself. Two hours on campus, and I’ve already found my sanctuary.
The bookcases part to reveal the heart of the library, a circle of tables and chairs beneath a domed glass skylight.
Students fill every seat, hunched over their textbooks with headphones in.
Across the open space, I spot my tour guide giving a hunk of tattooed muscle in a basketball jersey a tour of her mouth with his tongue.
All of which provides me with the perfect cover to slip out unnoticed.
Outside, the courtyard thrums with life. Even just breathing it in fills me with a sense of wonder. Anything could happen here, and I can be whoever I want. Blend in or stand out, a decision I’ve yet to make.
I scan the people bustling in all directions.
Despite the bite in the air, clusters of students lounge on the grass around a massive fountain, laughing and talking, while others rush by, checking their watches every five seconds.
A flock of birds cuts across the cloud-covered sky, drawing several glances upward.
I imagine there’s high-pitched squawking, but I can’t hear a thing. Just pure, sweet, blissful silence.
As soon as I parked behind the residence halls, I switched off my receivers, hoping to show myself around.
Unfortunately, Miss High-on-Life intercepted me at the dorm entrance.
One ID photograph and a whirlwind tour later, I’m counting down the seconds to be free again.
However, time is creeping closer to my meeting with Dean O’Sullivan and the board of directors, putting yet another obstacle between me and my new dorm.
A sigh expands my chest beneath the sweater. Might as well get this over with.
Descending the stone steps, I aim for the building that doesn’t try to blend in.
Unlike the sleek, recently-renovated halls, this one has gothic arches over the windows and entryway.
A curved window sits dead center above it all, towering over the students below, definitely the kind of view a Dean’s office would have.
An arm slips through the crook of mine, making me flinch until I notice the head of blonde hair I thought I’d left behind.
My guide’s eyes sparkle as she winks, a mischievous smile on her lips as I assess the sweatshirt she’s now wearing.
It reeks of male cologne, protectively wrapping her in the basketball colors of black and yellow.
I suppose that’s one way for her boyfriend to stake his claim.
With a small shake of my head, I let her veer me toward the fountain, past a statue of an aged, bearded man and into the looming structure.
She leads me through rich mahogany corridors and up a curved staircase lined with Renaissance-worthy portraits, eventually depositing me in front of an open door.
“Best of luck,” she smiles. My eyes remain on her mouth to read her lips, the door beside me opening before I can mutter more than a meager thanks. If she recognizes the trepidation in my expression, she doesn’t show it. I turn to face my awaiting audience, scanning their faces in turn.
Five sharply dressed individuals seated behind an oval table turn in unison to scrutinize me.
Staying impassive, I pull out my phone, unmute my receivers, and open the app to activate the microphone with a mental groan.
The door closes behind me as I straighten my spine and walk across the sunlit room, placing my phone in the center of the table.
Only then do I sink into the armchair that’s clearly meant for me.
A dark-haired man seated at the head of the table clears his throat beneath a thick turtleneck sweater, his brown eyes pinning me with a forced smile.
“Hello, Harper. I’m Dean O’Sullivan. Opposite you is Professor Lawrence, Head of Sciences, who will be overseeing most of your studies here with us. ”
He gestures toward a woman in a lovely blouse and a kind face, although the Dean’s attention is on another.
He jerks his head to an interpreter standing in the corner, who hastily begins to move her hands and sign back the sentence to me.
I freeze for a moment, torn between correcting her or just rolling with it.
“Oh, um, that’s really not necessary.” I gesture vaguely in her direction.
“My phone mic transmits directly to my receiver. I can hear you just fine.” I pull my hair aside briefly to give the board a quick look, then let it fall back into place.
After a few impressed and confused glances are exchanged, the Dean dismisses the interpreter and turns back to me with another tight smile.
“Very well. Let me start by saying it is a pleasure to finally meet you. I was intrigued by your entry video and even more impressed by your MCAT score. We’re expecting great things from you during your time at Waversea. Now, as for the accommodations for your condition–”
For the next thirty-seven minutes, I watch the clock on the far wall and half-listen to the endless risk assessments and safety protocols being read aloud from a thick document laid across the table in front of me.
My tapping toes are the only thing keeping me awake, though I’ve let out a few yawns I didn’t bother to stifle.
Only Dean O'Sullivan speaks, although Professor Lawrence smiles at me warmly throughout.
The other three directors present nod occasionally, like ornamental yes-men, but otherwise seem entirely pointless.
Finally, the Dean shuts the booklet, and I stretch my arms out in front of me.
“Thank you all, but there’s really no need for any extra hassle.
I’ve already emailed all my individual professors with tips on how to accommodate me and asked them to pre-send class topics so I can prep ahead.
As long as I’ve got my phone or one of the backup mic clips in my bag, I’ll be just like any other student.
” I reach for my phone, yearning to get back in that library.
“And to that end, all I want is to be treated like everyone else.” I fix the Dean with a stern look that would have made Aunt Marge proud.
“It seems like you have everything under control. We’ll leave you to it.
” Dean O’Sullivan watches me with a hawk-like gaze, his smile tight.
Finally feeling dismissed, I’m on my feet, phone in hand, and halfway across the room when the Dean’s booming voice speaks again. “Oh, there’s just one more thing-”
I groan out loud, slowly turning to rest my back against the door. I was so close.
“The CEO, Mr. Waversea, is extremely invested in your success here and wants to ensure you feel supported. To that end, he’s personally assigned his son to be your mentor. Rhys is already enrolled in several of your classes, so if you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out to him.”
The Dean’s lips twitch upward and for the first time, his expression doesn’t seem so forced.
There’s genuine mirth in his features, and I have no idea what that means for me.
I catch a few nervous glances ripple through the board members before they all scramble to their feet and rush past me, muttering low enough that I can’t catch a single word.
Both the Dean and Professor Lawrence stare at me, giving the impression I’ve overstayed my welcome so I too leave, closing the door behind me.
There’s something to be said about heightened senses when one is lacking, and currently, my sixth sense is blaring like a foghorn in my skull. That lasting impression weighs on me, and instead of turning left toward the main entrance, I turn right, following the fire exit signs to the bottom floor.
The hallway floor feels slick, freshly polished maybe, causing my sneakers to tap softly as I walk.
My phone’s still in my hand, faintly filtering the ambient noise into my inner ear.
Pushing heavily on the metal door handle, I step into the dusky chill of early evening to realize I’ve missed most of the day and I’ve yet to see my dorm.
The streetlamps lining the rear car park flicker on, casting shadow over an approaching figure.
I don’t fully register him until he’s right in front of me.
Tall, lean, tattooed. He’s my every weakness wrapped into one delicious package.
He towers over me, phone pressed to one ear, blue eyes seeming to look straight through me.
His hair is longer on top, thrown back haphazardly from the sharp lines of his razor-edged jaw and ink that traces the sides of his neck, dipping down over a broad Adam’s apple hidden underneath.
Whether he notices my staring or not, he swallows slow and I swear my mouth waters.
“Yeah, yeah, Dad. I’m here, alright? Stop riding my balls,” he huffs, looking directly over my head. His voice is low and rough, the kind that makes your stomach flip if it says your name the right way, but my common sense starts to trickle back in. He is completely ignoring my existence.
Ending the call, the guy looks up at the gothic building and eventually, he lowers his head to address me.
“You haven’t seen a new girl walking around, have you?
” he asks, causing his lip ring to glint.
I blink, withdrawing from whatever daze I lost myself in.
Oh damn, this is him. Rhys, the CEO’s son.
I lick my lips, trying to find the words to sound nonchalant when he steps even closer, his cologne wrapping around me like invisible shackles.
“She’s probably wandering around looking lost and shaking like a leaf.
Maybe with a white stick or something. I don’t know, I wasn’t really listening. ”
A wash of ice-cold water douses my libido. A white stick? Is he for real? I’m deaf, not blind. Whatever hold he had on me instantly snaps, and I sidestep him with a casual shrug.
“Nope. No idea.” I force my legs to move, despite the weight of his lingering gaze dragging down my spine.
A shiver threatens to pass through me but I hold onto it until I’ve rounded a corner when I can slump against the building.
I can still smell his cologne as if it’s branded on me.
Looking directly at my jeans crotch, I hold my hands out.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” I whisper to my vagina.
I may be sheltered, but I hope, or more rather I hoped, I had more willpower than that.
I can’t lose my mind over the first tattooed, arrogantly hot guy who crosses my path.
Especially one who would chew me up and spit me out before I’ve had the chance to prove I even existed.