Chapter Ten
Sea-blue eyes,one ringed by a deep purple bruise. A strong, stubble-kissed jaw. Full lips in a perfect Cupid’s bow. Thick, tightly drawn brows shadowed by a short shock of dark brown hair.
Him.
Looking at me.
Even now—two days later, minutes away from the start of classes—I can’t stop thinking about him.
Who are you?
Even expressionless, he exuded an air of cool impassivity. The shameless display of his blackened eye, his casual grasp on the glass of whiskey, the way he lounged like a king on a throne of black leather… he might as well have owned the place.
From what Harper told me, he pretty much does.
“Ryker Pendragon,” she confirmed when I asked her, her eyes wide as a frightened fawn’s. “Whatever’s going on with the GODs, he’s at the head of it. Sexy as hell, obviously, but an absolute asshole.”
“Hm.” It was the only response I could muster. What use was there in trying to argue? She hadn’t looked into his eyes the way I had. She hadn’t seen that cerulean burn, that dark flame that, somehow, I recognized—that I had seen countless times before, gazing back at me in the mirror.
“Look, girl, I’m the last person in the world who’s gonna tell you to stay away from guys. But Ryker… I don’t know. I’d watch myself, if I were you.”
It’s not that easy, I wanted to say. I don’t know if I can.
How can I possibly watch myself when he did that? Came up behind me, touched me, gazed into my eyes with an intensity that pierced straight to my core…
I could sense his interest, hard and electric in the air between us.
Interest… in me.
Other guys had made moves in the hour or so before he approached me. More of them than I could count, in fact. Each of them drunker and less appealing than the last—leaning closely to whisper whiskey-scented obscenities in my ear, toying with my hair, eyeing my chest. I shook them off with Harper’s help.
But not him. Not Ryker.
God, what am I doing? Sitting here in the student union, toast and coffee practically untouched, clock creeping steadily closer to eight-thirty, when my Greek course is scheduled to begin—and the only thing on my mind is some guy?
Whatever. Who cares? Maybe I’ll never even see him again.
I wish that prospect didn’t tie knots in my stomach.
I glance at my phone. White numbers glow against the default blue background: 08:17. Need to get going soon. For what must be the fourth or fifth time, I recheck my supplies. I’ve packed everything in a Crimson Elite branded tote bag from the school supply store: tablet, laptop, notebooks, and a heavy textbook with a columned marble temple on the cover. Ancient Greek: Dead Language, Living Culture. Papa suggested that I take a more practical language course, but I shrugged him off. I’m sick of practicality. My whole life until now has been about doing what’s best for me—what he insisted was best for me. My purpose here is to do what I want.
Including boys, maybe…
But not limited to them.
With that resolution firmly in mind, I toss back my coffee, manage one dry bite of toast, and get to my feet. Greek’s in Room 308—with any luck, that shouldn’t be too hard to find.
Sun dazzles the quad this morning, refreshing after the long, misty weekend. The low ceiling of clouds overshadowing most of Saturday and Sunday felt claustrophobic, and the mood of the campus reflected that. Now, students are chatting and laughing as they stroll by in twos and threes. Not me; Harper has Monday mornings off, and I couldn’t ask her to get up early just for my sake. I’m on my own. Me and my tote bag against the world.
The castle seems to grow disproportionately larger as I approach it. The front doors are wide open, allowing for a steady flow of people entering and exiting. I fall into place behind a pair of taller girls, one brunette and one ginger, both clad in the same red and white school uniforms that everyone is expected to wear to classes.
“He’s a total creep,” one of them is saying. “Like, once he literally stopped Claire in the hallway to call out her skirt length. He whipped out a fucking measuring tape!”
“Holy shit, for real?”
“Yeah. And this is Claire, like, the least slutty girl on campus. The skirt was eight inches. Eight inches! He just wanted an excuse to feel up her thigh. So gross.”
“She should report him or something.”
“Like that’ll do any good. The whole school board is full of pervs…”
That’s an exaggeration. Right? My own skirt suddenly feels like it could use a few more inches—but that’s ridiculous. The school gave this to me. Maybe…
Their voices—and the alarming implications that they carry—fade to the back of my awareness as I enter the main hall.
A vaulted ceiling, dizzyingly high, crests over what I can only think of as a ballroom: grand and sprawling, with beautiful hardwood floors and walls papered in rich maroon florals. A bifurcated staircase, fifteen feet wide at the very least, leads up to a balcony that encircles the room; halls branch off of it, perhaps leading to classrooms. It looks like an absolute maze, and yet students are moving through it with ease. I can only spot a couple of others scrutinizing their maps.
No need to check my own map—I’ve already memorized it, down to every last side corridor.
308 is on the west side. With that in mind, I take the left side of the staircase, keeping close to the banister. The nearest doorway opens to another long hall, this one painted rainbow by the sun slanting through several towering stained glass windows. I just need to go down there, turn right, head up another, smaller set of stairs… that should bring me to rooms 301 through 310.
I know I need to hurry, but decorations keep catching my eye as I make my way in what’s hopefully the right direction. Suits of armor, scarlet banners, elaborate oil paintings. Velvet-lined benches are positioned here and there, some bare, some with students sitting or napping atop them. I could wander this place for hours and never get bored.
I don’t have hours to spare right now, though.
Relief blooms in my chest when I reach the top of the second staircase. I’m facing a dark wooden door with a bronze plaque proclaiming it to be Rm. 301. Just down this hall, then—306, 307, 308.
The room on the other side of the propped-open doorway is just as gorgeous as the rest of the castle. Based on the few depictions I’ve gotten from the occasional book Papa allowed me to read, it seems to be a traditional tiered lecture hall. Much fancier than I imagined, though; built-in desks with metal legs form descending semi-circles around a central podium, where a white-haired woman stands, sifting through a stack of papers. The professor, I assume. The LED screen behind her is blank for now, glowing soft white. About half of the seats are filled with other students, mostly girls, chattering among themselves; nobody notices when I slip inside and sit in a chair near the back, dropping my tote at my side. It feels strange to pull out my laptop, having only ever taken notes with pen and paper, though the rest of the class seems to have no problem with it—a dozen blue-lit screens are perched on the desks in front of me.
Between the room and its occupants, I don’t know which makes me feel more out of place.
The white-haired woman clears her throat and looks up. Her nose and chin lend her the almost uncanny appearance of a hawk, but when she opens her mouth, her voice is much softer than her looks.
“Attention, please. We’ll leave the door open for now. There are guaranteed to be some stragglers on the first day. I’d like to get started, however. Welcome to Ancient Greek. You may call me Professor Rowan. This is my third year teaching at Crimson Elite, and I’m eager to make it a good one. That being said, I’ll warn you upfront that this course is not for everyone. I don’t give out easy As, period. If you work hard, you’ll be rewarded. If you slack off, you’ll be sent packing. Clear? Good. Now, let’s dive right into it…”
She spends the next hour reviewing the Ancient Greek alphabet, noting here and there where it deviates from the modern iteration of the language. When she reaches gamma, blue eyes flash through the back of my mind—but I shove them away, shove him away, and double down on my note-taking.
Professor Rowan finishes the class with a homework assignment that seems easy enough: she wants us to work on memorizing the alphabet, and to come in on Wednesday ready for a quiz. No problem. I jot a note in my planner, stuff my books into my tote, and give my phone a quick check and see a text from Harper pop up.
Lunch at 12?
Perfect—then we can head to our shared philosophy seminar afterwards. Sure. I could eat now, really—the lack of breakfast is starting to hit me, and I’m a bit amazed at how drained I feel just from listening and taking notes. Drained, but invigorated as well. Hungry in more ways than one.
Even knowing that I’ll be back in a couple of hours, I’m not quite ready to leave the academic building. Maybe I’ll get used to the atmosphere eventually, but that’s hard to imagine—right now, I could drink it up until it drowns me. According to my map, there are a ton more places for me to explore—a library, a gymnasium, a pool, a dance studio… but I’m content enough to sit on one of the velvet benches, crack open my Greek textbook, and get to studying.
“You’ve been studying already?” Harper exclaims when I tell her the reason for my tardiness. “I haven’t even been to a class yet!”
We’re back in our favorite booth, our plates loaded with today’s offerings—pasta primavera and a spring salad for me; chicken and waffles for her. In the tote beside me, my Greek textbook is dog-eared at page thirty-nine, and I’m already itching to pick it up again.
“It’s just really well-written,” I explain, twirling spaghetti onto my fork. “It talks a bunch about the concept of language in general. How we make up sounds to describe the world around us.”
Harper groans. “That’s so much cooler than anything I’ve gotten assigned so far. If Winters isn’t super interesting like everyone’s been saying, I’m toast.”
“I mean, it’s a pretty cool subject, right? Aesthetic principles—kind of hard to make that boring.”
“Mm.” She swallows a syrupy forkful of fried chicken. “I dunno. Guess we’ll have to find out.”
We continue to chat for what remains of the lunch hour, with Harper filling me in on all the new campus gossip she’s somehow managed to procure since I last saw her. Apparently a couple of people wound up at the hospital early Sunday morning as the GODs party was dying down—alcohol poisoning, she assures me, though that doesn’t stop my mind from wandering in the direction of Sage and Aimee’s warnings. I still have no idea where she gets all of this intel from—I tried to figure out the Instagram thing over the weekend, but as far as I can tell, it’s just full of selfies and pet photos.
None of which interest me.
Harper doesn’t lose her steam when we start walking, or even when we’re four staircases into our trek to the east castle tower, where the seminar is being held. I’m in good shape, but the cardio still has my heart beating at double speed. Crap, I can’t let myself get lazy—there’s no way I’m going to use the campus gym where other students can see, but maybe I’ll start going on runs after nightfall. In the meantime, adrenaline fuels me up the last few steps, hands sweaty on the banister, and we emerge into a perfectly circular, brick-walled room, much more intimate than the other lecture hall. The desks here are arranged around the perimeter, putting everyone in full view of one another.
I drop into the nearest empty chair. Harper follows suit beside me. The guy on my left looks like he could be another freshman, freckled and ginger, his nose buried in a book for some other class. I scoot slightly away by instinct. As little as I know about how to act around young men, the ones who came up to me at the party were enough to keep me on edge now. The only one who didn’t disgust me at least a little bit was?—
“Move.”
Static alights my skin.
I’ve only heard a few words in that voice, but I would recognize it anywhere. Even if I didn’t, its low, growling intensity is enough to startle the redheaded guy out of his seat—he scrambles aside, muttering apologies as he gathers his books up in his arms.
Another figure takes his place. One whose eyes I don’t dare to meet.
It’s him.
Ryker Pendragon.
Even in my peripheral vision, I find myself taking careful stock of him, relishing every detail. The bruise looks worse than it did on Saturday, deep blue-black, though the edges are beginning to yellow. He’s wearing a tight black T-shirt in place of the elegant button-up from before, once again showing off his tattoos—in fact, I can see more of them now, tendrils of ink brushing up against the base of his throat.
And he’s looking at me.
Staring, in fact.
His eyes are blue granite, impenetrable. No trace of that dark, impassioned glow that captivated me at the party. His walls are all the way up now, and I’m frustrated by how badly I want to take them down.
I don’t need Harper’s silent, urgent kick to my ankle to remind me that I need to be careful. He intrigues me, yes, but there’s an undeniable danger to his allure—a danger that could carry me away if I allow it.
Maybe even if I don’t.
I’ll ignore him, then. If he wants to be difficult, then so be it. I’m not going to be groveling for his attention—that’s for sure.
“Good afternoon, class!”
I jump in my seat. So does Harper, and about half of the rest of the students—not Ryker, though. He just keeps staring.
The woman who strides up into the room has a step as light as my own—in fact, her long black skirt lends the illusion that she’s gliding rather than walking as she moves towards the center of the floor. She’s older than Professor Rowan, but prettier as well; the hundreds of fine lines criss-crossing her skin remind me of faint cracks on an old painting. At first I think her hair is drawn back in a bun, but realize after a moment that it’s completely cropped short, clinging to her skull like a tight silver cap.
She takes a moment to look each of us over. When her dark eyes find mine, I could swear they widen for a second—only to move on to Harper, and then the boy next to her and the girl next to him, until finally she seems to have surveyed her fill.
“My name is Moira Winters,” she says. “I lead the Philosophy department here at Crimson Elite University. Most professors will tell you that their specialization is not for everyone. I disagree with that. All of us are philosophers, whether we know it or not. You, for example.”
She nods her head towards Ryker.
Alarm rears in my chest—you can’t talk to him like that; you can’t tell him what he is—but he only stares back at her, challenging her wordlessly to continue.
“You have decided to use your body as a canvas for another’s artwork. Will that ink cease to be art at your death, or the death of the mind behind it?”
Yeah, I’m lost. Not just because of her ridiculously abstract language, but also because of the way that he seems to be following it with narrow, intense concentration.
“This course won’t teach you to answer those sorts of questions. Instead, it will provide you with the skills to ask more. The core of philosophy is not the desire to know, but rather the freedom to wonder.”
Harper nudges me. I look over, and she mouths a silent sentence: She’s so cool!
Sure, I guess. If only I could pay freaking attention—but the silent, stoic figure beside me makes that an utter impossibility.
This three-hour seminar is going to feel like an eternity.