Chapter 27
27
Sonny
B eatrix, Ava, and Jonah spend the next week spamming our group chat with images and inspiration for my gown. We’ve decided to go into Nocturne Valley this weekend—using up my one pass for the semester—to go dress shopping in the only tiny boutique they have.
News has gotten out that invitations for the Falconry were extended, and Beatrix wasn’t exaggerating when she said only a select few are given the chance to go. Most of the people who received invitations were seniors, with a few juniors sprinkled in. Every single one has been flaunting their newly inflated status, boasting about it to everyone who mentions the event.
If it weren’t for Ava and Beatrix talking about it constantly, I wouldn’t have told a single person about my invite. It feels insincere to brandish in everyone’s faces when they’re already dealing with the disappointment of not being chosen, and my hesitation to even go makes it all feel so disingenuous.
None of us can figure out who sent the box. It’s the most nerve-racking part of this whole thing. Not only am I expected to attend this event alone, I’m supposed to agree to be hunted by some stranger. I’m not sure if everyone else has been desensitized to it, or if I’m just being dramatic, but it feels off either way.
“I know we’re all caught up in the news of a certain event that is coming up,” my Essentials of Empathic Communication professor says at the end of a very chaotic class session that Thursday afternoon. “But please don’t allow the mysticism and excitement to distract you from your midterms, which will be here in just two weeks.”
Midterms.
Despite my lack of empathic skills, I’ve managed to ace every exam and paper I’ve handed in for all my classes, aside from Clinical Psychology with Dr. Whitlock.
His coursework isn’t even that difficult. I had already taken a similar class back home, so I’ve managed to get a grasp on the subject matter quicker than usual. It’s his impossible essay expectations and intentionally tricky exam questions that are tripping everyone up. Even Hayes, who grades the exams and sees the answer keys, agrees that this year, he’s been particularly harsh with us.
He’s warned on several occasions that the midterm exam will account for a quarter of our grade, and he won’t be making it easy to pass. I’ve spent every free moment I have trying to cram as much information from the textbook and his lectures, and I still feel underprepared.
Ava and her friend, Leni, meet me in the library after my class under the guise of studying. They spend the entire time scheming over how to figure out who invited me to the Falconry and how they can sneak in themselves. Apparently, someone always tries and fails miserably.
Of course, they wouldn’t fail.
I’ve been intentionally silent through it, keeping my nose tucked into my psych book so they don’t try to pull me into their plans. The last thing I need is extra attention from the dean, who is obviously close with Aunt Divina, if all the strings she had pulled for Poppy are any indication.
“You should be more excited,” Leni squawks, slapping my shoulder with the back of her hand. Light, corn silk hair falls over her shoulder when her arm drops back down and brushes against the chair. Ava told me she’s a Luminara descendant who can control light. She looks like she is light.
Wrapping my palm around the tender spot, I wrinkle my nose at her. “I’m trying to actually study. ”
“You know that’s not what we came here for,” Ava laughs, gesturing toward her untouched stack of books to prove her point.
“ I did. I have to cram for this exam, or I’m going to end up failing my class.”
“She’s in Whitlock’s psych class,” Ava explains to Leni, tilting her head as if that should say everything.
“Ah, the psycho teaching psych,” Leni mutters, repeating the same line I’ve heard a few others whisper before.
Dr. Whitlock has the most contradictory reputation I’ve ever seen. Some students are pathetically in love with him, idolizing his every move, while others think he would fit in better in an insane asylum. He doesn’t seem to allow either side to influence how hard he makes us work.
“He’s something, that’s for sure,” I agree, turning my attention back to my book. But another wave of irritation crashes through me, and my mouth is moving in a rant before I realize I should stop it.
“I’ve never met a professor so hellbent on making his student’s fail. It’s like he gets off on watching us suffer. I bet he killed all the neighborhood cats for fun when he was younger. You know, they say that’s one of the first signs of a serial killer in the making.”
The tangent flows so easily, I don’t notice Ava’s eyes widen, or Leni’s pursed lips, or the way they each flip open their books to random pages and pretend to be ignoring me. In fact, the only indication I pick up on is when Ava slams her shoe into my shin beneath the table.
“You, as a failed sociology minor, should know that torturing animals without remorse is a strong sign that a child will be a sociopath—not necessarily a serial killer,” a deep voice rumbles directly next to my ear.
My head flings up, eyes finding Ava’s horrified expression before spinning to see Dr. Whitlock straightening back up with a grim face, his brows practically hitting his hairline as he waits for my retort. Any signs of his annoying, taunting smirk are completely gone.
I am not a failed sociology minor, and the fact that he knows anything about my interest in the subject tells me that I’ve been the subject of his and Miss Mercer’s pillow talk.
“I didn’t mean?—”
“A word, Miss Ellery?” he interrupts, his eyes never straying from mine. Even when Ava makes a tortured grunt, his stare remains steady.
“Sure,” I mumble into the table, sliding my chair out to stand. Just before I turn away from her, I meet Ava’s cringe with a terrified scowl.
She offers a subtle salute, as if she’s sending me off to battle, then straightens her spine when she glances at the man waiting behind me.
Dr. Whitlock leads me down a few rows, far enough away so no one can hear us, then takes a sharp turn down a random aisle. I dutifully follow, stopping a few feet away when he halts just beside the window overlooking the courtyard at the end.
Twisting back to face me, he holds up a manila folder between us that I somehow missed before. “I was glad to have found you here. I finished grading your revised paper on Narcissistic personality disorder and I thought, ‘how great that I can tell you in person that you’ve received the highest grade in the glass on your essay.’ Imagine my surprise to overhear how much you hate my teaching style.”
“I don’t hate it,” I rush to defend, but clamp my mouth shut when he holds a finger up between us—silencing me.
“As I said before, if you spent your time studying instead of gossiping over a school dance or insulting your professors, you’d have a much easier time earning a higher grade in my class.”
The excuses sit in my throat, begging to be released.
I wasn’t gossiping. I was studying, just like you want me to. Like I’m forced to spend every waking moment because you do run your class in a way that makes it impossible to succeed.
And guess what . . . Everyone else agrees.
None of that matters, though. He’s the head of his own department. He doesn’t care what one student has to say about his teaching style when it has obviously gotten him to where he is now. No one else would ever dare to agree with me out loud. Some people must actually enjoy his challenge.
Probably the brainless masochists who follow him around with hearts in their eyes.
Instead of speaking my mind, I drop my chin and mumble a submissive, “Yes, sir,” into my chest.
He falls silent. Tense, frustrated energy pulsates off his body, and I have the fleeting thought that maybe I do have a little Valeria blood in my veins, because why else would I feel his emotions so intensely?
When I lift my head, I find his gaze blazing and the muscle in his jaw ticking, as if my response has somehow irritated him.
A war wages behind his eyes, which are darting around my face in a frenzy, brows pulled together in a curious scowl. Being trapped beneath his undivided attention like this is the closest thing to torture I can imagine. My mind tells me to flee, muscles spasming with the instinctual need to move out of his space. I’m like an animal trapped in a corner with their predator, though I can’t figure out what exactly it is about him that makes me feel so threatened.
All he’s doing is staring at me.
Finally, once finds whatever he’s looking for, I sag with relief as he opens his mouth to speak.
“That’s not what you really want to say to me, is it?” he dares to question, and I swear he leans forward, so close I can feel his breath against my cheek.
My knees lock up.
“You want to tell me to fuck off, don’t you? You’ve been in my class for less than six weeks, and I’ve made every moment of that a living hell for you, haven’t I?”
“N-no. Absolutely not,” I stutter, leaning away.
But he continues his pursuit. My back hits the bookshelf behind me after only two steps, and I’m trapped with nowhere else to go. His forearm appears beside my head, gripping the bookshelf behind me to block my only way out. The manila folder falls to the ground as he flexes his other hand into a fist.
My heart beats wildly in my chest, every receptor in my brain going off in a panic.
“Of course I have,” he insists, his voice gravelly and strained.
From this close, I can see the tattoos climbing up his chest, telling their own twisted story and confirming the tales about him to be true. Something happened to this man. Something traumatic and life-altering. Perhaps he is the sociopath I jokingly accused him of being. Maybe he really does get off on people’s fear and suffering.
If that’s true, he should be thoroughly pleased with me right now.
“You’re just like the rest of them, aren’t you, Miss Ellery?”
He says my name with a hint of mockery—of doubt. With a silent question attached to it. If that’s your real name, his tone seems to add. And something inside me is screaming to get away from this man. He knows my secret, and he isn’t trustworthy enough to keep it safe.
“Like who?”
“Your peers. The legacies .” Twirling his free hand in the air dramatically, he rolls his eyes at the term. “They all come here thinking their Ivy League education will be served to them on a silver platter just because Grandpa threw a bunch of money at the dean and was born to the right people. You didn’t even have to apply. They practically begged you to come, didn’t they? And you were angry the moment you realized I won’t be one of the faculty here who practically does the coursework for you. That’s why you’re in my office every other week, complaining about your grades.”
Shaking my head in denial, I flare my nostrils. Then, I dare to challenge, “Aren’t you one of them, too? A legacy who cashed in your spot just like the rest of us?”
Instead of waiting for an answer, I focus on steadying my erratic breaths as adrenaline courses through my entire body. My head screams for me to leave. I’m in a challenging position and I’ve just riled up my predator even further. Instead, my muscles stay locked in their spot.
Dr. Whitlock tips his chin up and releases a breathy chuckle. He knows he has to be quiet or risk being caught, but he can’t seem to help himself.
“You know nothing about me,” he assures, and the muscles on his arm shift beneath his skin as he moves a little closer.
“I could say the same about you,” I boldly argue, refusing to acknowledge how uncomfortable he’s making me. I won’t give him any more satisfaction than I already have.
His smile fades, though the ghost of it still remains as he rolls his lips between his teeth, debating his next words. He levels his gaze with mine, taking great care in ensuring I’m listening when he lowers his voice and says, “Trust me, Little Nightmare. I know more about you than anyone else on this campus.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I sneer, but his attention has shifted away from me when someone breezes past us in the aisle without glancing our way, as if they can’t even see us standing here. One second, he’s in my face and the next, he’s ten feet away, straightening his collar. The guy walks to the other end, bends down to grab a book on the bottom shelf, then breezes past us again.
It’s the weirdest thing.
“This conversation has gotten out of hand. I apologize for my behavior,” Whitlock says to break the spell, his voice distant and stiff. Nothing like the angry growl he was releasing into my ear seconds before.
Pointing toward the manila folder at my feet, he goes on. “Your graded paper is right there. I’ll see you in class next week.”
Before I can muster up a response, he’s got his back to me and is disappearing around a corner. When I’m sure it’s safe, I kneel down to grab the folder and open it up. He only gave me 89 percent.
Ava and Leni are waiting for me at our table, their books still untouched. When I fall back into my chair and slap the folder down before me, they exchange a glance.
“Well . . . did he try to murder you?” Ava whispers, her brows pulled together in concern as she makes a silent pass over my body, making sure nothing is wrong.
“Or maybe she tried to murder him. I saw him practically running away a second ago,” Leni jokes, scrunching her nose.
I shake my head and hold up the folder I snatched from the ground. “He just wanted to give me back a paper I had to rewrite.”
I’m still processing the rest because . . . what the actual fuck?