Chapter 13 #2
He trailed behind me as I headed towards my dorm, his footsteps matching mine on the hot concrete sidewalk.
The pavement radiated heat even through the soles of my grass-stained white sneakers.
Early afternoon sun slanted golden through the oak trees lining the path, their leaves casting dappled shadows that shifted and swayed.
I needed to grab more clothes before my shower and lesson with Hyacinth.
For whatever reason, my baby would huff and complain when I smelled like the gym.
Probably due to the chemical cleaner smell.
It made for extra time spent, but I rather be clean than have him buck me.
“Do not expect me to check in with you every time something happens at school,” I said.
“I believe murder is more than simply something.” The ghost of a smile played at his lips, smug satisfaction radiating from him like cologne.
“Fine,” I conceded through gritted teeth, my jaw aching from the tension. “I was afraid you’d overreact.”
“By overreact, do you mean follow you constantly without letting you out of my sight?”
I groaned, shoving my key in the lock harder than necessary. The metal scraped, protesting. “Yes. The thing you’re doing right now.”
We both stepped inside. The dorm room was dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon light.
The air conditioning hummed, blasting cold air that raised goosebumps on my sweat-damp skin.
I realized immediately that Alice was still in bed, her body shifting slightly beneath the covers—a pale green duvet pulled up to her chin.
She must still be resting before her classes.
I pressed a finger to my lips, catching Rowan’s eyes.
They gleamed pale in the dimness, reflecting light like an animal’s.
He nodded and went silent while I gathered my shower caddy—pink plastic filled with bottles—and clean clothes from my dresser.
He didn’t make a sound as he waited, but I felt his gaze tracking my movements around the room like heat on my skin.
Outside, we headed towards the communal showers.
The hallway was narrow, painted institutional beige with fluorescent lights that flickered and buzzed.
A group of girls spotted Rowan and dissolved into giggles, their eyes eating him alive.
One whispered to another behind her hand, her voice carrying, “Oh my god, is that the guy from last night?”
I did nothing to hide my contempt, shooting them a glare sharp enough to cut. “Don’t you have homework or something?”
They scattered, still giggling, their voices fading down the hall.
“Hormones and poor taste,” I muttered.
Rowan chuckled, the sound low and amused, resonating through the air between us. “Jealous, volchok?”
“Of them? Paying attention to you? Please.” But my face felt hot, and not from the earlier exertion.
This time, my shower was quick. I scrubbed efficiently under water hot enough to turn my skin pink, washing away sweat and the smell of the gym.
The shampoo was floral, and the conditioner left my hair slippery.
I wanted nothing more than to get to the stables, to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of riding.
I braided my damp hair with a red ribbon before throwing on fresh clothes—riding pants and a black tank top. I found Rowan waiting exactly where I’d left him, leaning against the wall like he’d grown roots. As I slipped on my riding boots, I asked, “Still insisting on coming?”
He raised a brow, as if saying, ‘You have to ask?’
I sighed and dropped my things off in my dorm room before we caught the bus to the stables.
We sat in silence while Atlanta’s sprawl rolled past the windows.
Strip malls and fast food restaurants, their signs bright and garish, passed us by.
Traffic moved slowly, exhaust fumes shimmering in the heat.
The bus smelled like diesel and old upholstery; the seats were cracked vinyl that stuck to the backs of my exposed arms.
Rowan watched the outside world with mild interest, with one leg splayed out towards me as if marking me as his. I tried not to notice how his leg brushed against mine every time the bus shifted or ran over a pothole. Why are there so many goddamn potholes in downtown?
First, Rowan turned up at Oubliette, and then he started showing up at my classes? I had a mind to call Uncle Charlie and ask him what was wrong with his deranged son, but I willed myself to be patient. Rowan claimed he was concerned for me, but I had my doubts.
At the stables, the scent hit me immediately: hay and horse and leather, underlaid with manure and wood shavings.
It smelled like home in a way nothing else did.
Aaron was already in the tack room, saddling his mare—a dappled gray with kind eyes and a white blaze down her face.
Hyacinth stood beside them in cross-ties, mane braided in a red ribbon that matched mine, his coat gleaming chestnut in the golden early-afternoon light streaming through the barn’s open doors.
He pawed the ground impatiently, his hoof striking the dirt with dull thuds.
My heart lifted at the sight of him despite Rowan’s jab from behind. “Aw, the two of you match.”
“Afternoon, Violet.” Aaron’s voice was warm, but his eyes cut to Rowan, his expression hardening with clear hostility. His jaw—square and stubbled—clenched visibly. “And who’s this?”
I steeled myself for the explanation. “Aaron, this is Rowan. He’s a friend of mine.” I paused, searching for words that wouldn’t make me sound weak. “He’s. . . concerned. After today’s headlines.”
Aaron gestured towards the front gate we’d walked through—wrought iron, painted black, with the university crest worked into the design. “Concerned or not, unauthorized persons aren’t allowed on school grounds. That’s basic, Violet. Especially after last night’s incident.”
“I know. I get it, Aaron, I do.” I was going to have to spin this in a way that would bring Rowan more satisfaction than it would me.
Before I’d even spoken them, the words already tasted bitter on my tongue.
“But I’m just a woman, and my typical evening rides have me out here pretty late compared to other students.
” The words were ash in my mouth, each syllable a small death of my pride.
“You could forgo the extra rides,” Aaron suggested, his tone reasonable but firm.
“I’d die.” The declaration came out more dramatic than I had intended, but it was honest.
Aaron raised an eyebrow at that. Behind me, I heard Rowan mutter something under his breath. It sounded suspiciously like, “If only.”
“Okay, bad wording.” I forced myself to continue, hating every syllable. “Listen, he’s family. He’s very protective of me. Like a big brother.” The lie slid out smoothly. “You can call my dad if you need a reference. But with everything going on, I’d feel better having him here. To protect me.”
There. I said it. Little scared Violet needs a big strong man to keep her safe. The role of the helpless damsel in distress made my skin crawl, itchy and wrong. . . but if that was what it took to get Rowan access, I would play the part.
“You would feel better havin’ him to protect you?” Aaron repeated slowly, turning the words over like stones he was examining for cracks. “As in, guard you?”
I nodded, dying a little inside with each movement. “Yes.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Sweat trickled down my spine despite the shade of the barn, the Georgia humidity wrapping around me like a wet blanket.
The air smelled like cut grass and distant rain, though the sky was cloudless and blue.
Hyacinth shifted in his cross-ties and snorted in our direction, the sound wet and impatient.
Aaron glanced at him, then back to us, his expression unreadable.
“Ah, sure I’ll be callin’ your father now, so I will,” he said finally, still pensive but no longer outright denying Rowan’s presence.
Relief flooded through me, cool and sweet. “Perfect. I’ll let him know to expect your call.”
Aaron looked at Rowan and extended his hand—calloused palm, dirt under the fingernails from a day working with horses.
“Rowan, my name is Aaron. I am the Stablemaster here, but also Violet’s tutor for her lessons.”
Rowan grasped his hand firmly, the handshake lasting a beat longer than strictly necessary. Some masculine assessment passed between them that I wasn’t privy to.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Rowan said. “I appreciate you allowing me to play bodyguard for the brat.”
Aaron smiled, though the expression didn’t reach his eyes. They remained cool, assessing. “Yeah. Well, you might be surprised to see how little this rascal needs lookin’ after.”
Rowan stayed behind the fence while Aaron and I geared up.
The fence around the pasture was white-painted wood, weathered and peeling in places, separating the practice field from the observation area.
I felt the weight of Rowan’s curiosity as he watched me carry my bow—a recurve with a rich mahogany riser, the limbs midnight black—in my right hand, the quiver slung over my shoulder.
The leather was worn soft from use, smelling of oil and age.
Aaron had already set the field: twenty large targets arranged in a serpentine pattern across trampled grass that was more dust than green.
Each target was a hay bale wrapped in canvas, painted with concentric circles in fading red and white.
The track he’d carved with his mare earlier created a clear path, hoofprints pressed into hard-packed earth.
My heart raced, anticipation singing through my veins like electricity. I turned to Aaron with a smile that stretched across my face, genuine and unguarded.
“Can I start?”
His mare danced beneath him, her hooves striking the ground in nervous rhythm. She was always more anxious during mounted archery sessions, feeding off the energy. He nodded, careful to stay near the fence where Rowan watched with those pale, unreadable eyes.