Chapter 16
Rowan
Wednesday morning, barely past six, the campus was still quiet except for the dedicated few who rose before dawn. Violet was walking to her morning class, eyes downcast as she rushed through the central courtyard with the single-minded focus of someone trying to remain invisible.
As I waited in a nearby oak tree—my feet dangling from a thick branch roughly fifteen feet above the ground—I pushed down my frustrated annoyance.
Violet had left without waiting for me, as a rather disheveled Alice explained when I knocked on their dorm door.
I wondered if I should I have installed a GPS tracker on her phone?
At least then I would be done with the cat-and-mouse game she seemed determined to play.
The bark pressed rough against my dark jeans, and my hands were sticky from sap that smelled sharp and green—pine resin that would take scrubbing to remove.
It had been years since I’d climbed consistently, not since my previous life when trees meant surveillance points and elevated positions meant survival.
My muscles burned with the pleasant strain of supporting my weight, my core engaged to maintain balance, my forearms tight from gripping branches.
I miss this. The clarity that comes from physical exertion, from using my body the way it’s meant to be used.
A group of three girls dressed in workout gear passed beneath my perch, their voices bright with morning energy despite the early hour. One glanced up, following the line of the trunk, and her eyes widened when she spotted me.
She grabbed her friend’s arm, pointing. All three stared for a long moment—taking in the sight of a six-foot-five man casually lounging in a tree like some overgrown cat.
I could see the exact moment recognition shifted to appreciation, the way their gazes traveled over my frame, lingering on places that made their intentions clear.
One whispered something to her companions that made them all giggle. They looked back up at me with eyes that held invitation before walking away quickly, glancing over their shoulders twice.
I knew I was drawing attention. Knew I looked absurd perched in a tree on Shademore’s campus.
I did not care.
Violet was getting closer, her purple duffel bag slung over one shoulder, dressed in a simple grey tank top and navy shorts with a to-go cup clutched in her other hand.
Steam rose from the cup’s small opening, carrying the scent of coffee and something sweet.
Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail, the red streaks catching early morning sunlight that filtered through the oak’s leaves in dappled patterns.
I timed my descent perfectly, releasing my grip and dropping directly into her path.
She startled violently, her drink sloshing in its cup, her free hand flying to her chest. She gave me the most disgusted look I’d seen yet—nose wrinkled, lips curled, hazel eyes flashing with genuine irritation.
“You couldn’t wait in the dorms like a normal fuck boy?”
“And miss out on your delightful reaction?” I brushed bark from my jeans, noting the dark stains the sap had left. My white shirt stuck to my skin. “Never.”
She pushed past me with her shoulder—a solid hit that would have moved a smaller man—and I followed, falling into step beside her with ease.
“You can go home. I have tests this afternoon, so I’m going to be studying for the next several hours.” She didn’t look at me as she spoke, her gaze fixed forward like she could will me out of existence through sheer determination.
“Why not study in your dorm, then?”
“Because I wanted a change of scenery, Rowan. Is that okay with you?”
“Of course it is. I, too, would like a change of scenery. This way, I can even help you study,” I offered.
She said nothing, but I heard her teeth grind together.
We walked through the halls of the humanities building—old stone and dark wood, the architecture reminiscent of Gothic revival with its pointed arches and heavy timber beams. Eventually, we emerged into an open courtyard where wooden picnic tables were scattered across close-cropped grass bearing the dawn’s speckled light.
Some tables were occupied by students already deep in study, others sat empty in the shade of ornamental cherry trees.
“Are students normally up this early studying?” I asked.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t they be? You’d probably be surprised how early and late some study groups will meet up. It’s going to be even more packed when we get close to midterms and finals.”
“It is no small wonder that boy was killed, then. If I were a killer, this campus would make for the perfect hunting ground.”
“Because?” she inquired as we continued our trek across the courtyard, weaving through old cobbled paths.
Her question reminded me that she did not see the world the same way I did. “Small groups. Some solo. Everyone in their own little world and not paying attention to where they are going, much less who is around them.”
Violet stopped at that, glancing my way. “When you put it that way, it sounds kinda obvious what happened, doesn’t it?”
I nodded.
Violet found a table isolated from the others, tucked into a corner where stone walls met on two sides, and set down her belongings with more force than necessary. Her bag hit the table with a heavy thud.
“Psychology 101 has a quiz coming up on Friday.” She pulled out her textbook, the thick, glossy cover proclaiming Introduction to Psychology in bold letters, and flipped it open with aggressive efficiency. “I need to memorize symptoms and tie them to possible diagnoses.”
It sounded interesting enough. Psychology had never been accessible to me in my previous life—survival consumed too much energy to contemplate the mechanics of human behavior when understanding it instinctively meant the difference between living and dying.
But in this life, Charlie had made it a point in my homeschooling to ensure I was well-rounded. Psychology and Philosophy had been some of my favorite topics.
“Well, anything related to dependency disorders, you have locked down.” I kept my tone light, teasing.
She threw me a glare that could have melted steel. “And anything possessive or obnoxiously controlling is very clearly you.”
“That does not sound particularly scientific when you phrase it like that.” I settled onto the bench across from her, stretching my legs out beneath the table.
She mumbled something obscene under her breath—I caught “asshole” and possibly “smug bastard”—before she pulled out notebooks and highlighters with color-coded caps.
“Psychology is the scientific study of the mind and behavior,” she recited, her voice taking on the particular cadence of memorized information.
“What is the specific topic for this quiz?”
“Emotion and motivation across cultures.” She listed it off while flipping to the relevant chapter, her finger scanning the page.
“Hmm.” I leaned back, considering the topic as my foot casually brushed against hers. I could feel the heat of her skin against my dark jeans, sending a jolt of pleasure up my leg. “I am partial to arousal theory myself.”
She looked up sharply, and I watched color creep into her cheeks, highlighting her sharp beauty. “Too bad. That’s next week’s lesson.” She paused, her eyes scanning ahead in the textbook. Then an audible, “shit” escaped her lips.
“Sounds as if you are mistaken,” I said, fighting back a smile.
She groaned and dropped her forehead into her hands, her voice muffled. “I cannot believe I have to study this with you being so. . . so insistently annoying.”
“I will find motivation to maintain alertness throughout this activity.” I let my voice take on a professorial tone, deliberately invoking dry academic language. “As I was growing rather bored waiting on you to finish your futile attempt at escape.”
“Don’t be an ass.” She lifted her head, and despite her scowl, I caught the ghost of a smile. “But that’s actually a decent way to describe the Yerkes-Dodson principle.”
I smirked. “I know. Shall I continue explaining arousal theory’s application to our current situation?”
“Talking about your arousal?” She flushed deeper, the color spreading down her throat into places the darkness in me craved. “I’d rather not, but since you seem well-informed, let’s discuss Yerkes-Dodson properly.”
“With pleasure.” I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the table.
“Please. . . just don’t.” But she was smiling now despite herself, her eyes sparking with reluctant amusement.
I laughed, the sound carrying across the quiet courtyard. This, I thought. This is what I’ve been missing.
Not the physical proximity, though I craved that too. But the verbal sparring, the intellectual challenge, the way she met me word for word and refused to back down, even when I clearly had more knowledge on the subject.
We spent the next two hours dissecting theories of motivation and emotion, her asking questions and me providing explanations that ranged from textbook accurate to deliberately provocative.
By the time we finished, her notebook was covered in notes and diagrams, and the tension in her shoulders had eased into something approaching relaxation.
Small victories I cherished, given the tension in the school.
The school’s murder remained unsolved despite the heavy police presence that had transformed the campus into something approaching a surveillance state.
Officers patrolled in pairs, their uniforms dark blue and official, their expressions projecting competence they didn’t possess.
Students felt the weight of their presence—conversations quieting when cruisers rolled past, movements becoming more cautious, more contained.
It was a false sense of safety. Security theater designed to comfort rather than protect.