Chapter 24 #3
She stared at me, considering my words, her brow furrowing. “Okay. But if gods determine morality without any external standard of goodness, then how do we know their commands are inherently good? What if they’re just. . . powerful and wrong?”
I smiled, feeling the familiar thrill of intellectual sparring.
“We do not know. That is precisely the problem. Does a god’s omnipotence mean His commands create morality, making anything He decrees automatically good by definition?
Or does His nature—His supposed goodness—mean He only commands what is already good by some external standard?
” I paused to watch her process before I continued.
“And which God are we even discussing? The Christian singular God? The Greek pantheon? The Norse? Egyptian? Hindu? Each tradition has different answers.”
She huffed, clearly frustrated but engaged. “Well, this is annoying.”
She raised her hand, and Professor Wright noticed immediately. He wove through the rows of seats with surprising agility, arriving at our desk with an expectant smile. “Yes, Miss Shaw?”
“Are we focusing exclusively on the Christian God for this exercise, or are other theological frameworks acceptable?” She asked, her tone respectful but carrying an edge that suggested she already suspected the answer.
Professor Wright’s eyebrows rose with evident delight. “A fabulous question indeed!” He turned to me, assessing. “What say you, Mister. . .?”
“Monroe,” I said. “And I would argue that Plato’s Euthyphro dilemma originated in ancient Greek polytheism, where multiple gods with conflicting wills created obvious problems for divine command theory.
It was not until Christianity and other monotheistic religions attempted to apply it that it became a significant philosophical challenge—because one God means one will, theoretically removing the problem of competing divine commands. ”
Professor Wright actually clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and delighted. “Oh, might we have a student of religious studies among us?”
I shrugged, keeping my expression neutral. “Hardly. I simply think the application of moral beliefs, regardless of their religious background or origin, creates the foundation for who we are as individuals.”
“So you believe morality is not defined by divine command, but by personal experience and rational choice?” He leaned against our desk, genuinely interested now.
“I believe those with innate kindness are a rare blessing in a world carved from blood and bone,” I said carefully. “Whether that kindness originates from a divine spark or human compassion matters less than the kindness itself.”
“Is it really so hard to just be a good person?” Violet asked, bringing both our attention to her.
Her question hung in the air, simple and devastating in its directness.
“No, I do not think so,” I responded, meaning every word. “I think those who choose kindness despite the world’s cruelty and social norms are the closest thing to divinity we will ever witness.”
Professor Wright cleared his throat, looking slightly moved. “Well said, Mr. Monroe. Thank you for attending today.”
“Thank you for allowing me to sit in on your class.”
“Ah, yes.” Professor Wright straightened, addressing the room again. “Given the rising tension on campus, I thought permitting students to bring someone they cared for would ease their discomfort rather than forcing them to partner with classmates they might not know.”
He moved on to another group, leaving his words hanging between us.
I glanced at Violet, who had fixed her gaze on her paper with sudden, intense focus. A faint blush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks with color.
“‘Someone they cared for’, huh?” I kept my voice low, intimate.
She turned a deeper shade of pink and mumbled something about not knowing anyone else on campus well enough, though we both knew Alice came to mind as an alternative.
But she chose me.
I settled deeper into my seat, watching her pretend to take notes while actually just drawing small spirals in the margins of her paper.
Enjoying seeing her this way—somehow balancing exams and essays and sleepless nights at Oubliette, pushing herself against the world’s hunger for her while maintaining her grades with obsessive faithfulness.
After another twenty minutes of philosophical debate around us—Professor Wright facilitating discussions with the skill of someone who genuinely loved watching minds wrestle with impossible questions—he dismissed the class.
“Well, that was fun,” I said, gathering Violet’s books while she shoved papers into her bag.
“Better than studying together?” She shot me a look, one eyebrow raised.
“This was more insightful than when we studied for your Psychology exam and listed all the qualities I shared with an Antisocial Personality Disorder diagnosis.” It had made for an entertaining game, cataloging the ways in which each of us was fundamentally damaged by our respective traumas.
“Insightful?” She added her final notes to the diagram we’d created—a Venn diagram that showed surprising overlap in our moral reasoning despite arriving from different theological starting points. “I suppose it was.”
Pride blossomed in my chest as I watched her.
Having never been given a proper education in my previous life, I’d taken to it voraciously in my early years with Charlie homeschooling me.
But seeing Violet bent over her notes, her mind sharp and engaged, left a fierce satisfaction burning through me.
Though beneath that satisfaction, fear and hope warred within me.
Fear that she would eventually realize she didn’t truly need my help, that she could hunt Edward alone, that she would sever the fragile connection between us.
Hope that she was—maybe, just maybe—beginning to trust me, to rely on me, to need me in ways that went beyond practical protection.
The thought of her pushing me away left an icy ache beneath my ribs.
I told myself it was about keeping her safe, about fulfilling my obligation to Charlie and Levi.
I was becoming quite accustomed to lying to myself like that.
“There. Done.” She gathered her diagram and books, noticing other students making their way towards the front to submit their work. “I think we can turn this in and escape?”
I waited while she organized her materials, then followed her down the tiered steps towards the podium.
“I found a celiac-safe restaurant nearby we could try,” I offered as we joined the line of students waiting to submit their assignments. “Are we visiting Hyacinth after this, or would you prefer to get food first?”
I watched her lips purse as she considered, the small movement drawing my attention to her mouth.
“I wouldn’t mind trying a new place. We could try to invite Jules to join us again?
As long as they have something other than a regular bun.
I still haven’t found anything remotely close to a decent gluten-free option in this city. ”
“You are in luck.” I stepped closer as the line moved forward. “This place apparently has some of the best gluten-free options in Atlanta. If you are willing to try something new. It is called Cooper—"
I stopped mid-sentence.
The musk of a shifter hit my enhanced olfactory senses like a physical blow—wild and earthy, carrying undertones of fur and forest and something fundamentally other. My nostrils flared as I inhaled more carefully, tracking the scent to its source.
Instinctively, I listened.
There you are.
A female, a few students ahead of us in line. Her heartbeat was wrong—too fast, running at roughly one hundred sixty beats per minute even while standing still. The rhythm was steady but elevated, as if she’d just finished sprinting or was preparing to fight.
Shifter. Definitely a shifter.
Violet said something I didn’t quite catch, her voice distant and muffled beneath the sudden hyperfocus of my hunter instincts activating.
I needed a better look at this woman. Needed to see her face, assess the threat level, determine if she was the one I’d been searching for.
The she-shifter was maybe five-nine or five-ten and slender, her frame suggesting speed over strength.
Dirty blonde hair fell in waves past her shoulders, catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows.
She wore a long cream-colored sundress that brushed her ankles, paired with a fitted denim jacket and combat boots.
The boots were interesting—black leather with multiple chains wrapped around the ankles, the metal glinting with each step.
“Rowan, are you okay?” Violet’s voice was suddenly closer, concerned. Her hand touched my arm, warm through my shirt sleeve.
I startled, jerking my attention back to her. “Hey, yes. Give me one second.”
I stepped out of line, moving with purpose towards the front. I needed to get closer to the shifter, needed to confirm what my senses were telling me. I shouldered past a pair of students, and as I closed the distance, another scent hit me beneath the wild musk.
Blood.
Metallic and iron-sharp, the scent of fresh blood clung to her despite obvious attempts to wash it away. Not her blood, I’d wager—it smelled far too strong, was far too much. Someone else’s blood. Recent. Within the last twelve hours, I estimated.
Found you.
I picked up my pace and was almost to her, almost close enough to see the side of her face. She turned slightly as I reached for her, and I nearly caught a glimpse of—
A hand grabbed my arm and yanked me backward with surprising strength.
“Rowan!” Violet’s voice carried an edge I rarely heard, sharp. She threw an apologetic look to the students I’d bulldozed past. “Sorry! He’s not cutting in line, I promise.”
She pulled me back towards our original position, and my opportunity vanished as the blonde shifter submitted her assignment and left through the front door. The scent of blood and wild things faded with her departure.
Fuck.