42. Chapter 42
Atticus
The hallway outside the advanced strategy wing is quiet enough that the sharp buzz of my phone echoes off the walls. I glance at the screen and immediately feel my jaw tighten.
Stepping closer to one of the tall arched windows overlooking the lower courtyards, I take a deep breath and answer the call.
“Father.”
“Atticus.” His voice arrives smooth and measured, carrying the same cold authority it always does. “I’m pleased to hear you’ve finally started exercising some good judgment.”
I already know where this conversation is going.
“Pathetic academy gossip is something I rarely care about,” he continues. “Still, I admit I was relieved to hear you are keeping your distance from the little sinless girl.”
The title lands exactly the way he intends it to. Even now, he insists on calling her sinless because it diminishes her. Because reducing people is one way that my father maintains control. My grip tightens around the phone as I just hum an acknowledgement.
I focus on the students moving between ivy-covered stone paths below.
“I don’t know why the universe cursed you with such a weak bond connection,” my father says calmly, “but the Willshire family does not bow to whims. Not even cosmic ones.”
There it is. The Willshires do not bend. And we certainly do not fall apart over girls from nowhere.
“I appreciate the check, father, but I can manage my own affairs,” I reply.
“I’m sure you believe that.” Papers shuffle on his end of the line. “Which brings me to the Autumn Gala...”
Of course, the Sinful Sinfall Gala. There’s no public event my arrogant father would miss an opportunity to show off status.
“I’ve arranged for Daphne Langley to accompany you.”
Oh, hell no. I’m having a hard enough time keeping her hands off me. Camille is even worse.
“You arranged a date for me? Like a child?” I ask.
“I arranged a strategic opportunity. And a brilliant one at that.”
Closing my eyes, I take a deep, calming breath.
“I don’t need a date. I promise you, I carry enough status to remind these sheep who I am.”
“Nonsense. The academy is watching everything you do right now. Rumors surrounding your attachment to the Davies girl have already spread further than I would like. This is a chance to strengthen alliances, remind the other factions where your loyalties belong, and present a more appropriate image.”
A more appropriate image…
“She is from excellent stock,” Father continues. “Beautiful. Intelligent. Well-connected. She is the perfect representative to stand by the heir of Pride.”
The bond in my chest twists painfully.
“You will escort Daphne Langley to the gala,” he says. “You will smile for the sheep, dance with her publicly, and put an end to these embarrassing whispers surrounding you and that girl. It’s time to prove she means nothing to you.”
Anger presses hot beneath my ribs. “I’m not interested in Daphne.”
“No,” my father says coolly. “You’re interested in a liability.”
I almost hang up on him.
“You will do this,” he continues, “or you will suffer consequences I assure you neither you nor Miss Davies will enjoy.”
The line goes dead.
For a moment I stand there staring at my reflection in the glass window, jaw tight enough to ache. Then the bond jerks in my chest.
Fear.
I straighten. Arwen must be close, and she’s scared.
Another pulse hits me—confusion this time, threaded with panic and humiliation.
I move before thinking, following the pull through the corridors of the academy. Students glance up as I pass, probably because I’m walking far too fast for someone raised to embody Pride composure.
I don’t care.
The bond pulls harder as I near one of the older classroom wings tucked behind the debate halls. A male voice echoes through the open doorway ahead.
“You think you belong here?”
I step inside. Arwen is backed against the far wall, crouching low as if she’s physically trying to make herself smaller. Across from her stands a third-year Pride student I vaguely recognize. His power presses thickly through the room.
The bastard is inside her head.
“You’re not even close to our level,” he says, towering over her. “You’re playing dress-up, pretending like you belong here.”
“Enough!” I shout, barely maintaining my fury. How dare he think he can touch my bond?
The student spins around so quickly that his composure slips. Fear flickers across his face the instant he recognizes me.
“W-Willshire, I was just—”
“Using your pride power on another student.” I step further into the room, cold fury settling into place. “Despite academy rules.”
His face pales. Arwen looks up at me from the floor, breathing shallowly. Confusion clouds her expression.
The student straightens, attempting dignity. “She doesn’t belong here. I was just proving my point before she gets herself hurt.”
I feel my control slip. Power curls beneath my skin before I can stop it. I lock onto his mind and push. Steering his mind toward an apology. His mental shields are like rice paper to my power.
His posture jerks.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts, looking confused at his own words.
“Looks like you’re the one who doesn’t belong here. Raised in Pride with the best education possible, and your shields are pathetic.”
Humiliation blooms bright red across his face.
Then, because I’m angrier than I should be, I push once more and convince his mind that he should go to the Dean’s office and confess his actions.
I release him, disgust already curling in my stomach at myself. Horror flashes across his features as he flees without another word.
No matter how much he may have deserved it, directing someone’s will feels like a gross violation.
Arwen rises to her feet, brushing hair from her face as embarrassment floods through the bond.
“He was using his power,” she says quietly. “I know how pathetic this looks. He’s just a pathetic bully, but…” She swallows hard. “It felt real, Atticus. He looked a hundred feet tall. I genuinely thought he was going to crush me into the floor.”
I move closer.
“That’s because Pride powers are largely psychological,” I explain. “He wasn’t physically changing size. He was manipulating your perception.”
Her hands, which had been trembling at her sides, curl into tight fists. She looks away from me, her jaw working silently before the words come out low and strained.
“Just like Daphne.” A bitter laugh escapes her. “How do you fight something that isn’t even real?”
“You don’t fight it physically.” I lean against the nearest desk, studying her. “You strengthen your mental shields, like we spoke about last year.”
She looks away.
“You haven’t been practicing them.”
“I’ve been a little busy escaping dungeons, dodging a new family that wants to kill me and, oh, you know… trying not to consume innocent civilians with my brand new Gluttony power.”
Fair.
“If you’re following a Gluttony second-year training schedule,” I say dryly, “I’m not surprised your shields are suffering. Gluttony prioritizes external forces. Pride prioritizes internal control.”
Her mouth twists.
I’m watching her drown while pretending distance somehow protects her. The thought of another Pride student cornering her like this makes something ugly twist beneath my ribs.
“I’ll train you,” I blurt.
Her brows lift. “What?”
“We’ll meet privately once a week. I’ll teach you how to reinforce your shields properly.”
“Atticus—”
“You need to defend yourself from mental intrusion.”
“What if your father finds out?”
I huff, “My father already assumes the worst.”
She still looks uncertain.
“We’ll be careful,” I say more quietly. “And it’s worth the risk if it keeps this from happening again. If we get caught, I’ll just tell him I forced you to meet me.”
Her expression softens. Then I remember the call from him only moments ago, and another wave of irritation crashes through me.
“There’s something else,” I admit, tucking my hands into my pockets. “My father arranged for Daphne Langley to attend the upcoming Gala with me.”
Arwen goes still, and I step closer. “I didn’t agree to it.”
“You can’t exactly tell your father no,” her face scrunches.
“He’s only forcing it because of the rumors surrounding us,” I continue. “He wants the academy to think I’m unattached.”
Her eyes lower briefly.
“I wanted you to hear it from me before someone else told you. Arwen, I’m so sorry. I hope you know she means absolutely nothing to me and I’ll spend the entire night dodging her.”
For a moment she just looks at me. I don’t breathe. Then she reaches up and cups my face between her hands, and the warmth of her palms against my skin after all this time apart hits me somewhere so deep and unguarded that my legs might give out.
“I understand,” she says softly. “I hate that you have to play your father’s puppet because of me.”
“You are not the reason. I was his puppet long before you came along.”
“But I make it harder,” she murmurs.
I lean into her touch before I can stop myself.
“It’s only for a little while,” I tell her. “We’ll figure something out.”
“Do you really believe that?” She asks.
“Yes. You’re worth it all, Arwen.”
Something moves across her face—grief or relief or both at once, gone before I can name it. Then her hand finds the front of my shirt, and she rises onto her toes and presses her mouth to mine.
I forget, for a moment, how to exist.
Her lips are warm and trembling and so heartbreakingly cautious, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed or if this will shatter everything we’ve built, and it’s the caution that undoes me. She’s seeking permission even now, after all this time, after all the ways I’ve hurt her.
My hands are useless at my sides for a full second, then one moves up and cups the back of her head, threading through her hair, anchoring us together. I don’t deepen the kiss—not yet. Instead, I let her explore.
And then the bond—that thing I have spent months trying to manage and contain and be reasonable about—ignites. It doesn’t flicker. It floods. Warmth pours through my chest like light through a cracked door thrown wide open, and I feel her in a way that has nothing to do with proximity.
Every sense is amplified. I can smell her hair, taste the faint salt of her skin, feel her pulse in her wrist where my thumb brushes. The distant footfalls of other students, the faint echo of laughter from the courtyard, all fade to static. There is only the two of us and the bond.
She moves her hands to my shoulders, pulling herself higher, and I bend to meet her.
This time, when she kisses me, there’s a new daring in it.
She parts my lips with her own, tentative and then hungrier, and I’m gone.
All the self-control, the months of burying everything under layers of polite detachment, shatter in an instant.
My second hand finds her hip, drawing her closer.
And I know this memory will burn itself into my mind.