Chapter Seven #2
“Of course, he's well mannered so no one should notice him.” I say as I lift Amos higher in my arms and bump my nose to his.
He meows and snuggles into my face, proving my point and being cute.
“He’ll fit in perfectly then. I promise you will too, Sylvia.” He says and we begin walking side by side towards the large steel gates.
“Thank you.” I whisper appreciating his kindness. My heart flutters and I feel the tips of my ears reddening.
The gates are already open and fellow pupils walk in front of us toward the towering stone academy.
A black flag hangs from one window with the academy's logo and name in a tan sharp font. Time has softened the black stone but it still breathes authority, a solemn monument that’s filled with the rich.
Its pristine ivy-draped windows admit a lot of sunlight and I stand there for a significant amount of time, taking in its beauty.
“Nice, huh?” I jump at the sound of Alistair’s voice. I figured he’d ditch me by now, not wanting to be seen with the goth girl and her emotional support cat.
“Very.” I say. We start walking again and step into the threshold of the academy. “God I’m nervous.”
“No reason for that. You’ll love it here.” Alistair nudges my side with a soft smile. I smile and grip Amos tighter, his eyes are fully black as he watches pupils pass.
The fact that he’s treated me with nothing but kindness warms my heart and a thank you leaves me again.
“Anytime, do you need me to show you to your first class?” He asks as we step farther into the academy.
I’m surprised so many people litter the halls, confident students ready to learn more and improve their art skills. I look around and figure I can make it on my own.
“I think I got it. Can you just give me directions?” I ask and face him, my eyes leaving the intimidating old structure.
“That works! Keep going straight down this hall until you get to the large glass windows.” He points ahead of us and I can already see the light pouring in from outside.
“Outside those windows you’ll see the gardens, turn left there and your class is within the studio at the end.
I’m a little jealous, you get the most light. ”
I nod. “Ok, thank you again. I hope you have a good time in class!”
As I say those words a bell rings and his eyes grow bigger.
“Sorry, I’ve got to go. Mr. Whitlock doesn’t deal kindly to tardiness. I’ll see you after class.” He waves and disappears in the crowd.
I wave even though he's already gone. Many of the people around me begin disappearing and I quickly walk down the corridor he pointed to. When I reach the windows and see the gardens with beautiful arrays of flowers I turn left, but bump into someone.
Luckily my shoulder that doesn’t hold Amos flies back and hits the opposite wall. I groan and collect myself, my eyes spotting with white from the pain in my collarbone.
“Careful there, Little Swan.” A low voice says. It’s so deep I barely catch what he says as I look up.
The familiar nickname instantly makes my blood boil as my eyes connect with deep brown, almost black ones. My stomach flips and I roll my eyes. This perfect, cocky little shit. I don’t even curse much but he brings out the worst in me.
Our encounter a few days ago was a weak moment for me, but now—he’ll hear the hatred in my tone.
“How about you be careful?” I say and try to walk around him before the second bell rings.
He steps in front of me, his movements quick and practiced. I close my eyes in irritation and look back to him. A sadistic smirk settles on his lips and a low tsk leaves him.
“I don’t think so.” He whispers, his face unbearably close to mine. His breath mists my cheeks and they darken in color.
“Why do you have to be such a dick?” I try to push at his chest but he remains frozen in place like the boulder he is.
His hand catches my wrist before I can stop him and he twists causing a low painful moan to leave my lips. I try to free my hand but he only tightens his grip the more I struggle, pure amusement dancing across his features.
“Why do you have to be such a prune? I don’t think coming into my town and then touching me is ok, do you?” I shudder at his words and the way he angles his head.
His lips are so close and each breath mingles with mine. Cedar, smoke, and arrogance wafts off him and I refuse to breathe, to even think about saying he smells good. My nose scrunches up and I tighten my hold around my satchel to protect Amos.
“Oh, and you’ve got your cat too?” A chuckle leaves his throat. “Does it have fleas?”
His question is rhetorical and he doesn’t seem to care how much that sentence upset Amos.
I scratch the back of his ears and a low hiss leaves him. His brass eyes dilate and zero in on Kian, thoughts of scratching his beautiful face most likely running through his brain.
“Don’t offend my cat because you have a problem with me.” I yank my wrist out of his grip, not flinching from the pain it causes. “I didn’t come into your ‘town’ by choice. I also think cornering me and staring at my breasts is worse than a single touch, don’t you think?”
His ears turn a pale pink as he steps back. His eyes leaving my chest and a sharp look forms in his dark eyes.
“You think you’re strong, when really you're just a broken vessel. I can see every fracture in you, every taut corrupt detail.” His voice is fire to my skin and blistering heat flares in my stomach.
Before I can utter another word he brushes past me, not painfully, but enough to make me stumble back. He heads straight to the studio I’m going to and the bell slices through the dead silence.
I look down at Amos and let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I try to calm my erratic heartbeat, but the low hiss from Amos draws me back in.
“I’m sorry, baby, he didn’t mean those cruel words.” I coo to Amos in a soft voice. “Let's get to class before I get in trouble on my first day.”
I walk the same way Kian did. My feet fall in step even though my mind is elsewhere, like how much this guy hates me yet I’ve done nothing to him.
I peel open the heavy wood door. The studio smells of turpentine and still water. Sunlight peers in through its broad windows just as Alistair said and every eye in sight catches mine, intrigued.
Kian doesn’t even lift his head. His eyes remain on the trees outside, such interest lies in his gaze it's becoming hard to say that he’s a lifeless prick. His camera and hopeful look outside screams photographer.
An overly emotional prick. Great.
“Good morning, Sylvia Swan was it?” My eyes snap towards the lanky professor.
Her blonde hair is braided back into two ponytails with a few strands to frame her face. Her brown eyes settle on me with disinterest but a small smile is on her thin cracked lips. She may be in her late thirties, no signs of wrinkles or grey hairs in sight.
“Good morning, yes I’m Sylvia. Sorry for being–.” She cuts me off with a wave of her hand before I can apologize for my tardiness.
“Professor Halington. Please find a seat and be prepared from now on.” She nods to the only empty seat and walks around her desk to the chalk board.
I nod and walk as fast as my feet will carry me over to the seat. I bump into a guy's canvas, barely grazing the side but his head snaps to me.
“Watch it, hussy.” He snarls and turns back to the front. I scrunch my eyes up and get ready to say something back but Professor Halington stops me.
“Seats, please!” Her voice is deadly calm and leaves no room for argument.
What a great way to start my first day.
I sit down on the wooden stool and dig in my bag for my pencils. There's already loads of various colored acrylic paints on the desk beside my canvas so I set my pencil alongside them.
I grab an empty stool beside me and set Amos’ carrier on it. He purrs and his gaze goes to the window beside me. When I finish situating myself the professor starts her lesson. Her words are strict but she leaves us to paint whatever we’d like.
“The beauty of art comes from within. I want you to express yourself, show me something that's been on your mind. Break open.” With her final sentence, paint brushes begin to move.
I watch the guy in front of me instantly drown his brush in blue and white, not caring to mix them properly before painting.
His hands move with skill, detailing a sky of some sort at the top of his canvas.
There's small chatter amongst people who already know each other from the previous years here.
I stare awkwardly at the blank white canvas in front of me, my mind blank.
I think better when I’m outside.
Nobody moves to put on an apron but I do just because I know I’m a messy painter.
I tie the strings around my waist loosely and begin dipping paints in one another to create a deep dark blue.
The one thing that's been on my mind since this morning is that dream.
The shadow drenched in darkness haunts me. It was too still, too calm.
I know I’m in deep when the room starts to fade into a haze.
My hand moves faster than I can think. My soul crawls out of me and onto the canvas and each line becomes a part of me.
It’s up to me to make that vision come to life, to connect the dots.
Blue bleeds into grey and black. I keep going, outlining the bridge and taking a deep brown paint brush to it.
My hands are stained and my mind is a whirlwind of emotions.
I can feel the tears trying to come to the surface but I push them down. I can’t cry in the middle of class, especially not on my first day here.
When I start on her eyes, I don’t draw the ones from my memories of her alive. I draw the soulless, grey ones. The ones with no emotions—a body with no soul.
She may have been looking at me with anger, wondering why I didn’t save her? Why did the train have to be an hour late and why was I coming home late?
No, I ignore the guilt that tries to eat me alive.
She would never blame me. If anything she would’ve still sacrificed herself to save me.
She was a mother of little words but so much affection.
She never told me about her relationship with father or how her day went, but she braided my hair on those late nights before school.
She tucked me into bed and whispered a bedtime story.
She made every holiday worth it even when we didn’t have the money.
She was never a bad mother, just a lost one. She had her own problems like any other person.
“Are you crying, Little Swan?” I blink at the intrusion. My eyes readjusting to the harsh sunlight peeling into the room.
I don’t turn to him, nor give him the satisfaction of catching me on the verge of tears. I blink them away, my back still to him and continue the painting in front of me. He steps closer, his breath fanning my neck.
“All that fire you spit, but you’re over here crying over paper and paint.” I roll my eyes as the words come off his tongue, smooth yet cruel.
I turn slightly towards my paint desk, his reflection staring back at me through the stark glass.
“You won’t understand because you will never make anything that matters.” I mumble.
A low chuckle rumbles through him and a smirk lifts the corners of his mouth. He leans closer, his shoulders brushing mine and his lips resting against my ear. I dip my brush and start painting the silver glint of her eyes, trying to ignore the sudden tingle of warmth in my chest.
“You think this,” his hand comes up deliberately slow, until his black ink thumb smudges across the canvas, leaving behind a smear of black rot on my vision, “matters? That’s almost pathetic, really.”
I don’t give him the reaction he wants. I keep my jaw tight, my eyes on the black smudge, and my hand continues to move on its own.
“It matters to people who can feel. If it doesn’t matter, why are you still here? What’s really pathetic is the fact that you’ve watched me the entire time.” I let my words cut deep.
I don’t care who he is or what he’s gone through. It’s not right to push that on to other people. These men around town think their cruel words and aggressive shouting can stop or control us into being their ‘perfect’ version of a woman. Kian picked the wrong girl.
I turn to him in his silence. The smirk is gone and replaced with an even crueler smile that twitches. His eyes seem to get darker and the real him crawls out. Something that's much colder than I’ve seen before.
“Careful,” he whispers. “When I’m ripping you in two and making you scream my name, you’ll feel what matters to me.”
A blush heats my cheeks as I turn back to my canvas. He pushes a strand of my hair behind my ear and trails his hand up my arm, stopping once he reaches my shoulder.
He grips the area, not hard enough to bruise, but it’s definitely a warning. His touch is delicate enough to let me know he could ruin me with a single blink of an eye.
“Get off of me.” I say calmly but with enough bite.
My heart thrums in my chest, loud enough for me to hear the pounding in my ears. I don’t understand him at all.
“Say it again, Little Swan,” He whispers. His fingers flex tighter and his thumb digs into my coat, leaving behind a smear of black ink.
“Let go.” My patience is starting to grow thin and you can hear it in my voice. My eyes peer at the corners, catching him in an intense stare. The blush on my cheeks only darkens as we look at one another.
“Mr. Grimm!” Professor Halington’s sharp voice causes me to look up at her.
The entire class looks at us, in their heated stares full of curiosity. Faint whispers drift around us, ones I don’t want to hear. Halington’s hands are on her hips and her menacing gaze has me hiding behind my canvas.
My embarrassment is pure entertainment for him.
“Unhand her now and sit down.” I look up at him, surprised she doesn’t discipline me as well.
A snarl settles on his lips and he drops his hand from my shoulder. I bite down on my lip to stop myself from laughing. His eyes never leave mine, even as the professor’s stare becomes intense.
“Now, Kian!” Her voice becomes slightly raised and he nods.
He steps away from me, ignoring all the people staring at us. I turn back to my painting, the black ink staring back at me. My shoulder is warm and tingling from where he touched me.
“You think I don’t know what matters…you’ll learn,” He mumbles as he slowly walks past me and toward his seat.
I dip my brush and begin covering the ruined part of my painting. Amos hisses and keeps his eyes on Kian, but I never turn around.
“No, I just think you’re scared of what I’ll do,” I whisper so only he can hear me before he gets too far.
He hums and a low chuckle leaves his throat.