Chapter Twenty-Three
S y l v i a S w a n
The academy is buzzing, students litter the courtyard and roam the halls, excited for Christmas break next week.
I sit in the garden, where beauty is lost amongst the perfectly cut flowers.
The flowers are impossibly intact, no browned edges or petals collapsing underweight.
Gravel paths curve deliberately, guiding footsteps and the marble bench below me is warm from my bottom but remains cold on either side of me.
The wind isn’t as bad here and the greenhouse manages to keep me warm enough.
I wonder how they keep it this way? In extreme cold weather these flowers should be dead. Especially with the snow storm we had a couple weeks ago. Is there a gardener hidden somewhere, pruning constantly or is the garden itself known to keep itself from falling apart?
My sketchbook rests against my knee as my pencil slides across it with lazy certainty.
I don’t care for lines or proportions and my gaze steadily drifts. Either to the fountain and the way the water catches the light as it streams down or the archways of hedges that frame the academy.
But my mind inevitably drifts to him. My chest tightens with the memory of his closeness and the words he spilt with ease.
The way he stood near as if boundaries didn’t exist and how his hands felt as he traced them down my body.
Slow, measured, precise, and deliberate.
The same way his lips felt against mine.
A heat blooms underneath my skin and I shift on the bench.
I suddenly become aware of every inch of my body and embarrassment darkens my cheeks more.
I lower my gaze pretending to focus on the paper in front of me but notice the drawing on the page.
It’s him.
It’s a portrait rendered with unnerving details as if my hands have been observing him better than my mind ever consciously did.
His eyes are what I seem to like the most. The rare darkness smudged into the page seems to appear real with intentional quiet intelligence.
His lips are sharp, set in a straight line like they always are and I notice just how beautiful he is.
It’s not soft or inviting, but striking in a way that feels historical like a face meant to be remembered long after it's gone. Rare and dark features not meant to fit a certain category.
My fingers tighten around my pencil and my mind races with reasons as to why I would draw him. I don’t remember deciding this intimacy carved into a portrait. My stomach flutters and my blush deepens.
I slowly close my sketchbook as my heart beats louder than it should, a constant thump resonating in my head.
I press it to my chest as if someone might see it and a feeling of foolishness rests over me.
I’ve never felt so weak or vulnerable in my life.
The fight I once had to make him withdraw is gone.
A strong wind hits the side of the greenhouse and I jump. It tugs at the loose strands of my hair and they dance around my face before falling back to where they were. My spine straightens as a sense of being observed slithers through me.
I turn on the bench and look up. He’s behind me, close enough that I can feel the chill he carries.
His gaze is cut downward at me rather than meeting me outright, dark eyes fixed with a focus that makes my skin tighten.
There's no amusement in his expression, just attention—sharp and emotionless. I clutch my sketchbook tighter and hope my cheeks aren’t still aflamed.
“What’s got you blushing, Little Swan?” He asks, voice low.
I study him before I say anything. “The wind’s burning my cheeks.”
He watches me for a moment before deciding to drop it. His gaze lifts from my sketchbook to my face, dipping to my mouth and the line of my throat.
I stand, holding his stare instead of retreating from it. “Why do you like me? You don’t even know me.”
A look of surprise passes his features but vanishes just as fast. His gaze darkens, any trace of shock draining away, replaced with something colder.
He doesn’t bother to respond but steps closer.
The heat off his body warms mine and suddenly the garden feels smaller.
I back up without thinking and my shoulder meets stone.
I curse myself for falling into his trap, again.
He braces an arm beside my head and the other one curls around my hips. His touch is cruel, almost bruising.
“I don’t know how to like things halfway,” he responds quietly.
My eyes search his, confused and the words hit harder than I like.
“What does that mean?” I swallow, afraid of his answer.
He ignores the question and answers with his own in return. His gaze moves over me possessively, like he’s memorized the way I stand when I'm cornered and the way my breathing changes when I refuse to look away.
“You don’t like my answer?” He asks. His voice is controlled but restrained in the same way a blade is kept sharp.
My brows furrow and my mouth parts but I don’t know what to say.
“I like that you don’t soften like everyone else does when you’re around me. That you look at me deciding whether I’m worth the trouble.” He pauses, his big hands dipping between my thighs. “I like that you don’t belong to anyone yet my little swan.”
I whimper at the contact of the heat pooling from his hand and the pressure he applies to my clit through my skirt and stockings. Heat blooms on my cheeks as a mix of anger and arousal floods through me.
“That doesn’t give you the right to—” He pinches my clit between his fingers and I yelp.
“I know,” he says. “That’s the problem.”
Something dangerous settles in his expression, for once it’s not cruelty or possession but want, in its most unapologetic form, claiming both him and I.
“I don’t pick things I can’t discard and I don’t stop once I’ve chosen,” he adds.
His fingers push past my stockings and into my soaked panties, sinking into my folds. I look down at his hand between us and my cheeks darken further. I hold back the moan that's threatening to escape and meet his stare.
“You don’t get to choose me.”
He tsks and tilts his head. “Maybe, but don’t pretend you haven’t felt it.”
I hate that my first instinct is to deny his words, they’re true, but admitting anything to him feels like surrender.
My mouth parts and a soft moan leaves my tongue.
His finger easily strokes my entrance and my knees threaten to give out from the contact.
He sinks a finger in, pumping in and out at a slow rhythm.
“That doesn’t mean you can corner me and decide how I feel,” I say instead of denying it.
His eyes narrow slightly as he categorizes what I’ve just said, as if it’s something worth remembering.
He sinks another finger into me and I grab his arm beside my head, holding myself up.
The movement earns me something close to a reaction.
His jaw tightens and his pupils dilate with need, like my reaction means everything to him.
“You talk too much to be someone cornered. You can walk away if you want.” His fingers curl inside me and my head falls back.
I moan and release a shaky breath. “There’s no way I could walk away right now.”
He smirks, the corner of his lip lifting cruelly as he pumps faster.
“I just want you aware of me,” he whispers, his breath fanning my neck. “To remember this very moment when you’re home alone.”
My pulse heightens and I become fully aware of what we’re doing and where we’re at—in the academy greenhouse. My eyes widen for a second but he doesn’t give me enough time to think as he begins swirling my clit with his thumb.
“And what am I supposed to do with that?” I challenge.
“Nothing.” He pauses, his gaze shifting to the glass before they skate to me again. “Yet.”
I scoff between a moan. “You’re impossible to understand.”
He chuckles and lowers his lips to my neck. His teeth graze the area along with his soft lips. Every trail leaves behind a tingle that resonates through me and heightens my arousal.
“You’re still here,” he whispers as he sucks the skin below my Adams apple into his mouth. My eyes roll back and I feel my climax peeking at the surface.
“That doesn’t mean I want this,” I croak and I know it's a lie before it falls from my lips.
One more pump and I’ll be falling over the edge.
“No?” He asks.
He shifts, pulling his hand from my stockings and lifting his fingers to his mouth. My legs fall close and I look at him confused. His dull gaze meets mine and a sadistic smirk lifts his lips.
“Little Swans who don’t want it, don’t get to finish.” His lips glisten as he steps back.
My lips part and embarrassment clings to my skin. I feel my juices soaking my panties and my arousal fading.
“Be careful, Sylvia.” He tucks his hands into his pockets as he walks away, pushing the greenhouse doors open before disappearing out of them.
“Kian–” I call and he turns to me.
He studies me, his gaze shifting over my body without shame. My lips part but no words come out. What was I going to say?
He tilts his head and walks off, leaving behind the scent of old cigarettes softened by something sweet and resinous.
A smell that’s unsettling but inviting. I bury my face in my hands, my body tingling from his lingering touch.
The fountain murmurs but it doesn’t ease my nerves.
I feel rearranged, like something inside me was touched and put back slightly wrong.
“What am I doing?” I mumble to myself.
Amos meows from his position on a bench across from me. “Why didn’t you help?” My mock anger doesn’t fool him and he lets out a soft meow.
I’ve always been strong minded and able to push people away but Kian keeps coming back. No matter how many times I tell him not to, he comes back and it's always with those skillful fingers and persuasive words.
“You absolute idiot.” I whisper.
Some part of me listens while the other part yearns to be seen that clearly. To be understood without speaking.
“Uh…should I be concerned?” Alistair's voice breaks my trance and I turn to him.
He stands at the edge of the dirt path, hand still on the door as amusement and concern dances in his gaze. I smile and place my sketchbook inside of my satchel, hiding the evidence of what I’m battling with.
“How long have you been there?” I ask, my voice raising slightly.
“Long enough to hear you call someone an idiot.” He chuckles and I do the same, my shoulders tense with awkwardness.
“I was just…thinking out loud.” I sit down on the bench and Amos' tail flicks against my arm.
“Well, if you’re done thinking I have a question.” Alistair plops down beside me, his cheeks slightly pink either from the wind or whatever he’s getting ready to ask me.
“Shoot.” I run my fingers through Amos' fur nervously.
Based on his nervousness, I’m hoping he doesn’t ask me to be his girlfriend. I don’t think I like Alistair and Kian makes sure I remember that. He’s too nice, safe—I feel like I deserve something…different.
“Uh…” He starts but clears his throat. “I was wondering if…maybe…you’d go somewhere with me? It’s a nice spot here in town and I felt like you may want to clear your mind some. You know with all the things going on.”
His ramble comes to a pause and my heart stutters. His question remains fragile between us and I nervously pull my tongue piercing between my teeth.
“Yeah, we can,” I say slowly, caught in my own turmoil.
A quiet breath leaves him and I can tell he hopes I don’t notice. He firmly nods like he’s relieved with my answer.
“Ok, uh…let's meet up tomorrow,” he says and stands.
He offers a small smile and the red on his ears darken. He waves before walking out of the garden, his steps quick as if staying any longer may undo his courage.
My gaze shifts to the flowers in front of me as a foreign feeling settles in me. They sway effortlessly like they exist without doubt or consciousness.
Alistair may like me.
The realization settles low in my gut not with shock or excitement but with a dull ache that spreads through my chest. The thought twists something inside me and a heavy feeling of guilt causes me to shift on the bench uncomfortably.
His darkened ears, the way his gaze barely met mine, and the care he took to leave me room to say no; it was soft and quiet hope that wasn’t near possessive.
I don’t know what to do with that because I can’t give him what he wants.
Whatever part of me that has been stirred awake isn’t turned toward him, no matter how kind or safe he feels sitting beside me.
I know that with a certainty that doesn’t feel fair and that realization hurts more than I expect.
I try to imagine saying yes to dating him, to feel his hand brushing mine with intimacy but my thoughts betray me, slipping to darker eyes and a presence that unsettles rather than soothes.
I hate myself a little for that. I hate that being seen too sharply feels more real than being treated with care.
I rub my face, frustrated and ashamed.
I know when that moment comes I’ll be walking a line of honesty and harm, hoping I don’t wound someone I truly love and who was my first real friend.
Some feelings announce themselves while others arrive quietly, leaving the deepest damage behind. My gaze refocuses on the flower in front of me. The garden remains quiet and doesn’t judge what it’s seen today.