Chapter 10
ROWAN
Ciaran Virel kissed me last night.
It was the most amazing thing I've ever experienced, and I've already come twice thinking about it.
His mouth was soft, his tongue warm, and I can't stop thinking about the way he kissed me like he already decided I wasn't going anywhere. He makes me want to press in close and stay there, feel his muscles tighten under my palm, listen to his words, nasty and filthy and impossible to forget.
It means nothing. I know that. But my dick is somehow confused, hard and leaking and needing the attention even though I should know better.
I have a scholarship to focus on. A sister to find. A responsibility to myself, to Ma and Pa, to stay out of trouble.
And Ciaran Virel is trouble.
Professor Halvern taps his pointer against the glass cube. "Posture, Rowan."
I straighten on instinct, face heating as I tighten my fingers around the neck of the Noctis. I drag the bow back into place, close my eyes, and let myself sink into the sound of the instrument.
But my body won't catch up with my brain.
Every time I close my hand, I can still feel the hard slide of skin beneath my palm, the heat of his bare chest, the slick damp of water drying over muscle, the way his mouth went from mocking to hungry so fast it made something in me go loose and dangerous.
I should not be thinking about that here. I definitely should not have locked myself in the shower before dawn with my hand wrapped around my cock, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood while I pictured his mouth on mine again.
And I definitely, absolutely, should not be fighting another half-hard reaction in the middle of Professor Halvern's practice session like I've completely lost what little self-preservation I came to this planet with.
The bow catches the string a fraction too sharply, and from outside the glass cube, the professor lifts his hand in a short, impatient correction. "Lighter on the return, Rowan."
"Sorry, sir."
His gaze lingers on me a second longer than necessary before he finally turns his attention to my fellow students, each of them standing in identical glass cubes as they work through the same passage on cello.
The professor doesn't seem to like me much. When the others make mistakes, he corrects them. When I make mistakes, he just watches for a second too long before moving on.
Every time I think it might have something to do with Sola, a cold shiver runs down my spine.
I haven't been back to the library after that weird night. And whoever was, or wasn't, following me hasn't stirred that feeling since, that sense of someone breathing down my neck.
The half-hidden street sign from the photograph keeps surfacing too, the blurred lettering sitting just out of reach no matter how many times I replay the image in my head.
Maybe it was all in my head.
Damaris always says I should be more outgoing. That I should try harder to meet other students I click with, as he puts it. But he doesn't know what it's like to be hunted through the streets. To have someone search your house simply because they believe you have something they want.
So I burned it.
And though they may never have found what they were looking for, they took another part of me. They took my health, and maybe some of my sanity with it.
Maybe I imagined that presence in the library because I'm used to voices in the dark. Used to being watched. Used to assuming people want something from me.
So why do I keep finding my way back to Ciaran? If anyone here is danger in a beautiful body, it's him.
I groan under my breath. So much for concentrating.
I set the bow again and make myself sink into the Noctis instead.
Its sleek dark curve settles between my knees, the heavier lower frame and modified resonance chamber pressing against my sternum as I draw out the next phrase and let the instrument answer me properly this time, low and clean and shimmering at the edges in that strange way only the Noctis does.
For a few blessed seconds, all I have to think about is pressure and release, the tiny adjustments of my hand, the way the sound opens when I stop trying to force it, until Professor Halvern taps his pointer against the glass again. "That's enough for today. Class dismissed."
I finish the final phrase, lower the bow, and force my pulse to settle before setting the Noctis carefully back into its case and latching it shut.
Around me, the other students pack up, barely sparing me a glance as they sling their cellos over their shoulders, already talking to each other on the way out.
I'm just straightening when Professor Halvern, still standing outside the row of practice cubes, crooks two fingers at me. "Rowan. A word, please."
I blink, glancing up as the last of the class filters out past us, and follow him into the corridor when he turns away.
"Next week," he says, folding his hands behind his back as if this is the most ordinary conversation in the world, "I'm organizing the Caervast legacy reception.
It's a private evening for donors, trustees, select families and senior faculty, and the conservatory will be presenting a small performance. "
"Okay… sir?" I say, because I still have no idea why he's telling me this. "That sounds great."
"You'll be performing that night."
I stare at him. "What?"
"You'll receive the formal program packet before dinner," he continues over me without pause. "The dress code will be sent to your multi-slate, and you'll report to the west recital suite an hour before the reception begins."
Something cold slides into my ribs. "Sir, I didn't know I was being considered."
He glances down at his multi-slate as if he's already moved on to the next thing.
"Why not? You're here on one of the rarest scholarship placements this institute has made in over a decade, Mr. Ashford.
Scholarship recipients are often expected to represent the academy.
This should not come as a surprise. Visibility was always part of the arrangement. "
I frown. "Arrangement?"
"The academy doesn't create placements like yours often. When it does, people tend to notice."
Something in the way he says it makes me uneasy. Like the reception existed long before anyone decided I would be playing at it.
"I was told I'd be studying."
One brow lifts. "And you are. Angela Virel will also be performing that evening.
" He turns toward the glass, looking back at the practice room below.
"When I knew her, every conservatory on Sero was convinced she would become the greatest Noctis performer of her generation.
I've known her for a very long time. Since long before you arrived at Caervast."
I hesitate. "Ciaran Virel's mother?"
"And heir to the Virel empire through her own bloodline." His gaze lingers on me. "I believe you've already met Ciaran, yes?"
Heat climbs into my face. "We've crossed paths."
"I thought you might have." Professor Halvern bends to collect the slim black pointer from the ledge beside the gallery window, sliding it neatly into its case before picking up his glasses.
"I'd advise you to consider it an opportunity.
Like I said, the program packet and music selection will be sent before dinner.
It would be wise to prepare the piece carefully and respect the dress code. "
"Thank you, sir," I say, hating how tight my voice sounds.
A room full of legacy families, donors, trustees, and Angela Virel. The reception feels less like a performance and more like something I don't understand.
I don't know if I'll be able to play.
Halvern looks back down at his things, then up again, faintly surprised to still find me there. "You are dismissed, Mr. Ashford. Thank you for your cooperation."
I leave before he can say anything else, pausing once I'm out of view to steady my pulse.
Damaris is probably exactly where he always is this time of day, somewhere between the fabrication terraces and whatever project has swallowed him whole, so I cut through the canteen, grab sandwiches and coffees to go, and head outside, my thoughts still catching on Halvern's words.
If Professor Halvern is hosting, could it be the same kind of event as the one in the photograph? And if it is, could Sola be there too?
I push through the annex doors and out into the cold, cutting across the upper walk and down toward the fabrication terraces, my coffee warming one hand and the paper bag tucked beneath the other arm.
The terraces spill down the side of the science annex in wide black stone steps, each level lined with work tables and half-built projects in various stages of assembly.
Students cluster beneath the pale awnings, bent over tablets, arguing over projections and testing prototypes that flash or spark in brief controlled bursts.
I spot Damaris halfway down the second terrace.
He's kneeling beside a waist-high work stand, dark hair falling into his eyes, sleeves shoved up, one knee braced against the stone while three thin silver filaments hover above his open toolkit.
Delicate strips of metal no longer than my hand, they drift in a slow orbit around a disc-shaped emitter.
When he taps a setting on his slate, they flare blue and shift, angling toward each other like they're listening.
I stop beside him. "What is that?"
Damaris glances up, and his whole face changes when he sees me. "There you are, boo." He flicks a strand of hair out of his eyes with the back of his wrist. "I thought you went straight back."
"Of course not." I hold up the bag. "I got you lunch. And coffee. I didn't know if you'd eaten."
His expression softens. "You're a lifesaver." He takes the coffee first, lifting it for a quick sip before glancing into the bag. The second he spots the sandwich, he grabs it like he hasn't eaten in hours and takes a huge bite.
"Oh, sweet," he says around the mouthful. "You got the smoked chicken."
"You still don't know who gave you the extra credits?"