Chapter 6
ANASTASIA
The hallway is mostly empty, just the echo of my boots against the polished floor as I head toward my dorm. I’ve got my notebook clutched to my chest, the last class of the day still buzzing in my head. All I want is to disappear into my room and breathe for five minutes without anyone watching me.
But of course, he’s there.
Eryx leans against the wall near the stairwell like he’s been waiting, though he looks bored as hell. His tie is loose, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and there’s something about the way he owns the space that makes it impossible not to notice him.
I slow automatically, irritation prickling under my skin. “What?”
His mouth curves, but it’s not kindness, it’s a knife. “You walk like a lost child.”
The words hit like a slap. I clutch my notebook tighter. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He pushes off the wall, closing the space between us with deliberate ease. His gaze drags down—my stride, my grip on the notebook, the way my shoulders tense. “Head down, steps too quick. Like you’re hoping no one sees you.”
Anger surges hot through me. “And why do you care how I walk?”
His eyes flick up to mine, sharp and cold, but there’s something molten buried deep beneath. “I don’t. I care that it makes you look weak. And weak things don’t survive here.”
The hallway feels too narrow, his presence filling it until I can barely breathe. I take a step back, hating that he makes me feel small. “You don’t even know me.”
He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a problem he’s already solved. “I don’t need to. I can smell weakness.” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping. “And yours is loud.”
My chest tightens, humiliation burning up my neck. “Go to hell.”
For a heartbeat, silence. Then his mouth twists, not quite a smile, not quite cruelty. Something in between. He straightens, putting space between us again, but his eyes never leave mine.
“Maybe I’ll see you there, Moya Vorona,” he says, voice smooth and dangerous, before walking past me like I don’t matter.
But I stand frozen long after he’s gone, heart hammering, skin tingling with something I don’t want to name. He’s mean. He’s cruel. He cuts me down without hesitation.
And yet… the worst part is that I feel alive under his gaze.
I take a step forward, wanting to brush past him, but Eryx stops short, pivoting so quick I almost collide with his chest. His arm shoots out, palm flat against the wall beside my head. The move cages me in, his body blocking out the rest of the hallway.
My breath hitches.
“Move,” I snap, though my voice cracks, betraying me.
His eyes narrow, dark and steady. “That’s your problem,” he says, voice low enough that it vibrates in my bones. “You think snapping makes you strong. But all I see is a girl hoping no one notices she’s scared.”
I try to shove him back, but his arm doesn’t budge. It’s like pushing against stone. His nearness burns, every inch of me hyper-aware of how close he is.
“Don’t tell me what I am,” I grit out. I reach into my pocket to pull out my switchblade.
His mouth curves, cruel, though his gaze flickers. Like he’s daring me to push harder. “Then show me. Prove me wrong. Because right now? You’re shaking.”
I press the tip to his neck, but unlike me he doesn’t flinch.
I freeze. Goddamn him for being right. My hand trembles against his neck, against the sheer force of his presence. Anger floods me to cover the humiliation.
He leans closer so that my blade nicks him and a red line appears. Blood falling along the blade and drips on my hand.
“Let me go,” I whisper.
For a long moment, he just stares at me, eyes tracing over every detail of my face like he’s memorizing it. His jaw ticks once. Then, finally, he leans back, lowering his arm but not moving far.
“You won’t survive if you keep pretending, Nastasya,” he says. The name sharp in his mouth, like my blade.
And then he turns, walking down the hall like I never mattered, like he didn’t just split me open with a few words.
I stand there, pressed against the wall, furious and humiliated and—god help me—thrumming with something I can’t shake.
Because under his cruel words, all that cold, cutting sharpness… there’s a pull.
And I hate that it feels like he knows it too.