Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
T he campus was wonderfully deserted; everyone else was at another party. The night air lifted the loose strands of her hair as she glanced over her shoulder. The sprawling grounds were empty, save for the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze.
A week had passed since her last encounter with Professor Ross, and she was no closer to uncovering what else he was hiding.
He kept promising “all would be revealed at the right time.” Cryptic bullshit.
She needed answers now—especially with her first trial approaching.
If he wouldn’t give them to her, she’d find them herself.
Once again, she headed toward the library, her best hope for discovering whatever secrets he was keeping from her. The gravel crunched beneath her boots.
“ Why do you insist on walking the grounds alone at night ?” Solflara questioned down the bond.
“ You know why .” Alaire shrugged at the night sky.
“ Stubborn woman .”
“ I’ll be safe. No one would bother to mess with me .”
“ Except half the academy , who wouldn’t mind if you ceased to breathe .”
“ And risk the wrath of my phoenix ? They’d be fools .”
“ Be careful ,” Solflara warned.
Alaire practiced raising and lowering her shields as she walked.
The more she practiced, the easier it became to control the wall of flames around her mind, to fortify them, and to let them fall.
It gave her something to focus on—something to keep her from sinking into the melancholy and frustration weighing on her.
Her stomach grumbled, but the thought of food made her nauseous. Guilt twisted in her chest as she thought of the roasted meat and potatoes she’d left untouched at dinner, while people in Starling Gate went hungry. The weight of her nonexistent crown pressed heavily tonight.
Left. Elodie’s broken body.
Right. No magic. Politics. The Consortium. Vampires.
Straight. Training. Queen of Nothing.
Pivot. Part of two worlds, belonging to none.
Seeking solitude, she unbraided the bond, severing her connection with Solflara. She didn’t want to hear anyone else’s thoughts—not tonight.
The acrid scents of her nightmare clung to her senses: singed hair, burning flesh, sulfur—as if the rancor had followed her into the waking world. She dug her nails into the worn cuffs of her leathers, grounding herself against the memory’s pull.
Something unusual caught her eye as she followed a familiar path. The grass was singed at the base of a row of scarlet hedges. Her steps quickened, curiosity overriding the unease prickling down her neck.
The markings looked like geometric shapes connected by disjointed lines. A thin layer of shadow seeped from them as they writhed and shifted, trying to join together. When she blinked, they were gone.
She crouched, studying the arrangement and memorizing every detail. They weren’t anything she recognized from her Sigils and Ancient Runes class, which only made them more intriguing.
Vindication swept through her. She didn’t know what this was, but her instincts screamed it mattered.
Her hand reached out, fingertips hovering above the spot. No pull in her chest, just an inherent knowing that this was wrong .
She jerked back, straightening as a prickle of awareness slid up her spine. She spun around, fists raised.
Stepping out of the shadows came the fae who’d become the bane of her existence: Dawson Knox.
Moonlight cut across him in stark angles, dark leather molded over a body honed for battle.
Daggers glinted at his sides, a broadsword strapped to his back.
His raven hair was pulled back, leaving nothing to soften the edges of his sharp, arrogant face.
He looked like a fallen god come to exact vengeance.
Alaire’s mouth went dry. Fury swelled, masking the way her pulse betrayed her.
“Do you make a habit of wandering alone at night?” Dawson drawled.
He’d been gone for days—weeks. No word, no explanation. And now, this? After everything that had happened in the forest. After she’d foolishly started to think there might be more to him. Her anger turned inward, a tempest of self-reproach.
She planted her hands on her hips, eyes darting over the infuriating perfection of his face. “Do you make a habit of lurking in the shadows like some creepy stalker?”
Dawson’s lips quirked in that half-smirk that made her want to set him on fire. “Bad decisions seem to be your specialty, don’t they, queen?”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.
“Why not? It’s who you are. Royal lineage. Fire in your blood.” His gaze flicked to her lips before snapping back up. “Though you seem determined to deny it.”
How dare he.
“Prince”—she stepped forward, her voice dipping to a conspiratorial whisper—“do you need a reminder on how to address royalty? Here’s a hint—it starts with bending the knee.”
His smirk vanished, replaced by an intensity that sent her heart into overdrive. He stepped closer, the air between them turning volatile. “When I bend the knee for my queen,” he murmured, a dark promise in his voice, “she’ll never doubt my devotion for a second.”
His words seared through her like lightning, but Alaire clung to her anger, feeding it like kindling to a blaze. She needed the reminder of who Dawson Knox was: arrogant, calculating, dangerous.
“What are you doing skulking around at this hour? Shouldn’t you be off attending to your duties?”
His brows drew together a fraction, the muscle in his jaw ticking—a rare crack in his composure. Finally, her arrow struck true.
“Careful, Firework,” he said. “That sharp tongue of yours will get you into trouble someday.”
“Promises, promises.” She leaned in, catching the sharp tang of frosted evergreen and salted wind. “What’s wrong? Did I hit a nerve?”
His pupils blew wide. “You have no idea what you’re playing with.”
“Then enlighten me.” She tilted her head, studying the shift of muscle in his forearms as he clenched his fists.
They were inches apart now, her fury igniting. Rage clouded every thought. No one else could provoke her like this, strip her bare with a single look, peel away her defenses to examine the part of her she fought to keep hidden.
Dawson’s nostrils flared. “What is happening outside this campus is far more important than your petty remarks and unchecked rage.”
Alaire jabbed a finger into his chest, her voice breaking under the weight of her anger. “Do not dare lecture me. Have you ever wondered where your next meal was coming from? Slept with one eye open, hoping you’d make it through the night?”
Something flickered across his face—an emotion she couldn’t name—before it vanished behind his mask of indifference.
She curled her hands into fists. How dare he preach about suffering? “Do you even know what humans have had to endure at the hands of the fae? What they’ve been forced to sacrifice?”
“Enough,” Dawson snapped.
Her chest heaved. She thought of every conversation he’d dismissed, every truth he’d brushed aside. “You’re just another useless fae who only cares about yourself, your magic, and your power. You’re incapable of real empathy.”
His aquamarine eyes turned to ice, then flared hot.
“If you hate me so much,” Dawson said, hooking his fingers into her leathers, “then do something about it.”
The gauntlet he’d thrown was irresistible. She ripped a dagger from his belt in one fluid motion and pressed the blade to the hollow of his throat.
Dawson didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. He leaned in.
“But make it count, Alaire—because you won’t get another chance.”
His voice dropped, rough with heat.
“Unless it’s with you on your knees… begging so sweetly, like a good girl.”
Fire exploded through her, rage and desire barreling together so fiercely she couldn’t tell them apart. The dagger bit into his skin, just enough to draw a thin line of blood.
For a brief moment, she considered it. Logic drowned beneath the roaring in her ears, swallowed by the primal demand for blood and justice.
Capitalizing on her hesitation, Dawson moved—smooth, effortless. In one motion he disarmed her, slipped the dagger into his belt, and swept her legs out from under her. She hit the ground hard, biting out a curse, her pride taking the brunt of the blow.
Dawson smirked, victorious and maddening. The cocky asshole.
She sprang back up, eager to even the score, but he was always a step ahead. He didn’t just block her moves—he anticipated them, shifting just enough to redirect her force without touching.
Infuriating. And impressive. Not that she’d ever admit it.
“You’re talented and trained,” Dawson said, his smirk dripping with condescension. “But your temper works against you. You’ve got a lot to learn in combat.” He dipped his head, murmuring in her ear, “Amongst other things.”
Her breath hitched, heat blooming in her face as she turned her back, brushing dust from her leathers. When she faced him again, their eyes locked.
The anger roaring in her chest simmered, pushed aside by something she refused to name.
Dawson tilted his head, turquoise eyes glittering. He closed the distance with predatory grace, every step deliberate. “Your heart, Alaire,” he rumbled, “is beating so fast and loud, I can hear it. You should work on controlling that. Unless, of course, it’s beating for me.”
She froze, her pulse a deceitful drum in her ears.
“But don’t worry,” he added with a wink, stepping back, “we’ll work on that too.”
“Pardon?”
“Glad to know you have manners somewhere in there, Vallorian. We’ll start with sparring at dawn. The Crux. Don’t be late.”
“Training with you?” She balked.
Fucking fuck.
“Professor’s orders, partner,” he said, already sauntering away. “And leave that attitude at the door, or I’ll have you on your back again.”
Dawson Fucking Knox.