My pulse ticks faster, but I show nothing. I keep my chin at the right angle, lips closed, hand loose on my stylus. The professor, a thin reed of a man named Dr. Moffat, drones on about invasive root systems.
The only people more scared of Bam than the students are the faculty. I can tell by the way Moffat avoids the left side of the room, how he moves only in the safe lanes, how he never calls on me unless absolutely required. I suppose it’s meant to be an honor, to be so feared, but it feels like a straitjacket.
I open the digital syllabus, flip through the next four weeks. I could teach this class. Half these plants are genetically altered, the rest simply more ruthless than their native cousins.
In the row ahead, a girl someone called Tammy, fidgets with her phone, trying to angle the camera without being caught. I catch her eye in the reflection on my tablet, and she drops the phone, face flushing.
She wants to say something, maybe an apology, but then her gaze flicks over my shoulder and the words die. I don’t have to look to know why. When I check again, Bam is gone. The door he’d been guarding is still swinging, just a hair. He left as silently as he came.
I stare at the moving door and let the breath out slow.
After class, I walk the main hall, heading towards my wing. Every step echoes. The other students give me distance, some watching, some pretending not to. At the junction, a few second-years blocks the exit, two boys and a girl. They talk loud enough for my benefit:
“I bet she’s packing,” one says. “You can tell by the walk.”
“The walk? No, she’s just a bitch,” the girl says.
“Shut up, she’s right behind you,” hisses the other boy.
They turn. They want me to flinch, or at least fluster. Instead, I take three slow steps and pause, just close enough to be uncomfortable.
“If you have questions for me,” I say, “perhaps ask directly, instead of performing for each other.”
The girl’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. The taller boy drops his textbook. The third just stares at his shoes.
“Sorry, we were just—” he tries.
“Practicing your English?” I finish for him. “I suggest you keep rehearsing.”
I pivot, intent on leaving them to their embarrassment, but the corridor behind me is now full of a different gravity. I sense it before I see it—the pressure change, the oxygen sucked out by a force I recognize instantly.
Bam stands with his back to the windows, hands in his pockets, head tilted. He’s smiling, just a little. The kind of smile you see in a dog seconds before it bites.
No one else moves. No one else even breathes.
I keep my eyes on him as I approach, refusing to drop my gaze. His stare is heavier than anything I’ve ever worn, even theexpectation of my father. I see the challenge in it, and I feel my body responding—a rush of heat up my neck, a tightening in my chest.
“Lost?” his voice is so deep I almost balk. It makes me think things I’d rather not.
“Not today,” I answer. “Are you here to threaten me, or simply to enjoy the view?”
He laughs, short and sharp. “You think you’re safe here?”
I tip my head. “Safer than you are.”
He leans forward, invading my space, close enough to smell his sweat and the iron tang of blood. “You’re not safe from me,” he says, soft enough for only me to hear. “You’re not even safe from yourself.”
The threat is a promise. I feel it in my bones, settling in and making a home in my body. There’s no point in answering. Instead, I step around him, slow and controlled, letting my shoulder brush his as I pass. He’s hot as a furnace, body tight and tense.
He doesn’t turn, not right away. Only when I’m down the hall do I look back. He’s still there, hands in pockets, head cocked, watching.
I keep walking. If I run, I lose. If I show weakness, it’s over.
When I reach the dorms, I realize I’ve been holding my breath the whole way.
That night, I get an encrypted message from home. Three words only:
STATUS. SAFETY. HUNT.
