***
Faction history feels like walking into a trap. “You know the nightmare where you show up to class naked?” I ask Chloe as we get closer to the classroom. “Yeah…” she says.
“Well, this is like that, but instead of being naked, I was wearing a slutty schoolgirl outfit and trying to seduce my professor. Oh! And it wasn’t a dream.”
She hugs my shoulder in solidarity as we walk in. I expected to feel my cheeks heat from embarrassment, but I was not expecting the way his eyes found mine as soon as I walked in the door. And...his stare lingers. His eyes look heated and angry. Conflicting emotions.
I break eye contact first. Remembering his rough voice as it told me to stay away. He’s probably still angry from that interaction and aghast that I’d show my face in his class again.
I keep my head down, reading the words in my book as I count the second until this class is over. I’m the first out the door when the bell rings.
The day slithers by in classes and forced smiles. When the final bell rings, I force myself to stand. Sleep deprivation is catching up with me, but I don’t have time for a nap.
Gathering my things, the trek back to my dorm feels heavier than it should. Words refuse to form, drained by the day, but fury spikes the moment Ryker struts into view, that insufferable cocky grin plastered across his face. What makes it worse is my fated bond Alexi at his side. I guess his warnings make a little more sense. Every sob story I swallowed suddenly tastes like poison. Nothing he said feels real anymore—if it ever was.
“Whoa, princess,” he says, walking up to me. “Why do you look like you’re going to eat me alive?” He looks at me with concern as he goes to put his arm around. I dodge it and elbow into his gut as I spin out of reach. He doubles over as the breath goes out of him, staring at me with annoyance and confusion. Everyone around us stops to watch the show.
“Ryker, I’ve decided I’m tired of… Being. In. Your. Pocket.” I spit the words I overheard him say back at him as his eyes widen. “You should leave me the hell alone. Give my regards to your father. It sounds like Atticus isn’t the only pathetic puppet on Council strings.”
"What are you talking about?" He starts with an anxious look around.
"Just leave her alone, Ryker." Alexi responds, surprising me but not so much that I'm going to hang around to figure where this sudden protectiveness came from.
He looks at Alexi stunned as I turn and walk away. For once, people move out of my way.
I make it back to the dorm to change only to find the mirror in my room fogged. Someone has written in the condensation: I’m not ready for you to blow over yet, stormcloud. The handwriting has a jagged loop at the end.Maylo has been in here again.
“Is there no privacy?” I mutter to myself as I use my sleeve to wipe the words away.
“How is he getting in here?” I mutter. I lock the window, even though we are three stories up. The universe has gifted me the most psychotic bond in existence on top of all the other shit it has dumped on my plate. Clearly, he also knows of my attempted escape. Fantastic.
The courtyard is mercifully empty, as usual, when I arrive. My quiet place, where I used to stretch out, relax and pretend to be normal. Atticus stretches out on my bench in the sun. He sits up as I approach.
“I see why you like this spot,” he says.
“It is a pleasant spot when impending doom isn’t crowding my space,” I reply, sitting next to him.
He breathes in, and there’s a tilt to him—serious, careful. Like he’s weighing something in his mind. “I need to tell you about my ability,” he says. “It’s kind of necessary to explain my plan.”
I swallow. “Okay. I have to admit, I’ve been curious. You don’t show it off like some others.”
“Those with elevated powers won’t make a show of using them. A power no one is prepared for is more effective.” He says, staring at the ground before continuing.
He hesitates, jaw flexing like he’s weighing every word. “My power… it lets me sense people. I can pick up on someone’s tilt. What they’re leaning toward, what emotion is pulling at them, what outcome their instincts are reaching for. It comes through as impressions, images sometimes, or just a… pull.”
My stomach knots. “So you can read minds?”
“Not their thoughts—don’t look at me like that.” His mouth twitches, almost a smile.
"It’s the shift in a person—their intention, their momentum. I read the sway of someone’s choices, not the thoughts themselves.”
He goes quiet for a beat, and something cautious shadows his features. “There’s another part,” he says finally. “A stronger part. Only my father knows about it.”
The air tightens between us.
“When I’m connected to someone—when I can feel that tilt—I can… shove it. Just a little.” His voice drops. “I can redirect someone’s will. Not mind-reading. Not puppeteering. More like catching a thought mid-fall and turning it in another direction.”
His throat works. “It’s dangerous. And I hate using it.”
