He jolts like I’ve burned him. His head whips around, eyes blazing.
“Were you just listening to me?” His voice cuts sharp, furious and loud. Louder than I want, because instantly heads lift from their conversations and whispers ripple through the room.
I stumble back a half-step. “No! I—well, yes, but not like that. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. I just came to ask—”
“To what?” His voice snaps, sharp enough to make the air vibrate. He steps closer, and suddenly the space between us is tight, almost crackling. Heat radiates off him, wrapping around me like a warning I can’t ignore.
“What on earth could you possibly have to talk about with me?” His words are knives, meant to slice. He looks around, realizing we have an audience as his face turns red in embarrassment or anger? I couldn’t guess.
“I know they didn’t teach you much in that little slum town you crawled out of, but I’m sure you’ve recognized who I am by now—and where you belong.”
Heat rushes to my face. My stomach twists. Every pair of eyes in the library feels like a weight pressing down on me.
“Atticus—”
“I don’t want to say this again.” His voice cracks, fury fighting something underneath, something I almost catch but it slips away like smoke. “Stay the hell away from me.”
The words hit me, and I stumble back inside, chest jerking like I’ve been punched. Not just my composure, but the unfinished thread between us. The bond. It cracks like brittle concrete under the weight of his words.
This isn’t me. I should say something—spit fire back at him, slice him down with the truth, call out the coward hiding behind his father’s shadow. I’m not some fragile nobody he gets to dismiss. A Wrath should rise and rally, not sit here swallowing the heat.
But I don’t. I can’t. My throat locks; my tongue is useless. I just stand there, rooted in place, shame burning through me while he turns away as if I’m nothing.
The shame turns into something else. Heat coils in my chest, tight and hot, like a fist punching up from the inside. My blood drums in my ears. I want to roar, throw something, shove him against a wall—anything to let the fire out before it eats me alive.
Everyone’s staring. Pride’s posse with smug satisfaction and open laughs, the others with wide-eyed shock, pity, embarrassment... I look at my table and see Brix stand up, fists clinched, anger in his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak.
As smooth as a blade sliding free of its sheath, another voice cuts through. Not from Brix, but behind me.
“Well, well. Pride’s golden boy showing off again. Tell me, Atticus, is breaking girls in public the new family pastime, or are you just making up for other… shortcomings?”
The crowd shifts like water, parting before him as he approaches my side. Ryker Blaise. Of course. He leans casually against the edge of the coffee station, arms crossed, green eyes glittering, grin sharp enough to slice. He doesn’t even look at me; his gaze locks on Atticus, lazy and mocking.
Atticus bristles, jaw tightening as he turns back around to face us. “This is none of your business, Ryker.”
Ryker tilts his head, feigning thought. “Funny thing, Willshire — you act like you run the room, control everyone’s moves, but everyone knows you’re still on Daddy’s leash. Must be exhausting... always waiting for his orders. See, that’s where you and I differ. No one pulls my strings, and I’ll make whatever I please my business.”
A hush falls over the cafeteria. Heads crane, eyes flicking between us, as if watching two predators circle. Even the boldest Wrath kids avert their gaze, unwilling to get caught in the crossfire. I can feel their unease, the way they shift on their feet, mutter under their breath. No one wants to get caught in the crosshairs of two of the most powerful students in SinVail.
Ryker looks at me then, and his whole stance shifts. Not soft, Ryker Blaise doesn’t do soft, but something protective flickers under the smirk. He steps closer, positioning himself between me and Atticus. His hand brushes mine—barely there, a whisper of contact—but enough to steady me. Enough to remind me I’m not alone and my bond feels oddly comforted.
Atticus’ eyes flicker to where our hands touch and for a split second, I swear I see it, hurt and confusion, before he masks it with a tight, practiced sneer. His voice is even but sharp. “Playing White Knight for the sinless? Everyone knows you only care about yourself. This isn’t strength; it’s siding with the weak. But if it’s a game you’re playing, Ryker… I’m not playing it.”
Ryker laughs. A genuine laugh, loud enough to echo. “Ah, there it is. The famous Pride attitude. Always above it all. Careful, Atticus, or it might look like you’re backing down. Not a good look for the perfect heir.” He leans in, lowering his voice just enough that only those closest hear, but I catch every word. “And we both know Daddy hates disappointment.”
Atticus goes rigid, eyes flashing—but he doesn’t strike back. He can’t. Not here. Not with everyone watching and Ryker smiling like the devil himself.
Ryker throws an arm loosely around my shoulders and then, guiding me a step away as if this was his idea all along. He flashes the crowd a smirk. “Show’s over, kids. Back to your burnt toast and whatever passes for excitement in this sad little cafeteria.”
The tension cracks, chatter starting up again as people drift off. But I can still feel Atticus’ stare burning into my back, hot enough to sear.
Ryker leans down, voice brushing my ear, low and smooth. “You alright, princess? Or should I carry you out to rub it in?”
I open my mouth to argue, to put him in his place. I’m not a fucking princess. Not a damsel in distress for him to save. But my words catch in my throat.He’s too close, too smooth, too deliberately infuriating. My bond is thrashing inside me—the part tied to Atticus still having an emotional breakdown and three other steady, but mild pulls. Yetthere’s another part of me, softer but insistent, pulling me toward him, and I can’t ignore it.
“Arwen,” Ryker murmurs, tilting his head, eyes locking with mine, his grin just daring me to defy him. “I’m not asking for a lifetime commitment. I’m not asking for your firstborn. Just… an afternoon. No strings, no deal. Just us. Friends. Can you say no to someone else in your corner?”
My jaw tightens. Friends. His voice is like a firm caress over an aching muscle. Exposing. Warm. Clouding my mind with feelings of relief. And I want to tell him no. I need to tell him no. But the weight of my bond’s tantrum is almost unbearable. It’s clawing at me, and the relief his closeness gives me from the unbearable pain. I catch myself imagining the simplicity of saying yes.
