I slip into my next class just as the door seals behind me, my pulse still thundering from the morning’s disaster parade. And of course—because the universe loves to kick me while I’m down—it’s Lust Sin Training.. Why not throw gasoline on a bonfire?
The classroom looks like a theatre, which at least makes me feel less out of place in the stands than usual with the other classes. Lustfreshmen take turns acting out the scenarios the professor calls out, practicing their powers of charm and persuasion. The whole thing is ridiculous — half serious, half absurd — like some badly directed play.
It’s clear that this program for Lust Sin Training is just as poorly funded as the Wrath program. Makes sense considering the Lust Faction is also pretty low on the totem pole as I’ve gathered from my classes here. They have little to no resources, like Wrath, but a useful skill.
I snap to attention as Alexi takes the stage, and I freeze in place despite myself. This is the only place that I ever see him, even though I can feel the constant thrum of his bond inside me. He hasn’t acknowledged me since that… incident. But my bond isn’t listening to reason today, and I can’t help the pull I feel toward him. It’s like someone turned the dial up on every instinct I’m supposed to ignore.
My eyes rake over him, taking in every detail. His curly golden hair falls over his forehead, and his green eyes look impossibly bright in this lighting.
He laughs at something his friend says, and I see those dimples of his that could melt the coldest hearts.
For this first time in this class, his gaze jerks to mine.
I dart my eyes away and groan. “Get yourself in control, bonds,” I mutter, pressing my palms to my temples. My body is rebelling, and I have zero power over it today.
The bell jolts me out of my stupor. Thank goodness. End of class. I shove my notebook into my bag, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
And then… my phone pings.
I frown. That’s odd. I haven’t heard from Dean Bellows in months. Her words crawl across the screen: a request for me to come to her office. Immediately.
A heavy, suffocating dread settles over me, pressing against my chest, blocking out the light. My stomach flips, my pulse quickens. Of course. Just when things go a little more smoothly… the universe decides I need a reality check.
I sling my bag over my shoulder, forcing my legs to move even though every instinct is screaming at me to curl up somewhere and hide. My feet crunch across the polished hallway floor, each step echoing in the near-empty corridors. The halls feel colder today, or maybe it’s just the weight in my chest.
I try to shake it off, telling myself it’s just a meeting. Nothing more. And yet… my bond thrums like a live wire against my ribs, a constant reminder of last night, of Ryker, of everything I don’t want to think about right now. I shove my hands into my pockets, fingers brushing the bead Brix gave me, drawing slight comfort from its familiar weight.
The office doors come into view, Dean Bellows’ stern nameplate gleaming under the soft glow of the hallway lights. I take a deep breath and remind myself to act normal. Casual. Friendly, maybe. Nothing like the jittery, almost-panicked version of me that just survived three unfinished bond encounters.
I knock. “Dean? You asked for me?”
A pause. Then the door swings open, and she’s there, looking sharp in her tailored suit, arms crossed, expression neutral—but I can feel the undercurrent of something tense behind it. My stomach twists.
“Arwen,” she says, voice steady but not warm. “Come in. Sit. We need to talk.”
I step inside, closing the door behind me and swallowing hard. Sunlight filters in through the tall windows, throwing golden lines across the floor, but it does nothing to lighten the heavy knot in my chest.
My stomach twists even before the door clicks shut behind me. She’s seated behind her desk, with papers stacked in one corner, the soft glow of the lamp illuminating her face. She looks… worried. Concerned. Like she’s carrying some of my burden herself.
I move to sit opposite her desk and lay my bag on the floor.
“We’re midway through the term now. The Councilors have asked for an update on your progress. How are things going?”
I force a smile. “I’m… doing well in my classes,” I murmur. My words feel hollow even to me. I’ve thrown myself into every lecture, every exercise, every lesson, but it has changed nothing.
Dean Bellows leans forward, her elbows resting on the desk. “And your sin power?” Her tone is gentle, but there’s an edge of urgency underneath. “Any… flickers? Any signs that it’s beginning to show itself?”
I swallow hard. My throat feels thick. “N-no,” I admit. Shame curls in my chest like a living thing. I’ve done everything I can, and it’s still… nothing. “There’s no change.”
Her expression falters. I glimpse something behind her eyes—sadness, frustration. “Arwen…” she says softly. “I’ve done everything I can to keep you here. I’ve fought to give you time, guidance, support. But the Councilors… they’ll insist on your exile if you do not develop a power by the end of term.”
My throat tightens. I want to tell her about the bonds, about everything I feel—but Ican’t.
“Is there… anything else?” she asks, her voice almost pleading.
I shake my head hard, blinking fast before anything embarrassing can escape. “Yeah. I get it,” I manage, the words scraping out tighter than I want. My legs feel heavy when I push myself to stand, but I keep my face smooth. No cracks. I force myself toward the door.
The door clicks shut behind me, and everything caves in at once. My bonds spike like live wires under my skin, a hot, frantic thrumming that knocks the air right out of my lungs. I brace a hand against the wall, dragging in a breath that won’t settle, won’t stick.
