We release it back into the water, our laughter mingling.
Packing up, he teases, “We should get back before dark, or someone’s going to break a leg in the forest again.”
Halfway through the forest, just as the path opens onto the casting grounds, he stops and tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “Arwen… wait,” he says, voice low but steady. Eyes on me, serious. “I get it. Guard up, all of that. I’m fine with… whatever. Friend dates, slow pace, whatever it takes.” He swallows, like the words are heavier than he planned. “But—before we… go back out there… can I?”
He leans closer, and my chest flips before my brain can even think. I nod, trying not to sound as breathless as I feel. His lips brush mine—light at first, teasing—but then deepening, pulling air out of my lungs. His hands frame my face, warm and solid, and I let myself melt just enough to forget the world for a heartbeat that stretches on forever as his lips softly touch mine.
Pulling back, he smirks, playful again. “Good night, Arwen.”
Walking toward the Wrath dorms, my smile impossible to hide. But inside, my bonds stir. I don’t know if they’re upset by the kiss, or if they can sense something shifting in me—but it can’t stop the grin on my face.
23
Thou Shalt Not Swing Blind
Arwen
Ispread my books out across the long oak table, determined to make the most of the quiet. The library smells like old parchment and dust, which should be comforting. It isn’t. My brain keeps wandering to places it shouldn’t—certain faces, certain bonds I’m pretending don’t exist.
I stack my books and convince myself that studying is possible.
The universe disagrees.
Of course, Atticus Willshire, golden boy himself, walks in. Pressed uniform and hair that probably cost more in product than my entire wardrobe. He walks right up to the table in front of mine, acting like the entire library is one giant throne room built just for him.
He doesn’t even look at me as he pulls the chair out, its legs scraping across the floor. Trailing right behind him is the same girl I saw him fencing with last week. She lowers herself down beside him, like she’s auditioning to be his crown jewel.
They settle directly across from me… out of every table in this library.
My stomach drops, then flips. I force my gaze back to my notes.
I don’t exist. They don’t exist.
“Atticus,” she purrs, leaning far too close for someone interested in school notes, “you didn’t tell me you were this good with translations.”
“There’s more to me than you think. You might be surprised at what I can do… if I choose to show you.”
I can hear his smile and flirty tone. He knows I’m here. He knows I’m listening.
I grit my teeth, eyes locked on my text, rereading the same damn line three times. The words blur into nonsense.
She twirls her pen like it’s a strand of hair. “Oh? Care to show me?”
He chuckles, low and smooth. “Depends. Some demonstrations are… better in private.”
Her laugh rings out, just a little too loud for the hushed quiet of the library. Heads turn. My jaw clenches.
I slam my book shut, the sound cracking through the silence. Atticus glances at me—just for a fraction of a second—like he knew how close I was to snapping. Then his attention flicks back to his study date, as if I’m air.
Fine. Two can play invisible.
I slide my notebook into my bag, slow and deliberate. My pulse is buzzing, hot, crawling under my skin. Studying here is impossible. But sparring? That I can do. I deserve to throw something sharp after surviving this circus. And my mid-term grades were impressive, so I can afford a break from studying.
I tug out my phone, thumbs flying.
Group Chat
Me: Studying is a lost cause. Who’s up for sparring?
