He doesn’t say anything for a beat, but the way his gaze burns like liquid emerald sears me from the inside out.
The chill from his hands sends a spray of goose bumps scattering across my arms. “You’re cold,Sutton,” I purr, shifting to wrap my fingers around his. “Let me warm you up.”
Before I can, he releases me and stalks around to the other side of his desk. He snatches a stapled packet from the filing cabinet, tossing it onto the wood surface between us.
“There’s your syllabus,” he states, entirely devoid of emotion. That mask of his slides right back into place, shutting me out. “Now leave. I can’t keep you from taking the course, but I can damn sure have you removed from my office if need be.”
10
SUTTON
“Have you made a decision yet?”
Jean-Louis’s voice is a constant fucking pain in the back of my skull, but especially so when he feels well enough to call me at school. Normally, I screen his attempts to reach me on my cell, but the office landline is a different story.
Only faculty have the number—or so I thought.
I would hang up, but I suspect he might make his way to campus, and I don’t feel like dealing with him right now.
Anything a founding family member touches ends up stained with blood. There’s no getting around that fact—it’s as much a curse on this town as Cronus Anderson’s descendants.
Something pinches in my chest, and I glance at the student files spread across my desk.
Quincy, Asher, and Noelle Anderson.
The three descendants are on campus together at the same time, just like the curse warns.
I wonder if Jean-Louis knows about that, but I don’t ask. Frankly, I’m trying to forget about it—and the hazel-eyed seductress—entirely.
She’s a theater major, which is unsurprising, but her file is also stuffed full of glowing recommendations from her community troupe back in Los Angeles and several Grandeur Playhouse directors. Her roster of speaking parts is admirable enough, and she aced each of Avernia’s entrance exams.
On paper, she’s an exemplary student and actress, willing and eager to learn the craft, but at a certain point, her résumé just…stops.
About nine months ago, her work vanishes, and it appears she did nothing in the time since before coming here, which I find interesting.
It’s not typical for an actor to just abandon their love for the stage out of nowhere, especially when it seems as though things are poised to take off.
I suppose she could’ve been preparing to enroll at our university, but the question ofwhystill remains.
Even though I know I shouldn’t, I find myself tucking her file in my desk drawer and stacking the others.
Bellamy’s sits on the very top, though I’m not sure why I grabbed it from the archive building. Staring at it now with Jean-Louis droning on in my ear makes me tense, discomfort weaving through my muscles.
“Sutton.” Jean-Louis’s tone is weary, and he lets out a cough, his irritation evident. “Are you listening to me?”
“No.”
I can practically hear his teeth grind. “Your insubordination is going to get you into some deep shit. Ask that twin of yours how it worked out for her.”
Leaning back in my office chair, I prop my hands behind my head and stare at the ceiling. A part of me wants to snap at him for bringing her up at all, but I don’t. In some ways, he’s right—Bellamy’s dissent from council and founder business made her a target, and I didn’t realize it in time to save her.
If I push back too much now, it endangers Beckett. There’s no telling what our father would do at this point.
A dying man has very little to lose.
“A decision about what?” I ask finally, even though I’m fully aware of what he’s referencing.
It’s the same fucking thing he’s asked every year since Bellamy’s death: a request to fully step into the role Death’s Teeth forced me into.
