Cadigan whips his scribe toward the board, and the altered sigils we’ve been working on show up on the dark surface. “I’m only going over this once more. If you don’t grasp it after this lesson, find a tutor. Every junior and senior student here has managed to understand what you cannot. I won’t waste my breath if you’re not going to put in the effort to learn the material.”
I sink low in my seat.
Cadigan may be Ian’s mentor, but the alpha is a terrible professor.
He launches into his lecture, but it’s the same he gave last week when he first covered the material with us. I roll my scribe between my fingers and reach out with my affinity, but the emotions and thoughts of the class bombard me. Alyssa is terrified about failing the class, despite sleepless nights spent practicing, and as I scan the class, their thoughts are all the same.
We’ve all been putting in the effort.
Finally, he breaks from his lecture, and we begin the practical portion of our class. He walks through the rows of worktables, but it’s clear to me that his thoughts are elsewhere.
Too soon. It’s all happening too soon. The timing is impossible.
I do as I did with Ian, trying to dig beyond the anxious thought, trying to find what drives it, but all I can pull from Cadigan is concern about a spell so complicated it makes my head spin.
He raps the edge of my worktable with his scribe, and I startle.
“You aren’t practicing, Miss Rose. Might I ask why? Are you so confident in your abilities? Show me the spell, then.”
I push aside his thoughts, clearing my mind, determined to perform the spell perfectly. I call my magic and guide my intention into each of the sigils, tracing them in the air as precisely as I can. My magic swirls through the sigils, the spell a success.
Cadigan frowns, looking at the glowing sigils. “Barely satisfactory. Has your casting always been this sloppy, Miss Rose? I was led to believe you were a talented mage.”
Ire burns in my cheeks, and I want to protest. I want to point out that my casting is more than satisfactory, but I bite my tongue, jerking my head in a nod.
But his thoughts have nothing to do withmyspellwork.
I must complete the spell. I must show results.
CHAPTER9
Iget little time to puzzle through Professor Cadigan’s mysterious spell before my heat arrives with the first chill of autumn, and my teeth chatter as the fever sets in.
No matter what I do, I can’t get warm.
I’m driven by pure instinct when I swipe a pair of Cassian’s sweatpants out of his laundry basket, by a drive I can’t explain as I tie the drawstring tight around my waist and roll the cuffs so I won’t trip over them. They’re soft and worn, nearly threadbare, but they smell like sunshine.
It’s still not enough to banish the bitter chill that seems to settle in my bones as my hormones spike.
I steal one of Simon’s nerdy screen-printed hoodies, and practically swim in it, and I’m downright furious when my teeth still chatter. Grumbling, I tug on one of Luca’s flannels over the hoodie’s thick sleeves.
I kick at one of my pillows, glowering at the mess of nesting materials. Even with one of Ian’s stolen button-ups woven in amidst my favorite blankets, it’s allwrong.
I can’t settle.
Not with the question of Professor Cadigan’s spell stuck in my thoughts. I want to believe it’s a coincidence, that his results have nothing to do with Rad’s, but I can’t shake the feeling that they’re connected.
And I want to pick at all the threads, untangle the mystery. Truly I do. But the fever brings with it brain fog and aches, irritability and chills.
“There you are, kit-kat. Oh.” Simon takes in the disarray of my nest, turns on his heel and leaves, returning a moment later with the comforter off his and Cassian’s bed. “So, that’s where my favorite hoodie went.”
There’s amusement in his voice—a hint of a tease—and itrankles. I didn’twantto end up in a weird mish-mash of dirty laundry, but it’s instinct. How could Simon even begin to understand an omega’s instincts?
“But Cassian’s sweatpants, huh? Something you want to talk about, Junes?” he teases.
I still haven’t told him about the kiss Cassian and I shared over the weekend when nightmares drove the alpha from their bed. Did Cassian tell Simon? Is that why the beta is teasing me? It stings. Saints above, does it sting. So what if I’m wearing Cassian’s clothes? So what if I’m tempted to invite my sunshine alpha into my nest for my heat, despite the hesitation I still hold in my heart? So what if I remember the feeling of his teeth against my neck with a clarity that makes meache?
Simon steps forward and tugs me close by the drawstring of Cassian’s sweatpants, a mischievous smile on his lips, and I shove at him ineffectually.
