I’m not scared of people, not in the slightest. But I have too much riding on this stupid task to have it fail on me. I have been told on occasion that I’m not a likeable person, I am inappropriate, pushy and a little bit too aggressive. That’s why the best place for me was in the gym learning to fight. No talking, just taking all my frustration and anger out on my opponent or the bag. Not that it made much of a difference, no matter how good I became I still froze when it came to facing my father. AndHim.
I wonder if they have a bag in the gym I can use. I have spent little to no time in one since that night, and I miss it.
I remind myself to go explore after my first class that I am an hour early for.
Father signed me up for English Literature but with this being an academy for posh twats, there are other compulsory classes I have to attend. One of them being something to do with politics.
Just before I reach the right wing, the rich, unmistakable scent of freshly brewed coffee brings me to a dead stop. I breathe it in like salvation, eyes closing for a moment as I let it guide me. A silent thank you is sent to the stars, perhaps they’ve decided I’ve suffered enough for one morning.
Following the scent, I round a corner and find myself in a smaller annex off the dining hall, where a gleaming coffee bar stands like an altar.My forgotten travel mug, left behind in the chaos of my father practically hurling me out the door, is suddenly not the tragedy it felt like. I hadn’t planned on facing another soul this morning, certainly not while trying to pour coffee in the shared kitchen, but this… this is divine intervention.
A man in a white apron gives me a wordless nod as he places the last of the stainless-steel vats on the long table. Without fuss, he turns and exits, leaving the space eerily quiet.
I wedge the apple I’d been holding between my teeth and reach for an oversized to-go cup, the waxy paper warm in my hand. The lid snaps on with a satisfying click, and that’s when I freeze.
The doors at my back creak open, slow and deliberate, the sound of air rushing through the room as if someone had opened a crypt. A strand of hair falls from my shoulder, carried by the subtle draft.
Then, a scent drifts in, sharp eucalyptus, clean Tea tree, and beneath it, the clinging bite of cigarettes. My fingers tighten around the cup. Whoever just entered, they bring with them a chill that has nothing to do with the weather.
I stand unmoving as the person comes up behind me. A large male hand reaches past my own to grab a cup and I notice tattoo’s peeking out from his crisp white shirt cuff. His hand sends a shiver up my spine, not soft and manicured like I would expect from the men here, but rough, thick and large.
When I look up to the owner my breath catches in my throat.
His piercing eyes hold mine captive, two different colours pulling me in. One, a brown so dark it nearly drinks in the light; the other, a vivid green like grass freshly washed by rain. I lose myself in their depths, caught between awe and something more fragile. His face is striking, a strong jaw dusted with faint stubble, lips full and soft, marked by a tiny scar near the corner, a scar I’m almost compelled to trace with myfingertip. Above those furrowed brows, a mop of brown hair falls in tousled waves, streaked with a darker brown that lends a touch of careless wildness, a quiet rebellion against the sharp precision of the rest of him. He stands tall and broad, his black suit moulding perfectly to his frame. The only sign that he belongs to the Academy is the tartan blue tie around his neck, its crest worn like a quiet badge of honour.
“Always with something in your mouth, hmm?” his deep voice is familiar.
Deep like whiskey.
No way.
My hooded stranger.
I shake my head, then I realize I still have the half-bitten apple in my mouth from where I had to keep it while my hands were busy with my coffee.
He chuckles and it sends a bolt of lightning to my stomach.
I quickly grab the apple and throw it in the bin next to me before wiping the remnants of it off my lips with the back of my hand.
“That’s an interesting take on the uniform,” he says as he fills his cup with the tangy nectar.
I scan my outfit and shrug before glancing back up to meet his eyes that are solely focused on me now. I can almost feel them like a feather light touch as they trace over my face like I had just done to him. I can’t tell if the fire I see behind them is due to desire or hate, with how hard he is clenching his jaw, it could be either.
“Do you speak English?”
“What?” My voice sounding a little too breathless for my liking.
“English. Do you speak it. Other than just the word ‘what’,”
“Yes, I speak English,” I furrow my own brows at his clipped tone, annoyance building equal to the interest that brews. My phone buzzeswith the class reminder. I have too much to do, adding another boytoy into the mix is a bad idea. Without a word I spin on my heels and head for the door.
Unfortunately, the stranger doesn’t get the hint and follows closely behind me.
“Well, that was rude,” He chuckles as I refuse to look his way, but with the length of his legs he catches up easily and walks with me down the corridor towards Lecture Hall C.
“I don’t care,” I reply. Then I shake my head at the reminder I have to try and make friends. Whoever this man is, he might have information on Marlowe. Information I need to gain my freedom.
I pause my pace and take a deep breath.
