The boy shakes his head. Chocolate brown hair shifting side to side.
The old man lowers his head to make eye contact with me above his small, round bifocals that are slipping to the tip of his pink nose.
“Sit down, madame. Now,” he orders.
You don’t have to tell me twice. I drop myself down to a comfortable leather reading chair directly in front of the young man.
“If you want to move on to the next step in your education, then you must be cooperative.” The elderly man grips his own knees with red, flaky hands, inclining forward to invade the boy’s personal space. “I am not a fan of this rebellious behavior. I can tell you that right now.”
My heartbeat picks up speed as I begin to suspect who I’ve been drawn to in the past.
The young man remains hunched, ankles crossed, and allowing this old man to speak to him so callously.
“Shall I ask Mr. Demechnef to make another visit?”
The teenager sits quietly a moment longer, then looks up at me. Those striking, yet toasty warm brown eyes split into me like a throwing axe.
Oh god, it’s him.
“Hello,” he greets. Voice a little lighter and less frightening than the last time I heard it. Smooth as cashmere.
“Hi.”
“Good. Enjoy.” The old man bobs his head contentedly and stomps out of the library.
I suck in a nervous breath, taking in the heavy scent of parchment and old perfume. Why have they put us in such a glorious space? I thought he was tortured and experimented on during his time within the Demechnef walls? What is this?
“Can you tell me what’s happening?” I ask him, heart hammering in my chest.
“An experiment,” he answers.
I don’t think I have ever seen so much sadness in one expression.
“And what is my part to play in this experiment?”
My young father looks my way, then to the fireplace where he rests his gaze on a dying flame.
“I will not tell you. Not because I am cruel or sadistic. But because knowing will cause you so much stress, my heart can’t take it. And if you try to run, it will only get worse.”
I take in his white shirt, gray pants, and suspenders. And based on the way he carries himself, it’s not Dessin.
“That’s fair. Though I won’t panic—I respect your decision,” I tell him kindly.
He stares me down now, lifting an eyebrow and studying my posture with curious, suspicious glances.
“Really? You aren’t going to press for it?”
“Nope.”
He looks positively flabbergasted.
“Now…” I steady myself from the bizarre dizziness rotating my world. “Are you going to tell me your name?”
That small smirk lights my soul. “Kane Valdawell.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Kane. My name is Snow Abatora.”
Kane freezes, shoulders tightening under an invisible weight. He loses focus for a few seconds, gazing off to the side. It’s strange to watch what I can only guess is occurring right now. He is both present and elsewhere all at once. Then, blinking several times, clearing away a thought, he returns to my face with narrowing eyes.
