Only interest.
A faint tilt of his head carries an unmistakable air of amusement, as if he has been waiting for me to realize he’s not just watching, he’s studying. Taunting me with his ability to stand in the darkened classroom of Vireldan Academy without so much as lifting a wand.
My pulse stumbles, traitorous and loud enough that I swear it echoes between us. He hears it, he must, because the edge of his gaze sharpens, the smallest narrowing of his eyes betraying his satisfaction.
He steps forward.
Not urgently or aggressively.
No, it’s worse, confidently.
Deliberately.
A man who knows his presence alone is enough to rattle me.
The mask hides half his face, but I see the curve of something like a smirk beneath the shadows. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. Every shift of his posture is a provocation, a question he already knows I don’t want to answer.
My fingers tighten around the doorframe. He notes the movement instantly, gaze flicking down before dragging slowly back up to my face with shameless expectation. The room feels too warm despite the chill radiating off him.
I force myself to swallow. “Why are you here?”
He doesn’t flinch at the question. In fact, he leans just slightly into the light from the window, the gesturesilent but undeniably mocking, come closer if you want answers. His confidence is a physical thing, settling over the room like a thick cloak, daring me to step inside.
I hate the way my breath catches in my throat.
He loves it. I see it in the faint brightening of his eyes.
His gloved hand shifts lazily at his side, brushing the hilt of a blade as if to remind me he’s armed without actually drawing it.
He studies me without shame, eyes dragging over every tremor of my breath, every twitch of my fingers, every waver in my stance.
I take one slow step backward.
He follows with a step forward.
Not in pursuit, more like he wants me to know he chooses to close the space, not that he needs to. A predator humoring its prey.
A whisper of heat coils in my spine. My tattoo prickles beneath my skin. The torches outside the room dim as though responding to the tension curling between us.
Finally, he tilts his head again, this time in a gesture unmistakably taunting. As if he’s saying, without words:
Is this where you run, little witch? Or is this where you come closer?
My heart hammers.
My palms warm.
My inhale trembles.
His eyes flick to my throat when it moves.
The shift is so small, so precise, it sends a shiver through me.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I murmur, but my voice is softer than I intend.
The remark doesn’t deter him. If anything, it amuses him. His shoulders relax just a fraction, and the mockery gleams bright in those impossibly blue eyes. He takes another stepinto the classroom’s thin spill of light, daring me to hold his stare.
He knows I can’t look away.
