“I know you’re there,” I say quietly, closing my book with deliberate slowness. The sound echoes more than it should in the vast space. “Stalking is generally considered creepy, just FYI.”
Silence. Then a soft chuckle from the darkness that makes my stomach flutter.
“Your perception has improved,” comes his deep voice, rich and smooth like dark honey. “Most Ascendants take weeks to sense a shadow presence.”
I turn fully toward the sound, but still can’t see him clearly—just a suggestion of a tall figure within the shadows, like looking at someone through smoke.
“Is there a reason you’re lurking instead of, I don’t know, saying hello like a normal person?”
The shadows shift, and suddenly he’s standing at the edge of my table, appearing as if he’d been there all along. His black leather jacket and dark jeans help him blend with the shadows, but it’s his eyes that catch me—vivid green, almost luminous in the darkness like a predator’s. Up close, I can smell his scent—something dark and masculine that reminds me of night air and forbidden things.
“There’s nothing normal about either of us,” Bael says, running a finger along the spine of one of my books. His touch is gentle, almost reverent. “Studying our history?”
“Trying to,” I say, hyperaware of how close he is, how his presence makes my shadows dance with excitement. “Though these books seem light on Ascendant details. Almost like someone didn’t want that information easily available.”
“The victors write history. Light Nephilim have controlled academia for centuries.” He glances at my selections, his expression darkening. “You won’t find what you need here.”
“Then enlighten me,” I challenge, meeting his gaze despite the way it makes my pulse race. “You drop this bombshell about what I am, arrange my transfer to supernatural college, then disappear for days. I think you owe me some actual fucking information.”
His expression remains impassive, but I catch a flicker of something that might be guilt. “I’ve been establishing our cover,ensuring the right people believe you’re simply a Dark Nephilim transfer student. And I’ve been watching. You’ve drawn attention.”
I wince, thinking of the disaster that was my power demonstration. “The power demonstration didn’t go great.”
“No, it didn’t.” He pulls out the chair opposite me and sits, his movements silent and fluid like liquid shadow. When he settles, our knees almost touch under the table. “Your shadows are too responsive, too alive. Normal Dark Nephilim shadows are extensions of will, not semi-sentient entities with opinions about everything.”
“So I’ve been told,” I mutter, thinking of Seraphina’s pointed comments. “How do I fix it?”
“You don’t ‘fix’ what you are,” he says sharply, and I catch a flash of something fierce in his eyes. “You learn to disguise it. Dark Nephilim must consciously direct their shadows for every movement. Yours respond to emotion and intent without direct commands.”
My shoulders slump, exhaustion weighing me down like lead. “So basically I need to micromanage my shadows 24/7 while also hiding wings and trying not to freak out about being hunted? Awesome.”
Something like sympathy flickers across his face, softening his sharp features. “It’s difficult at first, but it will become second nature with practice.”
“Is that why you’re here? To give me shadow control lessons?”
“Partially.” His eyes move to the windows, scanning the night beyond with predatory alertness. “The light Nephilim sisters have taken notice of you. Particularly the younger one.”
“Seraphina.” I nod, my stomach twisting with anxiety. “She said my shadows move wrong.”
“She’s more perceptive than her sister, which makes her more dangerous.” He leans forward, shadows gathering around us like aprivacy screen that blocks out the rest of the library. His scent intensifies—dark and intoxicating. “You need to be more careful. Use your shadows only when necessary, and always with conscious direction.”
“Easy for you to say,” I grumble. “You’ve had centuries to practice.”
A faint smile touches his lips, transforming his face. “True. But I didn’t have to hide wings as well.”
As if on cue, my back twinges painfully, the muscles cramping from hours of forced binding. I bite back a wince, but he notices anyway.
“About that,” I say, lowering my voice further. “How long do I have to keep them hidden? It hurts constantly.”
Something flashes in his eyes—concern, maybe even guilt. “You need to release them regularly, but only in absolute privacy. Your room is too risky with your roommate.”
“Then where?”
He stands abruptly, shadows flowing around him like living water. “Come with me.”
I hesitate, then gather my books, returning them to their shelves with hands that shake slightly. I follow him deeper into the library, past sections with increasingly older books that smell like centuries and secrets. The air grows thicker with dust and the scent of ancient paper, making my nose itch. Finally, we reach a small wooden door hidden behind a tapestry depicting the Fall in gruesome detail—angels with broken wings falling through painted flames.
Bael places his hand against the wood, and shadows seep from his fingers into the grain like living ink. The door clicks open with a sound like breaking bones.
