He offers me a slow, wolfish smile. It’s the kind of smile that promises trouble, and a thrill, cold and sharp, shoots through me.
“Found you,” he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the very shelves around us.
My carefully constructed peace shatters into a million pieces. I close the fragile book in front of me, my hands surprisingly steady, a betrayal of the chaos erupting inside me. “You said you would,” I reply, my voice a quiet challenge.
He pushes off the bookshelf and walks toward my desk. He moves with that same unsettling grace I remember from the alley, a silent, fluid motion that is utterly at odds with his violent energy. He stops on the other side of my small wooden desk, the only thing separating us.
“And you came,” he says, his smile widening. He gestures vaguely at the library around us, at the dusty books and the hushed silence. “You went right back to your cage. Just like I knew you would.”
He knows. He sees right through my attempt to hide, to retreat into my old life. He sees it as an act of cowardice, and worse, an act of futility.
“This is where I work,” I state, the words sounding defensive and weak even to my own ears.
“Is it?” he asks, leaning forward, placing his palms flat on my desk, invading my space. The old wood creaks under his weight. The scent of him—leather and cold night air—washes over me, overwhelming the comforting smell of old books. “Or is it where you hide?”
I have no answer for that. We both know the truth. My silence is a confession.
“What do you want, Cassian?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. I need him to leave. His presence here is a desecration. He is staining my only sanctuary.
Cassian studies my face for a long moment, his gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch, peeling back the layers of my composure. “I want you to come with me,” he says, his voice a low, irresistible command.
My breath catches. The world seems to narrow to the space between us.Go with him?The thought is insane, it’s self-destructive. This is everything I have spent the last two years avoiding. I can feel the eyes of the other students on us, feel Mr. Abernathy’s worried gaze from the front of the library. My cheeks burn with humiliation and fear so potent it makes me dizzy.
My mind screams no.Say no. Tell him to leave. Scream for security.
The silence in my head, the void I have so carefully cultivated, is gone. In its place is a dangerous, thrilling question, a whisper that sounds suspiciously like my own voice.What if? What if you went? What would you feel?
I look up at him, my gaze meeting his. His eyes are burning, a silent challenge, a promise. He is offering me an escape, not from him but from the nothingness, an escape into chaos.
“Where?” I whisper, the word tasting like a surrender, like a betrayal of Jade, like the most terrifying and honest word I’ve spoken in years.
His smile deepens, a flash of predatory triumph. He’s won this round, and he knows it. He straightens up, pulling back from the desk, leaving me in the cold wake of his presence.
“Somewhere you’ll feel something,” he says, his voice dropping, meant for me alone. “Somewhere you’ll remember what it’s like to be alive.”
Eleven
Aria
“Getyourthings,”hesays, his voice a low command.
My body moves before my mind can protest. It’s as if the single word of surrender has severed the connection between my rational brain and my limbs. I find myself gathering my worn copy ofThe Odysseyand my notebook, my hands moving with a strange, detached precision. I slide them into my tote bag, the familiar weight a pathetic anchor to a world that is rapidly receding. I feel the eyes of Mr. Abernathy on me, a worried,questioning gaze from across the library floor. I can’t bring myself to look at him. I can’t bear to see the kind disappointment in his face. To him, I am just a quiet girl leaving work early with a boy who looks like trouble. He has no idea I am walking to my own execution, or my resurrection. At this point, I’m not sure there’s a difference.
I stand, my chair scraping softly against the polished floor. The sound is an obscenity in the hallowed quiet. Cassian is already turning, walking away, not even looking back to see if I am following. He knows I will. The arrogance of it is as breathtaking as his violence.
I follow him through the maze of bookshelves, my footsteps a frantic, silent echo of his confident stride. We pass the main circulation desk, and I keep my eyes fixed on the back of his black leather jacket, the worn seams a map of a life I cannot begin to imagine. I feel Mr. Abernathy’s gaze like a physical touch, but I don’t falter. I have made my choice.
The heavy oak doors of the library swing shut behind us, the soft whoosh of the closing mechanism sounding like a final, mournful sigh. The cool, conditioned air of the library is replaced by the damp, heavy air of the city. The world feels louder out here, the colors too bright, the smells too sharp.
Cassian leads me to a car parked at the curb, a machine that is a perfect extension of himself. It’s an American classic sports car, a beast of black steel and chrome. The paint is faded in places, and a web of small cracks spiders across the windshield, but it hums with a low, throbbing power even in stillness. It looks like it has survived a war.
He opens the passenger-side door for me, a gesture of old-world chivalry that is so jarringly at odds with the situation that I almost laugh. I slide onto the cracked leather seat. The interior smells of old leather, gasoline, and him—that faint, clean scent of ozone after a storm. The car is starkly functional. There are nouseless ornaments, no trash on the floor, just a powerful engine and a place to sit.
Cassian gets in beside me, the car dipping under his weight. The space suddenly feels impossibly small, charged with his presence. He turns the key and the engine roars to life, not with a sputter but a deep, guttural growl that vibrates through the seat and up my spine. It’s the sound of barely contained power.
He pulls away from the curb without a word, his movements economical and precise. He drives the way he does everything else—with a focused, predatory grace. We merge into the city traffic and I stare out the window, watching the familiar streets of my neighborhood blur past. The cafes, the bookstores, the small parks—they look like scenes from someone else’s life.
As we drive, the city begins to change. The elegant brownstones and trendy storefronts give way to squat, industrial buildings and low-slung warehouses. The streets are wider, emptier. The graffiti on the walls is more frantic, more desperate. We are leaving my world and entering his. The silence in the car is thick and heavy, broken only by the roar of the engine. My heart hammers against my ribs like a frantic, trapped bird. I should be terrified. I am, but underneath the terror, a strange, electric hum of anticipation is building. I am a scientist on the verge of a terrifying discovery. I have to know.
