Page 41 of The Witch They Fear

"I think," I say, zipping up the rest of my bag, "that 'exceptional' is a very polite word for what most people on this campus call me."

"Most people on this campus are afraid of things they don't understand. That's not a character flaw—it's a species limitation." He leans forward. The movement is slow, deliberate, closing the distance between us by inches. "I'm not most people. And I'm not afraid of you."

"Congratulations. Want a medal?"

Something flickers behind his eyes. The cold flash—the one from the first day, the door closing behind the smile. There and gone. He wasn't expecting pushback. Or at least not pushback with this particular flavor.

Good.

"I like you," he says. And the way he says it—measured, evaluative—makes it sound less like a compliment and more like a decision he's just made. A categorization. You are now filed under: interesting.

"Thanks. I'll add it to my file. Right next to 'provisional enrollment' and 'compliance benchmarks.'"

He laughs. Rich, genuine-sounding, filling the empty classroom. But his fangs catch the light and his eyes don't change temperature and I think about what Nellie said: twice the charm, triple the connections, and a smile that could talk a nun out of her habit.

Priestess. Whatever.

"I'll be direct," he says. Shifts in the chair. The casual sprawl tightens into something more intentional—still relaxed, but pointed. A predator settling its weight before it moves. "Every year, students in the advanced track pair with a witch for collaborative work. Channeling exercises, ward construction, applied theory. It's mutually beneficial just like Professor Malloy was suggesting before—the witch gains access to the vampire's resources, network, and protection. The vampire gains access to the witch's abilities."

Access to the witch's abilities. There it is. The transactional heart of it, dressed up in academic language.

"My partner graduated last spring," he continues. "The slot is open. I'm extending you the offer."

"No."

He blinks.

"No?" he repeats. Like the word is in a language he doesn't speak.

"No. Thank you. I'm not interested in being anyone's resource, and I'm definitely not interested in giving a vampire I just met access to my abilities." I sling my bag over my shoulder. "Find another witch."

The warmth in his expression holds. But his jaw does something—a clench, quick and controlled. The index finger taps against his thigh again. Three times. Same rhythm.

"You're making a decision without full information," he says. Still warm. Still generous. But there's a new frequency underneath it—something harder, something that isn't accustomed to hearing no and is recalibrating in real time. "The partnership comes with significant advantages. Protection from the student body. Political cover from the council. My family's name carries weight that could make your year here considerably easier."

"My year here is a countdown to permanent sedation. I don't think your family name fixes that."

He stands. Slow. Unfolding that impossible height until he's looking down at me from a vantage point that's clearly designed to remind me of the size difference between us. He's not threatening me. He's just... being tall. Deliberately.

"Think about it," he says. "The offer stands."

He extends his hand. I look at it. Look at him. Take it, because refusing a handshake from a noble-blood vampire in his own classroom feels like a line I'm not ready to cross yet.

His grip is cool and firm and lasts exactly one second too long. When he lets go, he traces his thumb across the back of my hand as he withdraws—a gesture so quick I'd almost call it accidental if anything about this man were accidental.

"One more thing." His voice drops—quieter, more intimate, the register of someone sharing a secret. "That little symbol on your door. The one you and your friend were discussing so urgently before I came over." He watches my face change and his smile deepens. "Vampire ears, Calypso. We hear everything."

My stomach goes cold. He was listening. The entire time he was sitting up there in the upper rows, watching and listening.

"I'd be careful who you share that kind of information with," he says. "Strange runes, restricted-section research... You're already the most interesting person on this campus. You don't want to become the most investigated."

Before I can respond, he lifts his hand to his mouth. Presses the pad of his index finger against the tip of one exposed fang—slowly, deliberately, holding my gaze the entire time. The skin parts. A bead of dark blood wells up, almost black in the classroom light.

He reaches down and drags his finger across the strap of my bag. A single, wet smear. Unhurried. Making sure I see every second of it.

"Now I'll always know where to find you," he says. Easy. Warm all the way to his eyes. "In case you need me."

Something lurches in my stomach. Always know where to find you. The words land on top of the fail-safe and the enforcers and twelve years of being monitored, tracked, and filed, and for a dizzy, furious second I can't breathe because this man just put something on me—something I didn't consent to, something I don't understand—and smiled while he did it.