Page 51

I laugh. "And what did you say?"

"The same thing I always say whenever your mother decides something for the entire family."

I grab my jacket off the chair, smiling despite myself. "Which is?"

Dad sighs, long-suffering. "Yes, dear."

"Coward."

"Survivor. Let me know which night, and I'll make sure your aunts don't turn it into a committee meeting."

By the time I tug the knot into place, the uniform has done what it always does, turning me into the version of myself Caervast expects to see. Dark jacket fitted close through the shoulders, white shirt crisp against my skin, collar opened just enough to look careless when it isn't, tie loosened a fraction on purpose. The ink at my wrist shows before I smooth the cuff over it and reach for my signet.

"All right, that's enough. Have a good day, son."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Go to class, Ciaran."

The line goes dead.

He might be my dad, but fuck, sometimes he really is a motherfucker.

Still, he's got me standing there staring at my multi-slate, dressed and ready for class, because now I've got the cleanest excuse I've had yet to keep an eye on Rowan without pretending it's personal.

Which, obviously, is funny as hell.

Because it is personal.

It was personal the first time he looked at me like I was something he should avoid and then kept looking anyway. It was personal in the library. And it was personal every time he disappeared when he shouldn't have, slipped out of sight, made me follow the shape of him through halls and shadows and locked doors like I was the one being led around by a leash I never agreed to wear.

My thumb moves before I even think about it, opening the thread like there was ever a chance I wouldn't.

The last thing on the screen is still mine.

i asked you a question, rowan

He never replied.

And that should annoy me more than it does. Instead, I can practically see him staring at the screen with that tight mouth of his, refusing to answer because he knows the second he does, I'll be there again.

And that has a slow grin pulling at my mouth.

Because Dad wants eyes on him. Dad wants updates. Dad wants me close enough to catch anything before that room fills next week.

And because I always get whatever the fuck I want. Whoever the fuck I want.

So if I happen to enjoy that assignment a little too much, if the idea of keeping Rowan exactly where I can see him is enough to leave me hard before I've even left my room, that's not really my problem, is it?

My thumb hovers over the thread again, tempted to send another message just to annoy him into answering.

Silence from Rowan is somehow worse than him telling me to go fuck myself. And whatever the hell he was doing that night mattered enough for him to keep his mouth shut.

Halvern wants him visible.

That thought settles somewhere uncomfortable. If Rowan is just a scholarship student, nobody should care where he is. Nobody should care what he knows. And nobody should be putting him on a stage in front of half the Reach.

My gaze drops back to the unanswered message. For the first time, I find myself wondering whether I'm the only person paying attention to him.