Page 59

It was the most amazing thing I've ever experienced, and I've already come twice thinking about it.

His mouth was soft, his tongue warm, and I can't stop thinking about the way he kissed me like he already decided I wasn't going anywhere. He makes me want to press in close and stay there, feel his muscles tighten under my palm, listen to his words, nasty and filthy and impossible to forget.

It means nothing. I know that. But my dick is somehow confused, hard and leaking and needing the attention even though I should know better.

I have a scholarship to focus on. A sister to find. A responsibility to myself, to Ma and Pa, to stay out of trouble.

And Ciaran Virel is trouble.

Professor Halvern taps his pointer against the glass cube. "Posture, Rowan."

I straighten on instinct, face heating as I tighten my fingers around the neck of the Noctis. I drag the bow back into place, close my eyes, and let myself sink into the sound of the instrument.

But my body won't catch up with my brain. Every time I close my hand, I can still feel the hard slide of skin beneath my palm, the heat of his bare chest, the slick damp of water drying over muscle, the way his mouth went from mocking to hungry so fast it made something in me go loose and dangerous.

I should not be thinking about that here. I definitely should not have locked myself in the shower before dawn with my hand wrapped around my cock, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood while I pictured his mouth on mine again.

And I definitely, absolutely, should not be fighting another half-hard reaction in the middle of Professor Halvern's practice session like I've completely lost what little self-preservation I came to this planet with.

The bow catches the string a fraction too sharply, and from outside the glass cube, the professor lifts his hand in a short, impatient correction. "Lighter on the return, Rowan."

"Sorry, sir."

His gaze lingers on me a second longer than necessary before he finally turns his attention to my fellow students, each of them standing in identical glass cubes as they work through the same passage on cello.

The professor doesn't seem to like me much. When the others make mistakes, he corrects them. When I make mistakes, he just watches for a second too long before moving on.

Every time I think it might have something to do with Sola, a cold shiver runs down my spine.

I haven't been back to the library after that weird night. And whoever was, or wasn't, following me hasn't stirred that feeling since, that sense of someone breathing down my neck.

The half-hidden street sign from the photograph keeps surfacing too, the blurred lettering sitting just out of reach no matter how many times I replay the image in my head.

Maybe it was all in my head.

Damaris always says I should be more outgoing. That I should try harder to meet other students I click with, as he puts it. But he doesn't know what it's like to be hunted through the streets. To have someone search your house simply because they believe you have something they want.

So I burned it.

And though they may never have found what they were looking for, they took another part of me. They took my health, and maybe some of my sanity with it.

Maybe I imagined that presence in the library because I'm used to voices in the dark. Used to being watched. Used to assuming people want something from me.

So why do I keep finding my way back to Ciaran? If anyone here is danger in a beautiful body, it's him.

I groan under my breath. So much for concentrating.

I set the bow again and make myself sink into the Noctis instead. Its sleek dark curve settles between my knees, the heavier lower frame and modified resonance chamber pressing against my sternum as I draw out the next phrase and let the instrument answer me properly this time, low and clean and shimmering at the edges in that strange way only the Noctis does.

For a few blessed seconds, all I have to think about is pressure and release, the tiny adjustments of my hand, the way the sound opens when I stop trying to force it, until Professor Halvern taps his pointer against the glass again. "That's enough for today. Class dismissed."

I finish the final phrase, lower the bow, and force my pulse to settle before setting the Noctis carefully back into its case and latching it shut. Around me, the other students pack up, barely sparing me a glance as they sling their cellos over their shoulders, already talking to each other on the way out.

I'm just straightening when Professor Halvern, still standing outside the row of practice cubes, crooks two fingers at me. "Rowan. A word, please."

I blink, glancing up as the last of the class filters out past us, and follow him into the corridor when he turns away.

"Next week," he says, folding his hands behind his back as if this is the most ordinary conversation in the world, "I'm organizing the Caervast legacy reception. It's a private evening for donors, trustees, select families and senior faculty, and the conservatory will be presenting a small performance."