Chapter 64

ELODIE

I’ve NEVER wished harm on anyone before.

That’s a lie, I have wished harm on one person, but my father doesn’t count. He’s a vile piece of work, and he deserves every ill thought I’ve ever had about him. Aside from Colonel Stillwater, I make a point to give people the benefit of the doubt. I like to try and be a fair person. A just person. But it’s no fucking good—Pax Davis is a motherfucker of the highest order and I hope he falls off a very high cliff. I suppose it’d be okay if he survived the impact. A few weeks in traction, writhing in agony in a dingy hospital bed, though? Yeah, that sounds like a suitable punishment for a prick like Pax.

Eight: that’s how many times he called me a whore during the forty minutes we had to sit together and plan out how we were going to tackle our assignment. ‘Read an independent book with a profound and moving story arc, and then present it to the class.’ I’m honestly not sure Pax can read. He showed no interest in the sheet Doctor Fitzpatrick gave to us. But then again, he did spend the last ten minutes of class hammering away at his phone’s screen, sending out text after text to god only knows who, so he must possess some rudimentary understanding of the English language.

When we parted, he snarled something guttural and harsh at me in a language that I think was German, then he politely told me that I was to read the book and write the presentation myself, then he flipped me off and bailed without another word.

I haven’t been able to talk to Carina to find out how her ordeal with

Dashiell went, but I’m guessing, from the look on her face as she hurried to her next class, that it went just about as well as one might expect. In other words, terribly.

She has a meeting with the school counselor over lunch, which is why I don’t feel guilty that I’m not trying to hunt her down, as I make my way across the academy. When I jog up the steps to the library, my mind’s racing a mile a minute.

It was hardly a friendly text. Then again, Wren’s nothing if to the point. I wasn’t anticipating anything flowery or romantic from him. Honestly, I was surprised that he’d messaged at all.

I find him right where he said he’d be, in the Poetry section, amongst the likes of Rilke, Hugo, Keats, and Wordsworth. With his head bowed over a book, his hair messy and all over the place, hanging in his face as it’s perpetually wont to do, he’s cast in silhouette by the light pouring in through the enormous windows behind him. I can make out his profile, though—the strong line of his jaw, the arrow-straight, uncompromising bridge of his nose, and his sinfully full mouth that works as he shapes out the words on the page in front of him.

He’s not who he portrays himself to be. Not really. Yes, he’s hard to reach sometimes, and he’s colder than the glacial waters of Antarctica on occasion. But there’s a deep, ponderous part of him that he doesn’t show people, too. I get the feeling that he hasn’t shown that side of himself to me, either. It’s slipped out, unbidden, entirely by accident. The difference is that he hasn’t tried to stuff it back down into its cage with me. He’s let that side of him rest there, out in the open, for me to make of it what I will.

His mouth works some more as he continues to read, but out loud now

—

“We look before and after, and pine for what is not. Our sincerest laughter, With some pain, is fraught. Our sweetest tales are those that tell of saddest thought.”

Ah. So he was aware of my presence. Great. I pull myself together, having a fierce talk with my heart, making sure it knows how to behave, as I enter the stacks and go to him.

“More Bryon?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Shelley. He was a fucker, too, y’know. Complete drunk. Womanizer. Left his wife and knocked up another woman.”

“Mary Shelley. I read about that.”

Wren closes the book softly, looking at me out of the corner of those green eyes. No other part of him moves. “Like all the best artists, he was pretty fucked up.”

“That poem didn’t sound fucked up. It sounded sad.”

Wren smiles, slowly looking back down at the book. “It’s called ‘Skylark.’ One of his most famous pieces.”

“What’s it about?”

“The past and the future. Fear of death. Phantoms and ignorance. It’s about how even the sweetest love songs are tinged with sadness. And how a man can never be as free as a bird.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

“It is,” he agrees. Sliding the book back onto the shelf, he turns and faces me, picking over me with an intense gaze that makes me break out in goosebumps. “What did he do?” he demands.

“What?”

“Pax. What did he do? I know he did something.”

“Oh. Uh...he was just his usual, charming self. It’s all good. No harm, no foul.”

“You don’t know if there’s been any harm yet. You won’t know until you’re lying on the floor in a pool our pool of That’s how Pax works.”

I smile at his utter seriousness. “Are you telling me he’s going to try and eviscerate me? Because I’m not okay with that.”

Wren reaches out and grabs me by the hand, quickly spinning around and pulling me after him. Just like our run-in in front of Madame Fournier before my very first French class, shock spirals up my arm at his touch, surprising the hell out of me, but it’s different this time. He hasn’t taken me roughly by the wrist. He’s taken me by the hand. And he’s interlaced his fingers with mine.

I’m too stunned to say anything as he pulls me away from the windows and the grim, grey day outside, rushing, rushing, rushing until he reaches the rear corner of the library. He stops in front of a plain innocuous wooden door that anyone in the world would overlook if they weren’t standing right in front of it. Wren drops my hand and rifles in his pocket, pulling out a fat bunch of keys. His fingers flick deftly through a series of Yale keys cruciform keys and skeleton keys until he finds the one he’s looking for.

A moment later the door is open, my hand is in Wren’s again, and I’m following him inside. The door clicks shut behind us, and everything is still and perfect, velvet dark.

I can hear him breathing, soft and calm, and every cell in my body stands to attention. “Don’t suppose there’s a light in this place?” I ask. Whispering feels appropriate, given the weighty silence pressing against my eardrums.

“What’s the matter? You afraid of standing in a room with me in the dark, Little E?” His voice is a rough caress, slightly teasing in tone. I can picture the upward tilt of his mouth, the sharp challenge in his eyes, and my toes curl in my shoes.

“Not at all. I’m fine. I’m perfectly happy standing here with you in the dark.” And I am. There’s something freeing about it. I’m not worried about the way he’s looking at me, and I’m not afraid of the fact that I’m blushing. I can just be.

“In that case...” Wren’s other hand touches my stomach, making me jump. “Easy, Little E,” he coaxes. “Just trying to find your other hand.”

I give it to him, swallowing thickly when he guides my palms up to rest on his chest, right over the firm wall of muscle that forms his pecs. I can feel his heart beating beneath the soft cotton of his hoody, and with my sight taken away from me, the steady dum, dum, dum beneath my fingertips is everything. It anchors me, rooting me in place until I feel grounded and...safe. Wow. That’s a new one. How is it even possible that I’d feel safe with him?

Wren steps closer, the soles of his boots scuffing against what sounds like tile, and his warm breath disturbs my hair, skating across my cheek. “I figured this would be easier for you,” he says softly. “For me, too.”

“Easier how?”

“Because it’s less difficult being honest without having to worry about someone’s reactions, right? You can tell me the truth, and I can tell you the truth. It won’t be as frightening as doing it in the light of day.”

Oh. Damn. What the hell does he want to say to me? I close my eyes— and unnecessary action that serves no purpose other than making me feel

better. “Okay. This sounds serious. Should I be worried?”

He chuckles. “Perhaps.”

“Then rip off the Band-Aid, Jacobi. Let’s get this show on the road.”

More laughter. “So willing to walk into the fire. One of the things I enjoy most about you.”

“One of the things? There are other things you like about me?” This talking-in-the-dark thing is already working as a treat. I would never have said that with the lights on. I’m not that playful, especially not with dangerous creatures who have the power to do severe and irreparable damage.

I go very still when I feel the feather-soft brush of Wren’s mouth against my cheek. He hasn’t shaved this morning; his stubble scrapes against my skin, and I shiver against the heady sensation, barely breathing around it. “Yes,” he whispers. “Plenty of things. I’ll make you a list.”

Oh, fuck me running. This is going to get interesting. I was worried that he dragged me into this...whatever kind of room this was...to tell me that he wanted nothing to do with me. I’m not worried about that anymore. He places his hands on my hips, sliding his palms around to the small of my back, drawing me closer, so that our bodies are in alignment, my hands still firmly planted on his chest.

“First, I want you to tell me the truth,” he says. “Did Pax do anything to upset you? Did he threaten you?”

“He implied that I accepted payment in return for sex a couple of times, but apart from that, no.”

Wren grunts unhappily. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t do that again.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve been accused of way worse. I have a thick skin.”

“No, you don’t. Your skin’s like fucking silk.” He groans, deep and low, running the bridge of his nose along the line of my jaw, breathing in deeply like he’s trying to inhale my very essence. “You don’t need to worry about Pax. I’ll take care of him. The second thing I wanna know…is if you’re ready yet?”

“Ready for what?”

“To lay your cards on the table. Tell me that you want me. All of me. All of the time. For there to be no more confusion about what this is.”

My chest tightens as if there’s a belt synching closed around it. “Straight to the point, huh?”

“I told you. I like things to be black and white. Clear cut. No room for misunderstanding. You said you preferred things that way, too.”

“I do.”

“Then tell me what you think this is.”

“I—” Well, shit. This would be a lot less mortifying if he went first. He’ll think I’m a coward if I don’t give him an answer, though, I will be a coward, and I’ve spent too many years convincing myself that I’m strong enough to let myself down now. “I do want you. I want all of you for myself. And...” Lord Almighty, this one’s going to make me feel like a stupid, naive little girl, but here goes nothing, “I want to be your girlfriend.” Silence.

Roaring, deafening silence.

I can feel the smugness radiating off him, though, very real and very present. After a beat, he presses his hands more firmly into my back, pulling me up against him so that I feel the hardness of him between our bodies; his dick is erect, and from the way it pulses against my stomach, it wants some attention. “Do you have any idea what being my girlfriend would be like, Little E?” he growls.

Uh...words. I need words. Where did I put my ability to form coherent sentences? The same place where I put my ability to think coherent thoughts, by the looks of things. “You’re probably...very possessive,” I manage.

“You have no idea. And?”

“And you probably like to hoard all of the power in a relationship.”

“I like being in control of any situation,” he admits. “But I am willing to share on occasion.”

“You probably like to fight?”

“Nothing wrong with healthy disagreement. Nothing wrong with calling someone on their shit if they’re misbehaving, either.”

“You’d probably want everything your way.”

“I’m capable of compromise.”

“Okay...”

“Keep going.”

“That’s all I can think of.”