13

The communal bathrooms in the Living Quarter are decent enough, but the real treasure is the washroom in the old Faculty Quarter.

It’s still operational, still tended to by the cleaners, but since it’s a ten-minute walk through the cold corridors, not many people bother with it.

The old Faculty Quarter is mostly used for hookups and hideouts now.

I pass some of those sneaking, laughing, canoodling couples as I make my way through the corridors. And when I push through the old wood door to the washroom, I see that no one else has come. Yet. A day in the snow might lure more here.

I don’t waste the time I have been gifted.

The stalls are lockable. Not just some curtain pulled over a shower, but lovely white lacquered doors with brass handles. And each stall has its own claw-footed tub, toilet, shower and vanity.

No one can just whip open the curtain and get a glimpse.

That happens sometimes in the girls’ bathrooms in the dorms. Happens more often in the boys’ bathroom, only in theirs is it intentional.

Guy humour. Ugh.

I soak in the tub a long while, bubbles tickling my nose, until the water is cool, then I empty out some of the old and refill it with fresh, hot water.

I soak some more.

My fingers are white and pruned by the time I clammer out of the tub.

I climb into my leggings, slip on my woollen socks, then tug a lumpy sweater over my head.

There is no place for fashions in the cold of Bluestone, particularly at night.

Beyond the door, I hear the rush of whispering voices, of cackles ripping through a conversation, of slippers slapping on the tiled floor.

Like I thought, more came.

I sit myself at the vanity.

I dig through my shower caddy for the blow-wave-brush, then run it through my hair until the brown lightens into a faint, ashy colour with grown-out highlights, and now it looks something close to a balayage. I soften it with serum that smells faintly of coconut.

I take my time with the oils and balms on my face.

So many hours spent out in the mountain’s air, and my skin is drier than a chardonnay. It’s a soothing sensation to smear on the final layer, the sealing lotion.

I draw in a deep breath through my nostrils, inhaling the coconut scent of my skincare.

And I feel fresh as a daisy.

I pack the toiletries back into the caddy.

There’s a peaceful way about my movements. Not rushing, not panicking, not frustrated, not trembling—just serene. And maybe there’s a silly, tranquil smile on my glossed lips, slick with moisturising balm.

I brush my teeth above the basin before I sling the caddy strap over my shoulder and, sock-clad feet kicking into slippers, I shuffle out of the stall.

Only three other doors are shut, I notice. Three stalls occupied, out of a dozen. Some witches are really missing out.

Most are probably sloshed at one of the many parties that invade the weekends, if not hooking up in these very corridors I take back to the Living Quarter.

It’s quiet, though. Distant whispers and giggles few and far between. I don’t see anyone else in the Faculty Quarter until I pass a hall that forks off in four directions, and I turn for the one lined with portraits.

But I freeze just a step into it.

The corridor stretches too far down, the dark wainscotting glistening like blackwood under the light of the dim lanterns bolstered to the walls.

And halfway down, Dray Sinclair stands with his cheek to me, his chin lifted as his gaze cuts across the faded hues of a long-forgotten portrait.

My throat bobs.

The faint glow of lanternlight brushes over the sunkissed hue of his cheek, the sharp cut of his jaw, the sawdust blond of his hair, and I think fleetingly that he looks like caramel caught in sunlight.

My mouth tightens with a twist.

He hasn’t noticed me yet. Or he has and he just isn’t bothered enough to look my way.

I could turn around—and go back to the washroom. I should do that, hide out a while and try my luck again in an hour or so.

The decision is made.

It thrums through me and the weight of my foot lifts off the floorboards, prepared to backstep my way around the corner, to safety.

I keep my eyes locked onto him. The lift of his chin, the contour that strikes across his cheek, the way that the grey sweatpants hang on his hips, barely held in place by the loosely fastened string.

My slipper flattens on the floorboards, silent.

I lean onto it, then slowly draw back the other one. I backstep around the corner, until—

The heel of my slipper catches on the edge of the rug, and slaps .

I still.

And Dray turns his chin, those pale diamonds finding me.

His lashes lower at the sight of me. A fleeting tick of his jaw.

My mouth puckers and I lift my chin.

I could still turn around and make a run for it.

But since Dray only considers me before turning back to study the portrait—the old, faded painting of an ordinary-looking woman in a big old dress, a pastiness to her complexion, a greying streak to her brown hair—I decide I can move forward.

Dray seems compelled to ignore me, still.

I take the chance that I am right.

My grip flexes on the silicone rim of the caddy. Bottles and phials rattle with each step I take down the corridor.

But as I get closer, Dray turns his back to the portrait, then leans against the wall, hands in his pockets.

The gleam of his eyes follows me, sharp under the dark length of his lashes. “You’ve been making friends.”

My frown is uncertain, cowardly . My steps don’t falter. I’m too close now, but too far from the way I came.

“It’s not any of your business,” I murmur.

His chin lowers before he picks at a ball of lint that’s stuck to the sleeve of his sweater. “The connections of a Craven happen to be my business.”

He flicks the lint pill onto my path.

So close now, just a few more heartbeats and I’ll be passing him. Then I can run. If I start now, he’ll catch me.

If he’s even inclined to.

It’s hard to tell, really.

His tone is so flippant as he says, “Or do you forget our alliance?”

I fight the roll of my eyes. “I have no alliance with you.”

“I’m sure your father will disagree.” He pushes from the wall and takes one, single step.

Right into my path.

I arch my neck to look up at him, study the reddened hue of his eyes, the low droop of his lashes—and I get a whiff of whisky from the warm breath that brushes too close to my face.

Drunk. Not terribly, but enough that—I pray—will subdue him into his content drinking mood, lull him enough that he will leave me the fuck alone.

Of course I am a raging moron, and Dray stands in my way, so I doubt I have a good shot at making it out of here unscathed.

His gaze drops to my shoulder, watching the collar of my sweater slip over my skin, dragging under the slipping weight of the caddy strap.

“Ok, fine.” I sigh out the words. “We are allies, our families are connected, you are right, I am wrong.” I raise a brow. “Happy? Can I pass now?”

Dray only considers me for a moment, a thick heartbeat that pulses between us, then he steps aside. A slight side-step.

No time wasted, I move to pass him. my slippers slap on the rug.

My shoulder brushes his, barely, a mere whisper of touch, not like I’m barging into him—

And that’s as far as I make it before I’m thrown from my feet and my back smacks, hard, into the wall.

The breath is knocked out of me, a wheeze lured from my parted lips, and—distantly—I’m aware of the toiletries hitting the floor, spilling out of the caddy, phials rolling and knocking off the wainscotting.

None hit my feet.

My feet don’t touch the floor.

Slippers have fallen off and—I dangle.

I dangle from his hold.

In a flurried heartbeat, Dray has shoved his knee between my legs and hoisted me up the wall, rough.

I grunt, but not before his hand firms around my throat, pinning me between him and the sharp bite of wainscotting that digs into my spine.

I slowly lift my gaze to his.

My chin raises, too, until my face is aligned with Dray’s—and the darkness of the shadows lashing at him is enough to curl my toes.

“Let me go,” I whisper—because I can’t manage more than that, because my heart is thumping in my chest and icicles are trickling down my body all the way to my toes. “Dray, please—please, let me go.”

There are no words given in answer.

Instead, he jerks his knee under me. The movement bounces my weight, hoists me up the wall a bit higher, before he’s pushing his solid body against mine—

And a hot flush burns my face, because all my weight is perched on his upper thigh wedged between my legs.

I squirm, as though I can wiggle my way out of it.

But instantly, a sensation zaps me, the brush of my core against his leg, and I still.

The ghost of a smirk whispers over his pink mouth. Like he can read my mind, the messages zapping through my body.

Or maybe, it’s just that I’m fucking stuck, as though two walls press into me, front and back, and he knows it—and he loves it, loves all the ways to make me suffer.

I swallow, thick.

The gesture lures his gaze to my mouth.

“Dray,” I manage, a choked undercurrent to my wavering voice.

Still, he watches my lips move around the words.

“Dray, please—what do you want? I… I can give you something if you let me go, like… Like I can let you pick your New Year gift and, I promise, I’ll get it for you, I will.”

Still —

His blue eyes are lowered, just watching my lips move.

“Or I can do all the work for Brews—” I’m rambling now, desperate, and if he cared to actually listen to anything I am saying, then he would know it. “You can tell me what to do in class, and boss me around and I’ll listen, I’ll get all the supplies and…”

I’m out of desperate pleas. Out of trades.

What can I offer him ?

He has everything and more.

This isn’t about trades.

The truth of it shines in the tear that falls from my left eye.

I blink on it, a thickness lacquering my throat. The tear rolls down my cheek—and Dray’s gaze traces it.

One hand firm on my throat, he reaches up his other and drags his fingertips down my cheek. He smears the tear away before he returns to my lips.

His murmur is soft, slick with a whisky haze, “Your mouth is a bit crooked.”

A frown tugs at my brows, fleeting.

I ache to arch against him, to buck and throw myself out of this trap. But to do that, to try it, is to grind myself against his leg, and I won’t, I would rather burn.

A sharp breath sucks through me.

He nudges his nose against mine, the searing blue of his eyes burning through the night’s shadows in the corridor.

“Right here,” he adds, a murmur, then drags his fingers along my smushing cheek to the corner of my mouth. “When you talk, it lifts highest here, like you are always on the verge of snarl.”

My lashes flutter, and more tears spill.

Hands flat against his chest, as though to block his sweater touching mine, his chest touching mine, I force all my bitter strength into my arms—and push.

It does nothing.

Nothing at all.

He doesn’t even lift his gaze from my lips, his fingers pressed into the flesh, then—a muffled cry arches me.

He pushes his fingers into my mouth.

I arch, pulling my head back into the hard wall. The back of my skull aches, fast, and my face twists as though mangled.

I can’t pull away, trapped between him and the wall, my tongue tastes the remnants of fallen whisky drops and peppermint.

I don’t have the heart to bite down on his fingers. Not the heart in that sense, but in courage. If I bite down…

I shudder to think of what he’ll do.

But then, his hand is gone. Fingers out of my mouth, his taste slipped from my tongue.

My lashes flutter open as a gust of breath sucks through me, sharp. I don’t get more than heartbeat before his hand pushes up my neck to my jaw, and he shoves my head back, angling my face to meet his.

Dray’s mouth crashes down on mine, hard.

The groan that rattles me is guttural.

I force every ounce of strength I have into my neck, my chin, and I pullllll aside. My lips smush over his, flesh pressed too tightly together, and I gasp for air—

Dray hisses an annoyed sound and, digging his fingers into my jaw, he jerks my face back into place. His kiss comes harder, firmer, the pressure against my teeth earns a squeal from me.

That squeal turns savage the harder his body presses against mine—and I feel it , in his sweatpants, pushing into my pelvis. His arousal.

My legs are kicking now. Kicking at nothing more than air. I rip out my hands from between our bodies and bring my fists down on him.

Dray pulls me from the wall, just a touch, then smacks me back into it, hard.

A grunt catches in my chest, the sliver of a trembled breath from my lips.

Dray doesn’t swallow it.

His mouth has left mine.

Now, the tip of his nose whispers a graze over mine, and his eyes—alight like blue flames—burn into mine.

I catch my breath. Stolen from me too long, suffocated, my chest heaves with the harsh breaths scraping through me.

Dray’s grip on my jaw flexes. And the look he’s smouldering with is nothing that says I’ll be released any time soon.

But then—

“Dray?”

My heart slingshots.

“Dray, are you down here?”

My face is stuck in place, but I swerve my gaze down the corridor, the direction I need to take back to the dorms. And also the direction of Melody’s call, slick and sweet, candied.

“Dray?” Her pitch hikes, doubt in her voice.

I have never been grateful to hear Melody Green anywhere near me. Before now.

By the way she is calling him, I’m guessing she’s the whole reason he is even in the old Faculty Quarter to begin with. Like I said, these old rooms, classrooms and bedrooms and broom closets, are used a lot by the students.

Without warning, Dray pulls away from me.

My sock-clad feet thud onto the floorboards.

Mouth swollen, I drag the back of my hand over my lips and aim my watery frown at him.

Dray has little sympathy, and no regret for anything in his life. He looks me over once, his jaw tightening, then he turns—and stalks down the corridor.

He follows Melody’s voice out onto the next hallway—and not a moment after, I hear the squeal of surprise jolt her, a giggle that’s short lived, then a gasp.

I wait, still and slumped, against the wall. My wide eyes burn a hole into the floor.

Then—distant—I hear the slamming of a door.

I flinch.

A heartbeat passes, a rapid and lurching one. Then another and another, and I wait, soothing my breaths, easing the thundering pace in my chest.

I wait for the panic to ease—and for that tingling sensation to die.

Courtney looks up as I come in.

Kneeling at the drawer tucked under the foot of her bed, she is surrounded by strewn clothes and sneakers toppled all over.

“Did you read it?” she asks, her hands fisted in polyester scarves.

Dazed, I blink at her. “What?”

The touch of Dray’s mouth still tingles my lips. The sharp fragrance of his cologne lingers on my clothes.

“The article.”

“Oh.” I move for my bed. I drop my caddy onto the nightstand, my movements like that of a zombie, a freshly resurrected corpse. “No. I… I uh, built snowmen.”

A frown cuts my face.

I built snowmen.

Feels a lifetime ago, not just in the day that passed.

I flop down on the mattress, right onto my front. Cheek pressed to the bedspread, I stare at the pillows.

“Well, the print is due in a month, so please ,” and there’s nothing polite about the emphasis on that word, “read it soon, yeah?”

Still, I stare at the pillows. But I only see long, dark lashes low over diamond eyes.

“Yeah.” My tone is light but monotonous. “I will.”

The rustle of clothes comes from behind me.

Courtney digs through her things again. Ignorant to the coma I’m about to slip into.

“Have you seen my gloves? The pink cotton ones with the little smiley faces?”

Serena might have tossed them into the fireplace. She was as offended by them as me. Every time Courtney wrangled them onto her hands, Serena didn’t hide the pursed mouth look she glowered.

I mumble my answer, “No.”

And for a long while, I just stare at the pillows.