17. Frankie

"Francesca,"Dorian calls as I hike my backpack higher on my shoulder, the weight of it grounding me in the echoey hallway.

I ignore him, which isn't as easy as I'd prefer, considering the hallway is empty. The universe is not on my side today, otherwise, this hallway would be bustling with students, their laughter and chatter creating a perfect camouflage for me.

But no, it's just me and Dorian, and I still have yet to shake off the strange, unsettling vibe that the professor gives off. The air was charged with an energy that felt off, as if a storm was brewing in the undercurrents of our words.

"Francesca." Dorian finally catches up to me, his breathing slightly heavy. He earns a point for not touching me, respecting my unspoken boundaries.

I don't even know how to act around this guy, let alone have a meal with him. "Listen, let's say we had lunch together but also not actually have lunch together," I suggest as I step outside. The sudden brightness of the afternoon sun momentarily blinds me, painting the world in a harsh, unyielding light. A cool breeze, carrying the salty tang of the ocean, caresses my face, igniting an unusual longing in me. Normally, the thought of swimming barely crosses my mind, but today, there's an irresistible urge beneath my skin, a primal call to dive into the shimmering waves and lose myself to the ocean for a little while.

Or hunt.

Whichever one I'm able to accomplish first. It's been weeks since I've been able to hunt, to listen to all the dark, shadowy things that occur when no one is looking, and then for me to remove the worst of it.

I crave the adrenaline rush I get when I bring a malevolent person to justice, banishing them into the shadows, lost to the world forever.

"Would you stop?" Dorian jumps in front of me abruptly, blocking my path. His cold eyes peer down at me, his lip curling into a sneer. "That won't work."

"Why?" I pause on the walkway, causing other students to curse at me when they have to adjust or run into me. The disruption ripples through the crowd like a wave, leaving whispers in its wake.

"I don't lie," he states, tucking his hands into the back pockets of his dress pants. The white button-down he's wearing is buttoned to the top of his neck, save for one button, and he's wearing a white shirt under it.

Why is that appealing?

"You don't lie." I blink up at him as I repeat his words. My tongue runs over my front teeth as I struggle to process what he said, the concept foreign and perplexing in this world of gray truths. "Everyone lies, Dorian."

"I am not everyone, Ms. Vale," he responds, flicking off a small speck of lint from his shirt.

"Noted," I mutter to myself. "So this sounds like a you problem." I resist the urge to poke his shoulder, my fingers twitching slightly with the effort.

"And a you problem." He's quick to look back at me, his eyes tracing every expression I make. They are blue, but also not, as though they once saw fog and decided that's the color they wanted to be. It's fascinating, really, how observant he is, as though he is mapping my facial expressions. "I won't lie for you, Ms. Vale."

I sigh and squint to look up at him. The sun sits directly over us, warming my head, and yet the cool breeze lifts and twirls under my sweater, creating goosebumps over my body.

My stomach chooses that moment to grumble.

"When did you last eat?" he sneers down at me.

When did I last eat? I chew on my cheek, trying to remember, but I was busy hiding from the guys, which means that was the last time I ate anything, and it was only fries and a milkshake.

"Considering it's taking you that long to even recall, then you need to eat." He glances over my head as he scans the courtyard. "Come now." Without waiting for me, he sets off toward the library at a brisk pace.

I stand there, gaping at him, as my thoughts disperse in a chaotic whirlwind. I could stand here and stare, miss where he goes, and claim that I just didn't know where he was going, but that would be a lie.

Or I could run off and hide, which is exactly what I've been doing for the last day, and I'm tired of hiding. It reminds me of the girl I was and not the adult I'm struggling to become.

Fuck.

Turning around, I rush to catch up to Dorian, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of the corridor, thankful that Leo, Matteo, and even Bishop haven't called out to me. It's only a matter of time before they find me, their presence as inevitable as shadows at dusk.

I catch up to Dorian the moment he opens the door to the library, and as I walk by, I swear I see a small uptick of his lips before he hides his amusement behind a mask of indifference. I'm immediately enveloped by the quiet magnificence of the place. The library is not just any building—it's an old cathedral transformed into a bastion of knowledge. When I inhale slowly, the air is rich with the scent of old books and faint traces of incense that these walls still hold from times long past. There is so much history here that's been lost, and even more that sits just under the surface, whispering secrets waiting to be discovered.

Dorian quietly shuts the door before glancing at me once to assure I'm there. With a simple nod, he turns abruptly to the left and begins to walk. He holds his hands behind him, his spine obnoxiously ramrod straight. His shoes clack against the floor, which is still adorned with the same mosaic tiles that it was when the cathedral was built eons ago.

Dorian walks past all of that at a clipped pace. A door ahead reads, "Employees only," and I'm trusting he is an employee because he bursts through the door like he owns the entire library. As soon as I step inside, he flips a switch, illuminating a stairwell that leads down.

"This is creepy," I muse despite the fact that Dorian still isn't waiting for me, and he's halfway down the steep steps. The air grows cooler as we descend, the mustiness mingling with a faint, unsettling iron scent that could very well be blood.

"No." His voice echoes back to me, dry and humorless. "It's more paperwork than I am willing to fill out."

Yeah, I should have known that was the response he'd give me. Deciding that we don't really need to talk, I follow him deeper into the basement until we finally hit the floor. He punches in a code for a reinforced door that clearly doesn't belong in this ancient setting. It's an odd mix of ancient atmosphere and modern technology—an aesthetic that I'm somewhat fond of now that I see it.

The door clicks open, and once again, he holds it open for me. Nerves tickle my throat as I push through and spill out into a formal basement. "Oh," I whisper as the lights flicker on to reveal a space with high ceilings and more bookshelves. Only this time, there are glass boxes with tomes in the center—not books, tomes. "Alright, Hollywood, this is impressive."

"Hollywood?" he says as he pivots on a heel, his shoes clacking as he leads me down the massive space.

"Felt right," I answer, but my mind is a thousand miles away.

"Be careful not to wander off. The library has a mind of its own," he mutters over his shoulder as he leads me down the walkway.

"What do you mean?" I want to stop and look at the books, but I'm starting to blindly trust Dorian, thinking that maybe he will lead me somewhere magical.

"Did you not notice that this space is only a fraction of what's above?" He doesn't look at me as he speaks.

My smaller legs move twice as fast to walk beside him. "I mean, not all basements are the size of the first floor."

"This is triple the size." He pauses and looks down at me. "Look back."

I can feel the frown on my forehead as I look behind me and gasp. The space we spilled out of is a small alcove, but the hallway appears never-ending. I blink a few times, trying to comprehend what I'm seeing. "That can't be right."

"Like I said, stay close," he says in his cold, detached voice.

I whirl back around and nod, because I'm not even sure my shadows could help me get out of this place. "How do you have access? I didn't know this place existed."

He grunts and begins to walk all over again. "My family donates graciously to this school."

"So you're rich." That explains his entire vibe.

"My family is rich, yes," he answers, his voice flat, hinting at a distance he's deliberately placed between himself and his wealth. Intriguing. I don't want to find Dorian Gray interesting, and yet, somehow, I do.

He turns abruptly and faces me, extending one arm toward another alcove that looks like a hidden gem within this labyrinth of history.

As I approach the indicated spot, I see a small seating area arranged in a semicircle around a circular desk. Twinkle lights shimmer above us, casting a warm, inviting glow, and the shelves are crammed with more books. It's unexpectedly quaint, resembling a cozy restaurant nook rather than a corner of a clandestine library.

I hear the gentle hum of a refrigerator hidden in a nook between a bookshelf and the table as I draw nearer.

"There is an assortment of drinks in there as well as premade sandwiches. It isn't anything fancy, and it isn't a hot meal, but it is food," he says, his tone practical as he slides into a chair at the table. Various books are spread out before him, along with a notepad, where he immediately begins to scribble notes.

Feeling somewhat dismissed, I grab a soda, chips, and a sandwich and settle across from him. My book bag hits the floor with a thud, and I start to open my soda and unpack my food.

Because I'm naturally curious, and it's only the second day of school which means I'm without homework, I venture a question. "What are you working on?"

I lift one edge of a textbook. It's an ancient art book.

Dorian quickly slaps the book down, his fog-colored eyes darting from my hand back to my face. "Don't touch."

I raise my hands in mock surrender and lean back, tearing off a piece of my sandwich and popping it into my mouth. Dorian watches me chew for a few moments before returning his attention to his notes.

I study him quietly. Despite our rough start, something about him suggests he has layers far deeper and more complex than the cold exterior he presents. He's often alone, only seen with Professor Blackwood, and I can't recall ever seeing him with friends. He's intriguing in a forbidden way—entirely off-limits, yet undeniably magnetic.

I pop another piece of sandwich into my mouth, enjoying the slight irritation it seems to cause him.

Setting his pencil down, Dorian looks up, his gaze lingering on my mouth. I fight the urge to smirk, finding perverse pleasure in annoying him.

"My thesis," he finally says, leaning back and gripping the pencil tightly, the eraser rhythmically tapping against the paper. "You should work on yours."

"Can't," I reply, my mouth full of food. "My thesis is on my computer in the lab."

"Don't speak with your mouth full."

I chew louder.

He closes his eyes, taking a slow, deep breath. "Must you?"

"Yes, I must," I respond, not because I need to, but because challenging him feels right. I have control here, unlike in the diner where things spiraled far beyond my comfort zone.

I don't regret what happened. Hell, I'm young and supposed to experiment sexually, and it was exhilarating, but it's how easily it all happened that gnaws at me. I don't even know Matteo's last name.

I know Dorian doesn't like me, and he's only here because our professor ordered it. If it were his choice, I wouldn't be sitting here, and as twisted as it sounds, that feels safer.

"Do we have to do this daily?" I ask, part of me warming to the idea of hiding out here among these quiet, secret tomes. Another part of me is restless, though I know once assignments start piling up, I'll appreciate this secluded space. Maybe I should play nice.

"For this week at least," he replies. "I'll speak to the professor."

I nod, allowing the silence to stretch between us, almost nurturing the awkward tension. I thrive in discomfort—it's in comfort that I begin to feel uneasy.

"So, your thesis," I continue curiously. "You're an art major?"

"Minor," he corrects, reaching for another book and sliding it across to me. On the cover is an old photograph of a priest.

"Art lore," I murmur, tugging the book toward me, suddenly intrigued. "The mythological lore behind famous paintings." That's actually fascinating. I begin to flip through the book slowly, pausing on a picture of the priest from the front cover.

"Saint Joseph." Dorian points at the image. There's a new timbre in his voice—excitement, a fervor that wasn't there before. Watching this transformation is captivating. "It was said that if you gazed at his picture long enough, he'd whisper to you, asking what your purpose in life is."

The way his eyes light up, as if the fog has been lifted from them, both literally and metaphorically, draws me in, almost making me miss his next words.

"A nun once stared at his portrait for so long that she heard that question." He leans forward, resting his arms on the table, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "When asked, she replied, ‘To serve our Lord.'" His lips twitch as if amused by the answer.

"What happened to her?" I ask, drawn into the story.

"She got pregnant a year later by the bishop. She had the child in secret and then killed herself." He delivers the facts with clinical detachment, but they hit with the weight of tragedy.

"That's terrible," I say instinctively.

"Is it?" he questions, tilting his head curiously. "Every single individual who claims to have heard Saint Joseph speak to them has died within the year."

"That's a weird coincidence," I reply, a shiver running through me. Is it just a coincidence? If my shadows can bend to my will, why couldn't a saint's portrait whisper life-altering questions? "What does that mean?"

"It means they didn't answer truthfully," he says, taking the book from me and spinning it to face him. He stares at the image, his gaze distant and thoughtful. "Knowing one's purpose is an impossibility."

"It was a trick question then."

"Yes." He snaps the book shut and sets it aside. "Serving the Lord isn't a purpose, it's an action. You can't quantify purpose."

"That's assuming the story is true, but it's just a story," I say, though I eye the book skeptically.

"Is it?" he challenges. "Would you like to find out?"

I roll my eyes and grab the book, determined to stare at the image until I hear Saint Joseph speak to me, but Dorian reaches out, pressing his palm against the book and pushing it down.

"No, Francesca, the real portrait."

"You know where it is?" I ask incredulously.

"I know how to find it," he replies cryptically.

Scoffing, I retort, "Sure you do."

"When you're ready." He returns to his essay. "Like the professor said, you don't even know your potential." He looks up at me, his gaze intense. "If you don't know your potential, you can never know your purpose."

My stomach twists at his words, and I turn away, choosing a random book from the shelf to distract myself just so I don't have to look at Dorian Gray any longer, because in under an hour, he disarmed me.

I thought I was in control. I'm starting to wonder if I ever had any control at all.