Daybreak (Sorrowsong University, #2) — Chapter no 7

Chapter 7

OPHELIA

The list of stupid things I’ve done in my life is probably long enough to wrap around the perimeter of the castle twice, but telling Alex to walk away felt like it should go somewhere near the top.

But if feeling stupid is the price to pay for shielding my heart from a final, damaging blow, then I’ll do it.

The pain in his eyes when I was turning away is burned into my soul. I felt like I was watching him give up. Not just on us, but on everything.

I asked Colette to send Vincenzo to find him, hoping he’d be able to convince him everything will be okay. I don’t want him to feel like he can’t call anyone when he’s at his lowest.

It’s so cliché, plucked from the top comment of any relationship advice thread on the internet, but Alex and I have a long way to go in terms of self- acceptance before we can try again. I think we’re too damaged to fully trust, fully open up to anyone.

I draw my knees up to my chest where I sit at the back of the minibus, the AirPods he got me in my ears. We’re most of the way through the drive back from a meet in Manchester, and while the silver medal in my bag was enough to make Belladonna want to drown me, I think it’s my proudest achievement here.

Belladonna took gold for backstroke; I took silver for the four hundred medley. Colette came in sixth, but she seems pretty happy.

The bus is quiet now. Illuminated only by blue striplights along the floor and the dim streetlamps on the dark road outside.

My parents would lose their minds if they knew I’d gotten a medal at such a big tournament. Who knew it, Dad, exercising actually works.

My phone pings, and I wonder how long it’ll take before that sound doesn’t fill me with dread.

It’s Alex. The first text from his new number.

My stomach sinks. I open up the message. It’s a picture of his laptop, this weekend’s swim results on the screen.

Alex Nice silver, Twist.

I shut my eyes, let my forehead drop to my knees. One day. He stayed away from me for one day. I don’t reply.

That nonexistent kiss was … that was everything I’ve needed and everything I need to avoid. My fingers trace my bottom lip, the sound of his swallowed moan echoing in my ear.

Colette taps me on the shoulder, a worried crease between her perfect brows. “What’s up?”

I tilt my phone toward her, to the only text between myself and Alex’s new number. She frowns, probably thinking something along the lines of: Why did I let you cry into your cereal in my bed all night if he was just

going to text you the next day?

“Do I reply?”

“Obviously.”

“You’re only saying that because you want us to get back together.”

“Quite right.”

“I don’t want to lead him on.”

“Just say thank you. Nothing flirty. That way, he knows he still has you if he’s really low, but you’re not giving him hope.”

I squint at Colette suspiciously. I’m not sure if I trust her, given that she is, in my opinion, giving Vincenzo hope even though there is zero chance of her ever dating someone linked to a crime family.

I type out a stiff reply, keeping it firmly out of flirtatious territory.

Ophelia Thank you.

Alex You gonna celebrate?

Ophelia Hopefully with sleep.

Alex You’ve earned it.

I run my thumb over his name. If I could swap his sick brain with mine, I would. He deserves peace. He deserves life.

All I’ve thought about since he left is his mom. How he’s watching her slip away. I can’t imagine it—this long, slow acceptance that she probably won’t grow to be very old. I lost my mom, too, but quickly. She was here and then she wasn’t.

I don’t reply to him, even though I feel bad. But the texts give me hope.

Maybe one day, when all of this is over and his dad is withering away behind bars, we could be friends.

I almost laugh out loud at my own stupidity. Having to force my feelings for Alex into a friendship-sized mold, to take the love and the anger and the desperation and try to make them something beige and neutral, might be the final straw for my miserable existence.

Luckily, he ends the conversation for me, and I vow to myself that unless I think he’s in real danger, that is the end of it.

The end of us.

Alex Goodnight. Sleep well.

I shut off my phone, hearing my name uttered a few rows in front. Most of the swimmers are sleeping, except a guy in third year and his girlfriend who are just one inappropriate pair of shorts away from fucking in their seats. Colette yawns, lashes fluttering sleepily. “Are we nearly there?”

“Yeah.”

Her phone dings. Someone has sent a link into the swimming group chat that I refuse to join. She opens it and angles her phone away from me.

This is never good.

“Show me.”

“It’s stupid.”

I snatch it from her grip. It’s on some social media platform I don’t have. A not particularly flattering—though my triceps look fantastic—

picture of me getting out of the pool earlier today sits beneath the caption TFW Alex Corbeau-Green’s crazy ex is at your swim meet.

“What’s TFW?”

“Just like … that feeling when …”

“That feeling when Alex’s ex is at your swim meet?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the feeling?”

“What?”

“What does that even mean? What’s the feeling? She didn’t even say what her feeling about it is.”

Colette frowns, texting Belladonna and asking her to use her admin privileges to delete the link. “It’s just an internet expression.”

“Well, it’s a shit one.” I take her phone back and open up the replies.

They’re pretty terrible. I hand the phone back after my eyes coast over the words helicopter whore.

It’s not the nickname I would’ve chosen for myself. Biscuit whore might be more fitting.

“Don’t they have something better to do?” I ask, refusing to let their words sink in. This is just one of many reasons I can’t be with Alex. Me and the spotlight don’t mix well. I’m a ginger, for heaven’s sake; I’m made to hide in dark corners. All this media attention is the sun, and I’m thoroughly sunburned, tired of it all. “Why do I get more hate than Cain?”

“Because the world will turn a blind eye to the actions of a rich man if there’s a defenseless woman around to take the hit instead.” Her expression brightens at a text on her lockscreen. “My dresses for the Winter Ball have been delivered!”

“Fun,” I say, failing to hide my lack of enthusiasm.

“Ophelia, you have to come.”

“I’m ill tomorrow.”

She scowls at me. “You’re ill all the time.”

“Then I’m busy tomorrow.”

“With what?”

“I have to hang up my used tea bags.”

“You’re going,” she declares. “And you’re going to wear green.”

“Great. That’ll look good with the wine that inevitably gets thrown on me.”

I burrow deeper into the seat, tugging the sleeves of my hoodie over my cold hands while the others laugh at whatever jokes they’re reading about me.

My phone lights up again on the foldout table in front of me.

Unknown I’d hate for something to happen to your Prince Charming because of you.

Unknown This could all be over so easily.

Anxiety prickles the back of my neck. Colette swallows, eyes wide.

“Don’t agree to meet them, Ophelia. Don’t let them use Alex to lure you into a trap. Let the investigators work on it.”

I attempt to run my hands though my hair, though they’re thwarted by the endless tangles that never seem to go away. “But they’re not getting anywhere.”

“It could just be a student playing a truly stupid prank. You are in the spotlight right now. Keep ignoring it and it’ll go away,” she reassures me, snaking an arm around my shoulders.

Everyone seems to think that, but I’m not so sure. If it was a student, surely I’d have found something out by now.

I slide my phone into my pocket and let her maneuver the conversation to an art gallery opening she’s attending next month, but unease prickles my gut. Prince Charming. Did they see me with Alex in his car?

Threats to my safety have become this constant, dull toothache during my time here, irritating and persistent but feeling increasingly … manageable. Which is a ridiculous thing to say, but it’s true. They’re a part of my daily routine now. Wake up, eat slice of toast, receive death threat, eat second slice of toast, go to a lecture.

But it’s not just about me now. A threat to Alex’s safety?

That, I cannot ignore.

DIVYA STEPS OUT of the bathroom, her mouth dropping open when she sees me. “Oh my god. You look hot.”

I feel embarrassment heat my cheeks. “Don’t sound surprised.”

“I’m not. It’s just been a while since you’ve not worn pajamas.”

“Rude!” scolds Colette, laughing as she dusts something over my cheeks and nose with her brush. “Shut your eyes.”

I do, and a smaller brush tickles across my eyelids. Colette sighs contently. I think she might be in her happy place. She’s given me a dress that she supposedly didn’t want. Except it’s a deep shade of green—my favorite color—and at least a size too big for her, tags still attached.

But she rejects any claims that it’s anything but an old dress she doesn’t want anymore.

Something settles beneath my lash line. Hopefully a mascara brush.

“Okay, blink. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And

again.”

“Oh my god.”

She makes me do it all again on the other side and then puts loose waves in my unruly hair.

It feels foolish, getting all dressed up for an event I wasn’t even planning to go to until Colette convinced me yesterday. I’m already anticipating the lingering glances, the looks that sit anywhere from pity to hatred. But I’ve longed for a night out with friends for so long that not attending feels like a disservice to all the progress I’ve made since getting here.

Dressed in a spectacular gothic gown with black lace sleeves like vines that creep over her dark brown skin, Magda tops all of our cocktails up with champagne.

“Finished!” Colette steps back, impressively steady on the pinpoint heels of her navy Louboutins.

I dare a glance in the mirror, unable to hide the smile that sneaks across my glossy lips. There’s a little eyeshadow wing on my lash line, and all the blinking was worth it, because my lashes look great. The purple circles that hang beneath my eyes are gone. The dress is backless, save for a few thin

straps that pull my waist in.

Divya grins. “You look so good, right?”

Colette claps. “Well, with such a pretty canvas …”

“I like that you didn’t cover my freckles.”

“Of course! I would die for freckles like yours.”

Magda and Divya are arguing over some TV show they’re both watching. Colette is humming quietly as she swipes a final coat of gloss

over her lips. For a tiny, begrudging second, I’m glad she convinced me to come, because this easy, comfortable friendship is everything I’ve been missing the past few years. I can feel it slipping beneath my skin, making me stronger, nurturing that lonely teenage girl who wanted nothing more than to be included.

When I catch Divya’s eye in the mirror, I realize with great horror that I’m smiling.

I slip my feet into my Converse just as a quiet rumble of thunder cracks across the valley. Perfect weather for a Sorrowsong party, I suppose.

We run across the cobbled courtyard and into Achlys’s Hall, the four of us trying to hide under one jacket. The ball is already in full swing when we arrive, the room bustling beneath the watchful gaze of the painting that has set me on edge since the day I arrived.

Candles line each wall, hanging from chandeliers above us like a twinkling night sky, heels clicking against the tiled mosaic beneath our feet.

The last shards of daylight slip through the high arched windows on the two longest walls, failing to brighten up the place. A small orchestra play in almost complete darkness at the far end. The paintings and vases that decorate the near side of the room are all winter themed: frozen landscapes and icy lakes behind white roses and pale blue delphinium that rise from the vases like icicles. But at the far end of the hall, the lakes in the paintings have thawed, the flowers turning to pastel shades of pink and orange.

A reminder that we are teetering on the edge of spring.

I try to twist it into something clever about fresh starts and new beginnings, but I can’t.

I can’t spin anything positive out of losing Alex.

If I thought Magda’s dress was something special, Belladonna’s is on another level. In a black gown that looks like it could’ve been plucked from Sorrowsong’s dusty crypts this morning, she’s somewhere between a gothic witch and a regency bride, accessorized with a black spider necklace and the captain of the women’s rugby squad.

“Winters,” she mutters, gazing down at me. Her eyes are unreadable beneath the wing of eyeliner that looks sharp enough to cut someone.

“Belladonna.”

“Glad you came,” she says, like she knows something I don’t.

I open my mouth to ask her why, but she turns and stalks away.

“What is her problem?” Divya says, rolling her eyes. “She’ll regret it when she dies alone.”

I shrug as we head toward the bar, grabbing four cocktails from the tiered silver tray that’s almost as tall as I am. “I find her really hard to dislike. I don’t know why.”

“Me too! I feel like … growing up in that family, she has to have seen some things, right?” says Colette, who may well be tipsy already. “Like Vincenzo—he can hardly fall asleep at night.”

I frown. “Really?”

“Yeah. He definitely has something going on.”

Magda clinks her glass against each of ours. I bring mine to my lips, the welcome burn of whisky sliding down my throat, leaving the honey aftertaste of Drambuie behind. “Well, the Ivanovs keep trying to kill him, so that can’t exactly help.”

Colette scans the crowd, looking for him. The Nightshade students seem to lurk in the shadows, stolen kisses lingering between hushed conversations and whispered threats. Hemlock have flooded the dance floor, Snakeroot mingling around the edges in deep and thoughtful conversation.

For those I know in Cortinar, this is just another opportunity to show off their extensive wardrobes and family millions. Colette is no exception, dripping in jewels and a powder blue, off-the-shoulder tulle dress that has her looking like she might lose a slipper and find a prince this evening.

Knowing her, she probably will.

Or maybe not, I think, as I spot Eike, her driver-turned-bodyguard- turned-killjoy keeping a watchful eye on her from his position leaning over the ornate banister of the two curved staircases behind us, smartly dressed in a black tuxedo.

I doubt he’d let her breathe if her stepfather didn’t allow it.

“Can you ballroom dance?” she asks, face lighting up as the song changes.

“Colette, do I look like a woman who can ballroom dance?”

She pouts, but Magda gladly takes her hand. Of course Magda can ballroom dance. I’m content to stand and watch them, unable not to let Colette’s infectious joy tease a small smile out of me when she swaps partners to dance with her friend Hattie, the daughter of a princess and a famous dressage rider.

Divya gets tugged away by some medical student friends, and immediately, I become hyperaware of another presence beside me, a Scottish accent softened at the edges.

“It feels like no time at all since we met in this very spot.”

I glance up at Achlys, at the way she sneers at me in the darkness of the hall, painted in such great detail that it looks like she might reach out from her frame and stroke her dirty fingernails down my cheek. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”

“Isn’t it quite peculiar how time passes so differently for each of us?”

Carmichael is looking right at me when I glance his way, eyes burning into my soul.

He’s always creeped me out. He feels like an extension of Sorrowsong Castle, rather than an employee of it. If I look hard enough, I find him at every event, every rugby game, every exam, watching me with that lifeless stare.

“Time would pass faster for me if you hadn’t let my parents’ murder slip through your net.”

His smile is cold, eyes colorless. The flowers that peek out of the breast pocket of his merlot-colored waistcoat are dead and dried up. “I would be careful not to wish for your life to pass too quickly, Miss Winters.”

I wish he’d just leave. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to convince Alex to come back to Sorrowsong.”

That takes me by surprise. “Why?”

He runs his thumb and forefinger over his mustache, deep in thought as he watches a couple waltz across the polished tile. “For a friend.”

I narrow my eyes at him, trying to piece a jigsaw together with a feeling that I don’t have all the pieces. “His mom? Elise?”

“I told her I’d watch over him.”

“Why?” I ask, following his gaze back to the couple that twirl under the candlelight. “Oh my god. You’re in love with Elise.”

“I was, once. But she was young, and I was old. She is all the good in the world, and I am the bad. Cain Green covered her wings in oil, caught her in a trap. When her health started to spiral and Cain’s intentions for Alex’s future became clear, she asked me to keep an eye on him.”

I chew on my lip, unsure why this man sets me so on edge. “You cannot convince me you’re a good man, that you’re doing this because you care

about what happens to us.”

He chuckles, fiddling with his pocket watch. “I’m not a good man at all, Ophelia. But I am a man of my word.”

“Is that what you think? That you’re protecting Alex?”

“I told the police that Clint Bancroft had suggested to me multiple times last year that he intended to kill himself. They lost all interest in his death after that.”

My breath catches in my throat, lungs stalling under his lifeless stare.

He knows we killed Bancroft.

My phone burns a hole in my hand. Carmichael could’ve taken the photo and sent it to me. Carmichael could’ve posted the article to remove Cain from Alex’s life.

I make a note to suggest it to Mack when we speak next.

The cocktail slips down my throat so easily, stoking the dwindling fire in my soul. “Alex and I aren’t together. Convince him yourself.”

“He only listens to you and the psychiatrist.”

I drop my empty tumbler onto the silver tray of a passing waiter, meeting Carmichael’s eyes with my shoulders back and my head high.

“Alex’s decisions are his own to make, and I owe you nothing.”

I shove through the crowd of students toward the double doors that lead to the hallway, desperate for some air.

The atmosphere shifts as I near the staircases, the loud buzz of chatter quieting to a hum. The sea of people seems to part, a few murmured sentences filtering through the crowd. I turn around and strain my neck, trying to see what the fuss is about. People glance at me, then back at whoever it is who’s just entered the hall.

And I just know.

I know it’s him before he comes into view. I know it’s him from the way people look at him. I know it’s him from the way the oxygen in the air seems to fizzle up and burn.

But I’m still not prepared when he stops in the middle of the dance floor, looking at me like I’m his only hope at a happy ending.

Alex in a suit is a sight for sore eyes. Droplets of rain glisten on the black fabric of the jacket, drip from the lock of hair that curls over his forehead, trickle over the curve of his bottom lip, glue his white shirt to his skin.

I stumble backward, the whole room waiting on my reaction. He gives me an infinitesimal shake of his head. Don’t run from me.

He clears the space between us in a second, a hand running through his hair as he takes in the green gown that clings to my upper body like a second skin. He looks like he’s forgotten whatever it was he was here for.

“Fuck, Ophelia. I had a whole speech planned.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the weight of hundreds of eyes stops the words from coming out. Colette is stood beside Belladonna on the edge of the crowd, not a lick of surprise in their expressions.

Traitors.

Go. The word is sitting on the top of my tongue, heavy and uncomfortable.

The song changes to something softer, slower. Even the staff that hurry around with trays of drinks seem to have frozen, suspended in time until Colette drags Vincenzo onto the dance floor. “I’m sure Alex and Ophelia would love to have a dance?” she says, loud enough for half the student body to hear.

I catch her gaze. I’ll murder you in your sleep, my glare says.

Not if you’re busy banging Alex, hers says back.

Alex’s hands settle on my waist, wide and scorching through the thin material of my dress. Panic flares up in my chest, frantic flames that lick the wall around my heart. “I don’t dance.”

I try to step back, but he has me ensnared in his grip, bright green eyes glittering with something that’s so comfortingly familiar that a shard of pain slices through my chest. “Alex.”

His fingers flex and unflex around my waist, as if testing that I’m real.

The weight of so many eyes has my shoulders drooping, fighting that lifelong urge to fold in on myself and disappear. “Ophelia.”

“You agreed to leave.”

A small smile lifts his lips. “I was young and foolish back then.”

“Two days ago?” I breathe out, in disbelief.

He pulls me to his chest as more drunken couples surround us. His voice is a deep rumble beside my ear. “Yeah. Old news. Forget that ever happened.”

I fight to stay focused, fight to keep my brain still and steady when it feels like the rest of my body is being dragged into his orbit. He doesn’t

look good. His hand sliding down my back doesn’t set my blood on fire. “It wasn’t foolish, Alex. It was the only sensible thing we’ve done in the last two months.”

He lifts my hand in his, twirling me once. When he drags me back to him, my back is pressed to his front, his arms snaking over the soft flesh of my stomach. His lips press just beneath my ear, his next exhale bordering a moan. My knees feel like they can’t be bothered to hold me up anymore. “It was foolish,” he rasps, “because I’d have to be unthinkably stupid to give up on a chance with you.”

My lashes drift shut as I revel for a split second in the feel of his warm, hard body around mine. His scent soothes my senses, the rapid thrum of his heart against my back in perfect time with my own. “And do you think you have a chance?” I ask, letting my hands slide behind me, clumsily finding their way beneath his jacket. “This isn’t Monopoly.”

His laugh is a husky, treacherous thing. The music seems to slow, suspended in treacle like the rest of the world around us. The hall is full of laughter and conversation, but I can hear our breath louder than anything else. “If it was, you’d be Mayfair.”

My head is swimming, a heady combination of alcohol and Alex Corbeau-Green’s hands that run up and down my body like he can’t get enough. “And you’d be in jail.”

“But I get three tries to get out, right?”

Fuck. “Not in this game.”

“I’ve used one,” he breathes, lips tracing the shell of my ear. Desire is a punishing drumbeat somewhere low in my belly. “And I won’t need a third.”

“You used your first when you almost hit me with your car.”

He spins me back to face him so fast that I’m pressed flush against him before I can blink. “That’s not fair. You were standing in the middle of the road.”

“When you ate the last Jelly Baby our first night together, then.”

The blush that accompanies his small, hopeful smile chips away at me.

“One last chance to get out of jail, Twist. Please.”

I press my cheek to his chest, let out a ragged, tortured sigh.

Even with my eyes closed, I see it. The flash of a camera, jarring me out of whatever trance I was in. Another comes, and it’s too bright, too harsh,

like that blinding light that hovers too close to your face at the dentist.

And here it is. Another reminder of why he and I are oil and water. Our worlds don’t mix. I pull my hands off the hard, warm muscles of his back like he’s on fire.

When I swing my eyes open, Vincenzo is punching the phone out of someone’s hand and Alex is hiding my face with his body. A few other students take pictures like this is the most interesting thing to happen all year, and I know they’ll be somewhere online before the evening is up.

“Fucking idiots,” Alex mutters, dragging me toward the bar.

But I don’t need a drink. I don’t need more eyes on me, more pictures of me traveling around the university’s depressing hallways. I need to get out.

I yank myself from his grip, instead making a jog for the small wooden door to our right.

The rain is hammering down outside the castle, running down Sorrowsong’s rusty pipes and pattering through the dense tree line in front of me. I tip my head back, letting the icy droplets snatch my breath away in a desperate attempt to wash the sticky, hot desire from my body.

I hear the door clatter shut. My stomach sinks into the wet earth at my

feet. “Just go.”

“No.”

“I—” My reply fizzles out on my tongue. “What?”

“No,” he breathes, as thunder rumbles above us. “I’m saying no,

Ophelia.”

“We don’t get a happy ending.”

“Says who?”

“The universe!” I shout back, over the storm that whips my hair around my face. I turn away, anything to not have to see the look in his eyes. “Do you see the way they stare in there? We’re a car crash.”

A warm hand shoots out to grab my biceps before I can walk into the woods, away from him. “That’s bullshit, Ophelia.”

I spin to face him, snatching my arm from his grip. All I’ve given him so far is anger, but when my voice cuts through the howling of the wind, what I hear in it is the hurt and the insecurity that he put there on that miserable

January morning. “You left me!”

“I know.”

“I never want you to have to choose again. I never want you to be split in two again. I never want to feel the way I did when you left again.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“How can you know that?”

He pulls me to him, sheltering me from the rain. His voice is softer now, barely audible over the howling wind. “Because every day that you’re not mine is knocking another year off my life.”

I rest my forehead against the soaking fabric of his shirt, feeling the thundering heart beneath. I’d do anything to protect that heart. “It’s not just what happened last month. It’s everything. It’s what your father did to me.

It’s the distance between us. I am a student, Alex. You’re a CEO. We are worlds apart. I’ll hardly see you for the next few years. I can’t get on a plane to see you, and I can’t ask you to spend time away from the girls.”

I feel his cheek rest on the top of my head, the two of us standing outside Sorrowsong’s lichen-covered walls in the driving rain. I wish that being in his arms didn’t feel like coming home. “I’ll still see you.”

A couple times a year, if we’re lucky.

His hands slip beneath the low back of my dress, over my frozen skin.

His shaky exhale warms the top of my head, voice ragged with desperation when it splinters our silence. “I need you. I can’t live without you.”

I sigh into the curve of his neck, a warm, dry haven in the violent storm.

“Alex. We’re young. We don’t know what we need. We don’t know anything about anything.”

“Is that what this feels like to you?” he asks, hands sliding down to my hips, pressing my body against his. “A young, foolish fling?”

No. This feels like the beginning and end of the world. The unbridled hope of a sunrise and the regret and closure of the sun sinking behind the horizon. It feels like he’s holding the needle and thread to stitch up my broken heart. If I let him in and he pulled away again, the thread would rip through the delicate flesh and leave me to bleed out on the floor.

But my judgement is clouded by lust, emboldened by the whisky I can still taste on my tongue. Desire is a potent drug, and Alex seems to inject me with it. He plants his soft lips at the point where my pulse drums in my neck and gently sucks, sending my head dropping back involuntarily. His hand slips down the low back of my dress. The thunder covers any noise he makes, but I feel the rumble of it in his throat. “Please.”

I walk him toward the wet stone wall behind us, legs wobbling.

“Give me until midnight. Three hours. Just give me three hours.”

Three hours. One hundred and eighty minutes to remind my lonely heart of what it feels like to be loved again.

I don’t know how anyone could be strong enough to resist.

His next kiss on my neck makes my knees buckle. He pulls away, waiting for my answer with bated breath. His wet hair tumbles down in tousled strands, the black ink on his chest peeking through the soaking fabric of his white dress shirt. A fat raindrop seems to drip from his clumped lashes in slow motion as his gaze drops to my lips, asking, begging, wanting.

“Midnight,” I choke out, and his lips come crashing down on mine.

Nothing about the kiss feels young or foolish. His touch is rough and reverential all at once, spanning my neck and jaw to hold me in place. My skin turns to gold wherever his fingers sink into my flesh.

I push his blazer open, feeling the muscles of his abdomen tense beneath the crisp white cotton. The hand on my jaw squeezes gently, forcing my mouth to open just wide enough for him to deepen the kiss. Desire trickles down my spine, pooling in my lower stomach like warm honey.

God, I’ve missed this. But it’s not just this—I’ve missed him.

He spins us so it’s my back against the stone of the castle walls, hand grabbing the back of my thigh and hooking my leg over his hip as he swallows my frantic moan. His mouth is hot and heavy, demanding and possessive on mine as his fingers find the sensitive skin beneath the skirt of my dress, trailing inwards from my hip.

He breaks the kiss with a gentle bite of my lip, broad chest heaving. His pupils dilate, inky black pools of need when he realizes just how much he turns me on. “Can I?”

I nod, desperate for his lips on mine again. “No strings.”

His fingers sink into me, sending my head falling forward into his chest and my eyes to the back of his head.

It’ll never be like this with anyone else.

“Strings, Ophelia. So many fucking strings. Strings in every cell of my body.”

My strangled cry gets carried away on the wind, wishing so badly that he wasn’t right. I am tied to Alex in a way I cannot explain, hoping like a

fool that the threads will dissolve in the rain like week-old stitches. “No strings.”

“If that’s what you have to tell yourself,” he concedes, gazing down at me lazily like his fingers don’t have me clawing at the stone behind me. His other hand slips beneath the neckline of my dress, thumb skating over my nipple. Frantic pleas tumble out of my mouth, my hips starting to move in

time with his thick forearm.

“Does this feel no strings, to you?”

My leg gives out, but his body holds me upright against the wall. Each labored thud of my heart sends another torturous wave of him into my bloodstream. “Alex.”

“Do you think a man with no strings attached could make you feel this way?”

My heel digs into his lower back, hand shooting out to grab his arm like there’s a chance he might stop. “Please.”

“You don’t need to beg me for anything.”

My chest rises and falls beneath my dress. Stupid, angry, lovesick, ecstatic tears spill from my eyes. “I’m going to—I’m gonna—”

He drops to his knees on the wet cobblestone, moving my thigh from his hip to his shoulder and burying his head beneath the lush satin of my skirt.

My back arches. His hand comes to steady me at the waist. I shout his name at the swirling sky just as a furious bolt of lightning splits it into two.

And I fall apart.

Physically. Metaphorically. In every way.

The world melts into a flat, white sheet until all that exists is him and me and the endless mass of strings that tie us together in a hundred different ways.

He rises to his feet and catches me in his arms, brushing the hair from my face. His lips are a little swollen, vibrant green eyes watching me intently. “Okay?”

I shut my eyes. That was … okay doesn’t scratch the surface. I nod weakly, limp in his arms as he carries me past the entrance to the hall and onto the forested path to the mansion. I put a hand on his chest, trying to get

to the ground. “Put me down.”

“You need to get warm and dry.”

“But my friends … I ditched them.”

“Colette and Vincenzo know I’m here. They helped set this up.”

“Put me down,” I repeat, but there’s zero conviction behind the words.

My head leans into the hard wall of his chest, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt.

He hurries us along the path, the mossy cobblestones borderline underwater at his feet. The mansion looks dark and deserted when I swipe my access card beside the double doors, hyperaware of every shadow, every noise, every open door.

He climbs the stairs in silence, save for the chattering of my teeth and the dripping of water from our clothes onto the polished steps. I drink in every inch of him and pretend that the way his thumb gently strokes my back as he walks doesn’t fill me with hope for our future.

In my room, Alex heads straight into the bathroom to get a towel, and I fish my phone from Colette’s borrowed purse to tell her I’m at the mansion.

My eyes zero in on the lone notification on the lockscreen, my blood turning to ice in my veins.

The photo of Alex and me is hazy from the rain, but I know it was taken no less than ten minutes ago, the two of us huddled together as we jog toward the mansion.

Unknown What makes you think you get a happy ending?

Unknown Leave him, or he’ll be dying with you.

I open my mouth to tell Alex, but then the second message comes through.

A photo of an airport. And beyond a wire fence, a Green Aviation jet.

Unknown Wouldn’t want something to happen to his plane, would you?

No, no, no. Please, no.

I’m at the window in half a second, scanning the brambles and the hedges of the mansion’s unruly gardens. I brace myself with each startling flash of lighting, just waiting to see a shadowy figure standing alone on the lawn. Cain, Carmichael, Shawn. I’m simultaneously terrified and desperate

to catch a glimpse of something, anything that might identify who is doing this.

“Ophelia,” Alex sighs, coming out of the bathroom with a towel for my hair. The exasperation is evident in his tone as he begins meticulously drying each strand. “You cannot be serious with this no strings thing.”

My heart is hammering in my chest, tongue tied in a knot. His eyes flick to the window, at my ghostly white reflection in the thin glass. The next gust of wind sends a branch of ivy into the window, and I jump out of my skin.

Alex frowns beside me, a steady hand landing on my lower back. “Are you all right?”

“I … I don’t think you should be here. You need to leave.”

His lips drop to my shoulder, but fear is like a blanket starving the flames of my desire. “I disagree.”

“Alex, you’ll leave tomorrow morning and then we probably won’t see each other for eight months.” I lay out the excuses as the text burns through my mind. “And I can’t handle you leaving me every time you convince yourself you’re not worthy of a relationship, and you’re so many miles away, and you have your sisters, and—”

And he’s always afraid that his presence in my life puts me in danger, but now I’m wondering if it’s the other way round.

“Ophelia, breathe.”

The blood is rushing in my ears, a deafening roar like the rotors of a helicopter spiraling down toward the forest. “I can’t.”

“You can, baby. You definitely can.”

I can’t drag my eyes from the window. I inhale to tell Alex about the text several times, but nothing ever comes out. What if someone’s hovering outside the door, if someone has bugged my room, if someone’s watching

us from the window?

I need to call Mack.

A steaming mug of tea appears between my hands, delivered with a gentle kiss to the top of my head. “I can’t do no strings. Not with you.”

“Then let’s just …”

“If you’re about to say be friends—”

“You should go, Alex. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Is that really what you want?”

No.

I turn to face him in the quiet darkness of my room and give him half of the truth. “I don’t trust myself to share a bed with you and just sleep.”

His eyes soften between wet, clumped lashes, like he really does understand. “Tell me we still have a chance, Winters.”

I flick a nervous glance to the door, voice barely audible as if there’s an invisible third person in the room who might be listening, waiting to take him from me. “We do. I just need … I just need time, Alex. I have things to … sort out.”

The fierce green of his irises seems to dilute with relief, a small smile on his lips. “I’m gonna roll a double.”

Were his lips always this tempting? How did we ever get any studying done last term?

He cups my face in his hands and plants a searing kiss on my lips. What happened outside Achlys’s Hall was pure, unadulterated lust, but this? This is something else entirely. A soft, tender sort of love that’s melting all my broken pieces together.

“I’ll walk you back,” I blurt out, panicked for his safety.

But what if my presence only makes him more of a target?

I’ve not had someone to worry about for a very long time. I’m out of my depth.

“I think I’ll survive.” His unbothered smile only makes me more uneasy.

The pad of his thumb skates a lazy line along my bottom lip. “Stay out of trouble, Twist.”

And then he’s walking backward, away from me. Away from harm, I hope. I’m relieved and disappointed in equal measure, watching as he pulls open the door and leans against the doorframe and oh god, why does he have to do that?

I’m blushing like he’s just done something unthinkable, looking anywhere but the inch of exposed skin where his shirt has untucked beneath his jacket. He’s fighting a smile when I finally manage to make eye contact, like my thoughts are projected onto the wall behind me for him to see.

“Four letters, first letter F—”

I splutter, squeezing my thighs together beneath the skirt of my dress. “I … we … no, I wasn’t …”

“Such a dirty mind, Winters, I was going to suggest you get some food.”

And then he’s gone, taking this ridiculous sexual tension with him. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. If horny and anxious was a facial expression, I’ve really nailed it.

Pull yourself together, Winters. Jesus Christ.

Pressing my phone to my ear and my forehead to the window, I watch Alex’s oversized silhouette pace up the path away from the mansion.

The voice on the other end of the phone is way too cheerful. “Joe’s

Pizza.”

“I … what?”

“It’s Mack. You might be the first person to fall for that. You’re in luck; I’m with Brendan. What can we do for you?”

“Can you have someone check, double-check, and triple-check Alex’s plane home?”

I hear fingers against a keyboard. “They do that anyway.”

“Quadruple, then.”

“On it.” I hear muffled voices. “Oh wow.”

“What?”

“The picture of the plane.”

“How did you …”

“Even if Brendan wasn’t capable of hacking into almost any system anywhere in the world, I think I would’ve guessed Gandalf1 was your password in my first three tries. Did you tell Alex about this?”

“No.”

“You know, if you guys went to couple’s therapy, the first rule is always communi—”

“Alex cannot be in danger, Mack. I can’t let anything happen to him.”

“We’re in agreement, then.”

“I don’t understand why you can’t trace—”

“The texts to a specific person, yes, we know,” comes Brendan’s voice.

“You’ve said that twelve times. Ophelia, if you were going to send someone anonymous texts, would you do it from your phone?”

“No,” I grumble.

“No. Exactly. You’d buy a burner phone. The issue is not that we can’t hack the phone. It’s that it’s a cheap burner phone with nothing on it. No email address, no bank details, no addresses, nothing. All I can tell you is that the texts are coming from Sorrowsong and that we—”

“Think it would be below Cain to stalk me, yes, I know. You’ve said that twelve times.”

Brendan interrupts me with a victorious-sounding laugh. “It’s from the internet, the airport picture. It’s just taken from a plane-spotting website.”

Relief washes over me, but it leaves plenty of unease behind. What are they playing at? “Just because they used an old picture, doesn’t mean he’s not in danger.”

Mack sounds like he wants to block my number. “We are being paid to keep Alex and his family safe, and that’s exactly what we’re doing. As soon as you have any evidence to suggest we’re not doing that well enough, we’ll gladly accept this miserable attitude of yours—”

Alex disappears from my view, lost to the ominous darkness beyond the mansion’s gardens. “I liked Joe’s Pizza better.”

I hear Brendan’s laugh. “You ever been to New York?”

“I’ve never been on a plane.”

“Great pizza.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it. Goodnight.”

They hang up, but I don’t move, stood with my breath held and my phone in my hand until it finally pings with a text.

Alex Made it to my car in one piece.

Alex You were beautiful tonight.