Page 44

Trays scraping over tabletops, students clustered in hesitant groups like flocks unsure of their formation. Rain streaked the tall windows in diagonal slants, distorting the view of the courtyard beyond.

Outside, a puddle rippled under the weight of raindrops; inside, the air felt heavier still—like everyone was waiting for something to snap.

Y/N sat with Julia and Aisha, the latter dramatically spooning mashed potatoes onto her tray with all the joy of a condemned soul. Julia was scrolling absently on her phone, pretending not to glance at the Diagon students seated across the hall.

Y/N, however, had grown quiet.

Her food sat mostly untouched, her fork absentmindedly dragging lines through the mushy peas.

Her gaze had been fixed in one direction for far too long—one where a certain vampire sat, his pale eyes trailing over the crowd of students—he sent a smile to a girl who sat down, but never her way, not since the party.

She hadn't noticed until Aisha nudged her with a foot under the table. "Y/N. You okay?"

Y/N blinked. "Yeah? Yeah, I just—" Her voice trailed off as her eyes wandered again. Across the room, nestled near the far wall with his usual crew of vampires and vaguely threatening boys, sat him.

Calixto.

And he was staring.

Not in a subtle, blink-and-you-miss-it way. Not in the casual way someone might glance across the room and lose interest. He was watching her.

His fingers curled loosely around his blood bag, expression unreadable, jaw set in that unnervingly still way he sometimes wore when deep in thought. His eyes, however, were anything but neutral.

They were fixed on her.

Y/N swallowed, her pulse fluttering too close to her throat.

It had been weeks since the party. Since the kiss.

Since everything. And still, her mind returned to it more often than she cared to admit.

She had never been the kind of girl to lose herself in the moment like that.

Never been the type to kiss a boy she barely knew at some dorm party with loud music and too many shadows.

But with Calixto, it had felt different. Even then. Even now. She had let him in. Trusted him. Chosen him, in that fleeting, breathless moment.

And he hadn't spoken to her since.

Not really.

Not the way he used to.

No more sly remarks when they passed in the halls. No more smug grins, leaning against her locker like he had all the time in the world. Just a wall of silence—laced with stolen glances across crowded rooms.

And for the life of her, Y/N couldn't figure out if he was punishing her... or himself.

Some part of her wanted to march across the cafeteria and demand answers.

To ask him why he looked at her like that, like he remembered every second of that kiss just as vividly as she did—then did nothing.

Why he avoided her now, even as his eyes burned holes through her from across the room.

But she didn't move.

Instead, she dropped her gaze back to her plate, the weight of his stare lingering on her skin like a brand.

? ★ ?

Later, after classes, Y/N left the art studio with the scent of turpentine still clinging to her sleeves.

Her fingers were smudged with graphite, and her mind still vaguely preoccupied with the memory of Azul sketching her with such quiet concentration it made her feel like a page in someone else's story.

She was halfway down the corridor when she felt it—a presence.

She turned just in time to see Adrian step out from the shadow between two classrooms, his shoulders tense and his eyes stormy.

"Y/N." he said sharply. "Can I talk to you?"

Something in his voice gave her pause. Not harsh, exactly—but something edged, something urgent. She nodded, wordless, and allowed him to guide her into an alcove near the chemistry labs, just out of sight.

The air between them changed immediately.

It was thick. Close.

Too close.

She could smell rain on his jacket, the faint iron tang of blood somewhere underneath—faint, but always there. His hand braced the wall beside her head, though he didn't touch her, his body angled just enough to block the corridor.

Her heart picked up. "What's wrong?"

Adrian stared at her, the muscle in his jaw tightening once. Then again.

"What do you think of me?"

The question hit her like a drop of cold water.

She blinked. "What?"

He took a breath—sharp, but uneven. Like he hadn't planned to ask it aloud, but couldn't stop now.

"If I weren't a vampire," he said slowly, voice low, "would you still look at me the same?"

She stared at him, stunned. "Pfft—what the hell would you be then? A human?"

Adrian didn't smile.

His eyes were darker than usual, swirling with something volatile and raw beneath the surface. Something primal. Restless.

"Is that really the only alternative?"

"Huh?"

There was something in the way he said it. Not sarcastic. Not rhetorical. Almost mournful.

Y/N opened her mouth. Closed it again. The space between them seemed to shrink as she studied him—the stiff set of his shoulders, the faint tremor in his fingers, like something inside him was trying to claw its way out and he was barely holding it in.

"Adrian.." she whispered, voice almost lost in the hum of the corridor. "What are you saying—?"

His jaw flexed slightly, but he said nothing.

"Are you going?"

The question cut through the tension like a blade, sudden and jarring. But Y/N knew what he meant. Knew exactly what he was asking. She hesitated, eyes flicking toward the rain-drizzled windows nearby.

"The—The ball? Don't know, everyone else is. Julia already has a dress and Aisha swears someone's going to spike the punch but will still probably—"

"And you?"

Her gaze returned to his. "What about me?"

"Do you want to go?"

There it was again. Not a question meant to be answered lightly.

She exhaled slowly. "I think... I want to feel like a teenager for one night? Not a witness. Not a target. So, yes."

Adrian looked at her for a long time, expression unreadable—but softer now, less rigid. "If you go... and if you don't already have someone..." he said, voice low, "I'll be there."

The words hung in the air between them, quiet as snowfall.

Not a plea. Not a proposal.

Just a statement. A truth laid bare. Y/N felt something catch in her chest, not painful—but tight. "I'll.. keep that in mind." she murmured.

? ★ ?

By the time she reached her dorm, the corridors had quieted. Julia and Aisha were likely still in study hall or raiding the kitchens. The room was dim, shadows pooling near the window, the soft patter of rain a steady backdrop.

She dropped her bag, peeled off her damp jacket, and headed to her bed—

Then froze.

There, sitting squarely atop her pillow, was a folded slip of parchment. The paper was stiff from moisture, edges curling slightly. She picked it up with cautious fingers, unfolded it.

The message was scrawled in uneven ink, rushed and stark against the cream page.

Y/N stared at the words, heart thudding like thunder in her chest.

And for the first time in days, she didn't feel like someone choosing a dress or dodging crushes or pretending to be okay.

She felt hunted. The note trembled in her hands. For a long moment, Y/N didn't move—barely breathed. The silence in the room pressed in like a closing fist, her pulse loud in her ears. They're watching you.

She read the message again.

And then, slowly, folded it back with trembling fingers, sliding it beneath her pillow as though hiding it could make it less real.

But the truth settled in her bones like frost: something was shifting.

Something was coming.

? ★ ?

Across campus, the art studio was mostly empty save for one boy—quiet, meticulous, and still. Azul stood beneath the wan glow of the hanging lamp, his paint-stained smock half-buttoned, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His brush hovered over the canvas, suspended in thought.

The portrait stared back at him.

Her.

Y/N.

Captured mid-focus, her brows gently furrowed, lips slightly parted as if caught just before saying something. There was a delicacy to her expression—vulnerable, yet composed. The light fell across her cheekbone in the way he remembered from earlier, softening the sadness in her eyes.

But the sadness was there.

Unmistakable.

A confused kind of ache he hadn't meant to capture but couldn't seem to erase. She looked like she was searching for something just out of reach—like she didn't even know she was missing it.

Azul's grip on the brush tightened.

He hadn't meant to paint her like this. Or maybe he had. Maybe he needed to see her like this—needed her to look back at him this way. Like only he could notice the cracks in her, the ones even she tried to hide.

And there was something else.

Something beneath the sadness that made his stomach twist.

Desire.

Not hers.

His.

It wasn't even about the kiss he'd heard Calixto brag about or the way Adrian hovered too close in the hallways; not even the way Silas would belittle her in the many encounters they get to have. It wasn't about the stupid flowers she'd painted instead of him or the make up she wore.

It was about this—this version of her on the canvas. Still. Unreachable. Beautiful in a way that didn't quite make sense.

The air in the studio was too warm. Azul exhaled shakily and stepped back, trying to clear his head—but the longer he looked at her, the worse it got.

He crossed legs, leaning back into the seat and hanging his head back to take a breath, to calm himself down from the heat which puddled on his face. This wasn't just admiration. It wasn't even infatuation anymore.

It was obsession.

His. Adrian's. Calixto's. Silas's.

Each of them had their own version of her locked behind their eyes. And Azul, with his paintbrush and silence, was no better than the rest. He looked down at his fingers, still stained with pigment, and whispered to no one—"I need to finish her."

And he would.

But even he didn't know what he meant by finish.