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And I giggle. That’s the Hudson I know. “Never mind. Let’s get to work.”
“That is what we’re here for.” He pulls out his laptop and a notebook. “Any ideas on what question you want to discuss?”
I give him my ideas, and after a few minutes of debate, we settle on the butterfly effect—is it ethical to change something in time, for the right reasons, if you know that it will change other things later on, maybe in a not-so-okay way?
He takes Socrates, I take Aristotle, and we decide to meet in the middle with Plato.
I find an article about Aristotle’s On the Soul and start taking notes on things we might be able to use. It’s a pretty interesting article, and I get wrapped up in it, so much that I’m barely paying attention when Hudson clears his throat before saying out of the blue, “No one’s ever asked me that before.”
I’m in the middle of writing something down, so I don’t look up as I ask, “Asked you what?”
“If I’m okay.”
His answer doesn’t register at first, but when it does, my brain shuts down. It just flat-out stops working for one second, two.
But then I’m jerking my eyes up, and Hudson is right there—his face open, his gaze oceanic—and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. Not just because of the way he’s looking at me but because the full weight of his words finally sinks in. What they mean.
Awareness charges the air between us, has my heart beating way too fast and the hair on the back of my neck standing straight up. And still, I can’t bring myself to tear my gaze away from his. Still, I can’t do anything but lose myself in the bottomless depths of his eyes.
“No one?” I manage to force the words out of my too-tight throat.
He shakes his head, gives a little self-deprecating shrug, and just like that, he destroys me.
I’ve always known his life was awful. I’ve seen glimpses of it, figured things out by what he didn’t say, even met the horrible people who call themselves his parents. But it’s never registered before—at least not like this—that Hudson has never had anyone in his whole two-hundred-plus-year existence who cared about him. Who really, truly cared about him and not what he could do or what they could get from him.
It’s an awful realization, and a heartbreaking one.
“Don’t.” His voice is hoarse.
“Don’t what?” I ask, my throat somehow even tighter than it was just a minute ago.
“Don’t feel sorry for me. That’s not why I told you.” It’s obvious he’s uncomfortable, but he doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
“This isn’t pity,” I finally whisper. “I could never pity you.”
Something moves behind his eyes, something that looks an awful lot like grief. “Because I’m a monster?”
“Because you made it.” I reach for his hand impulsively, and the second our skin touches, heat slams through me. “Because you’re better than them. Because no matter what they did, they couldn’t break you.”
His hand tightens on mine, his fingers sliding between my own. And then we’re holding hands.
It feels better than I expect it to, certainly better than it should, so I don’t pull back. Neither does he. And for a minute, everything fades away.
The other students all around us.
The project neither one of us has time for.
That everything about this situation is messed up.
It all disappears, and for this one moment in time, it’s just us and this connection that has nothing to do with the mating bond and everything to do with us.
At least until my phone, sitting on the table next to me, buzzes with a series of texts, shattering the fragile peace between us.
Hudson looks away first, his gaze going to my vibrating phone. And the moment is gone.
“I should get going,” Hudson tells me, even as he pulls his hand from mine and pushes back from the table.
“But we haven’t finished—”
“We have a week. We can work on it on Sunday.” His tone is clipped as he shoves his stuff into his backpack.
“Yeah, but I cleared the whole evening. I thought—”
“The library closes in a few hours, and I have some more research I want to do on mating bonds. I read some interesting stuff last night, and I want to follow up on it while it’s still fresh in my mind.”
“What kind of stuff?” I ask, completely bewildered by his sudden curtness.
“About people who’ve tried to break them before.” He turns and walks away without a backward glance.
My heart is pounding in my ears. Why does it hurt so much to see another example of how eager he is to break our bond?
Which…fine. Obviously he can do whatever he wants. I just wish I knew why he has to do it now, when we should be working on this ridiculous project.
Screw it. I stand and start to pack up my stuff as well. If Hudson can work on other things, then so can I. It’s not like I don’t have a million and one different projects due before the end of the school year.
It’s only as I pick up my phone that I remember that someone texted me. I glance down at my lock screen, figuring it’ll be Macy or Uncle Finn or maybe even Heather, who I haven’t talked to in a couple of days. But it isn’t any of them.
Instead, it’s Jaxon. And he answered my joke.
I Hate What You’ve
Done with the Place
Jaxon: I miss my heart
Jaxon: And all the other organs, too?
I fumble the phone in my haste to unlock it, which is ridiculous, I know. He’s kept me waiting for more than an hour, but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he answered me. Maybe he doesn’t hate me after all.
Me: Tomb it may concern
I figure he won’t answer me for another hour—if he even answers at all. But it turns out I’m wrong, because he texts back just as I’m zipping up my backpack.
Jaxon: You’re getting worse at this
Me: Not every joke is gold
Jaxon: Apparently not
He’s not exactly being forthcoming at the moment, but he isn’t ignoring me, either. Figuring that’s as good an indicator as any, I decide to press my luck.
Me: Can you meet me for a few minutes?
Me: I want to talk
Long seconds that feel like hours drag by before I finally get his answer.
Jaxon: Yeah. I’m in the tower. Come on up.
It’s not a particularly enthusiastic response, but it’s more than I was hoping for, so I count it a win. Then practically sprint for the door as I fire off one last text telling him that I’m on my way.
I race up the steps to the tower, taking them two and even three at a time. It leaves me breathless once I hit the top of the last flight of stairs, but I don’t care. There has to be a way to make things right with Jaxon and not hurt Hudson in the process. There just has to be, and I am certain it centers around asking the Bloodletter some important questions. And demanding answers.
I take a second to catch my breath before stepping into the antechamber of the tower. Then stop dead as soon as I get my first real look at the room. It looks nothing like it usually does.
Normally, there’s furniture arranged in an invitation and shelves upon shelves of books and candles and other small knickknacks. Art hangs on the walls, while more books are stacked in piles around the room, and there’s a cabinet full of granola bars, Pop-Tarts, and chocolate just for me.
It’s my favorite room in the castle, the place where I can just curl up with a snack and a book and the boy I love. What more does a girl need?
But that tower room I loved so much? It’s gone now, replaced with doom and gloom to a degree I haven’t seen since Lia tried to sacrifice me.
The books are gone, the furniture is gone, and the only art left—an original Monet—has a giant hole through the center of it. In place of furniture is workout equipment. Lots and lots and lots of workout equipment. The center of the room is dominated by a weight-lifting bench with a lot of really heavy weights on the bar. In the corner hangs a very large punching bag that Jaxon must use a lot, judging by how badly dented and crumbling the stone walls on either side of it are.
There’s also a heavy-duty treadmill against the wall and an exercise bike near the window.
The room looks nothing like Jaxon—nothing at all like him—and everything inside me trembles in horror as I look over this new setup.
I mean, it’s not the new workout equipment itself that is so bad—although Jaxon usually gets his workouts from long runs in the wilderness. It’s that this room, which had always seemed like a window into Jaxon’s soul, has been gutted. There’s nothing left of the guy I fell in love with in here, nothing left of who he is or what matters to him. And I hate it.
I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.
I must make a sound, or maybe Jaxon just figures I should be here by now, but the door from his bedroom flies open. I get a quick glimpse through the open doorway before he shuts it again, and his bedroom looks as empty as this room does. No drum set in the corner, no stacks of books. Nothing but his bed, with its black sheets and duvet.
I start to ask him what happened here, but then I realize he’s carrying a duffel bag, and everything else flies out of my mind.