Page 20

NINETEEN

FREYA

I stare at the bathroom mirror, my own reflection betraying the turmoil inside me. The way that asshole made me feel shows on my face, in the hollow look in my eyes, the slight tremble of my lips. I came to Blackthorn to make something of myself—to find friends, maybe even fall in love. To learn, to live. But with each passing day, it feels more and more like a mistake.

I drag a hand over my cheeks, wiping away the tears, forcing a smile. But it’s useless. The effort only brings more tears, welling up faster than I can brush them away.

The bathroom door creaks open, and Blue steps inside. Her uniform is different from mine—the girls in the House of Serpents wear dark green skirts patterned with emerald plaid, paired with matching blazers bearing their house crest.

She’d dyed her hair again, trading pink for black. At first glance, I barely recognized her. As she steps up beside me, her reflection overlaps with mine in the mirror, and for a split second, my heart stutters. Adeline. She looks so much like Adeline, it unsettles me. My fingers grip the sink’s edge as I turn to her, needing to confirm she’s real, that she isn’t some ghost conjured by my fraying mind.

“Blue?” My voice comes out uncertain. “Your hair?”

She rolls her eyes. “School policy. All natural.”

“Oh,” I murmur, another tear slipping down my cheek before I can stop it.

Blue frowns. “Are you okay?” She turns to face me fully now, studying my face.

I quickly swipe at my tears, trying to compose myself. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Nope, that’s a lie.” She tilts her head. “That’s not ‘fine.’ That’s a tear. Tears, actually.“ She gestures at my damp cheeks. “What happened?”

I exhaled sharply. “Professor Lockwood is giving me a hard time.”

“Ugh, I’ve heard he’s the worst,” she groans. “That’s why I dropped his class. Impossible to pass. I took all of Luna’s and Professor Cass’s classes instead. They’re actually sweet.”

“Why did I have to pick the hardest one?” I huff, frustration bubbling over. “He’s such an ass. Walks around like he’s got a stick permanently lodged up his—“ I cut myself off, throwing my hands up. “Doesn’t even know how to smile!”

Blue laughs. “Let it go, sister.”

“I can’t! He pisses me off!” I press my palms against my temples. “The moment I sit in his class, the words on the page just start floating around. Like… I don’t even know. I can’t explain it.”

“Why don’t you switch classes?” she asks, raising a brow.

“It’s too late,” I sigh, defeated. “And I actually wanted to learn about Poisons, Dreams, and Hallucinations.”

“Yeah, we all have our reasons for being here.” She smirked, twisting a strand of her dark hair around her finger.

The sharp ring of the bell yanks me back to reality.

“Shit! I’m late for his class!”

“Damn.” Blue snickers.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I snatch my notebook from the marble counter and bolt for the door. “See you, Blue!”

I sprint down the hallway, weaving through students, my heart pounding in my chest. If I can just make it before he—

The door swings shut just as I reach it.

Freya, even if that insufferable bastard has a stick up his ass and despises you, you’re still going in that class.

I don’t knock. I don’t hesitate. I just push the door open and stride inside, ignoring the shift in the air as heads turn toward me. My steps are slow, my jaw tight, as I head straight for an empty seat at the back and drop into it like I belong there.

Professor Lockwood clears his throat, jaw clenching, his eyes slicing through me. I don’t flinch. I don’t react. I just grip my pen and spin it between my fingers, pretending he doesn’t exist.

“Miss Sinclaire,” he says, voice smooth but laced with irritation. “Late. Again.”

I exhaled sharply through my nose. “Stomach issues,” I say, deadpan.

His lips press into a thin line. “Can it wait until after class? I expect every single student to be on time.”

I’m seething. The words are there, boiling under my skin, and before I can stop myself, I snap.

“No, it can’t wait.” My voice is sharp, defiant. “Maybe you’re not a biology teacher, but you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out I was in the bathroom taking a shit.”

The room goes silent.

And for the first time, I see it—the slightest twitch at the corner of Lockwood’s mouth, like he’s fighting a smirk. But it’s gone just as fast as it appeared, replaced by the same cold, infuriating stare.

This is going to be a long class.

I could hear the girls in the back laughing, some barely stifling their amusement, pressing their lips into thin lines as they tried to contain themselves. I straightened my posture, meeting his gaze. Even he seemed momentarily at a loss for words. But then, he said something so unexpected, even my sharp tongue couldn’t anticipate it.

“Then hold your shit next timeuntil after class.” He turned his back to us, casually picking up a piece of chalk and writing on the board.

Laughter erupted across the room, rippling through the students like wildfire. But he wasn’t having it. His voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. “Silence.”

He scrawled the words across the board in bold strokes: “The Vapor Pressure Lecture.”

Turning back to the class, he gestured toward the tables. “Under your desks, you’ll find goggles. Put them on.”

A few students hesitated before reaching under the tables and pulling them out. Meanwhile, he moved to the demonstration table, lifting a beaker filled with liquid nitrogen. The vapor curled over the rim as he slowly paced around the room.

“The pressure of a liquid,” he began, “depends on more than just temperature. It depends on containment.”

His eyes landed on me. I swallowed hard.

“If the pressure builds too much, if there’s no outlet…” He lifted the beaker slightly, letting the swirling vapor spill into the air. “What do you think happens?”

I knew he was asking me. But before I could react, hands shot up across the classroom. He ignored them all.

“Miss Sinclaire,” he said, voice steady. “What happens?”

“But I didn’t raise my hand,” I shot back, locking eyes with him.

“Do you know the answer?”

He knew I did. He was waiting for me to say it.

But Ava beat me to it. “It… explodes,” she said, turning in her seat, a smirk curling at the corners of her lips.

I wanted to rip that smirk right off her face. Preferably by yanking out her perfectly styled blonde hair.

Professor Lockwood’s lips curved slightly. “Exactly.”

He turned away, striding back to the demonstration table, where a single red rose stood in a vase. Without a word, he plucked it from the water and dipped it into the nitrogen.

The petals froze, crystallizing into something hauntingly fragile, their vibrant softness turned brittle. Then, without hesitation, he crushed it between his fingers. The petals shattered. Tiny frozen shards scattered to the table.

Silence hung in the air.

No one said a word.

He dusted off the shattered petals as they fell to the floor. “You see,” he said, as if nothing had just happened, “containment is a fragile thing. Too much pressure, and it all falls apart.”

The bell rang, cutting through the heavy silence. Chairs scraped against the floor as students hurried to gather their things. I moved with them, eager to slip out unnoticed, but his voice rang out.

“Miss Sinclaire. A word.”

I froze mid-step.

The room emptied too fast, students scattering like they feared being called next. My pulse drummed in my ears as I slowly turned on my heel. He stood by the desk, sleeves still rolled up, fingers tapping idly against the wooden surface. Watching me. Waiting.

A chill crept up my spine.

I forced my legs to move, each step deliberate, stretching out the inevitable. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing us in.

I swallowed. We were alone.

He didn’t speak at first, just observed me like I was some puzzle he was trying to solve.

I crossed my arms. “What?”

His lips curled into a smirk, though his jaw remained tight.

“Your attitude is getting worse, Miss Sinclaire,” he said, voice low.

“Mine?” I scoffed. “You, Professor, act like you hate me or something.”

“Or something…” His smirk deepened, but his expression remained unreadable. His eyes darkened, though not with anger. “That mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble one day.”

I arched a brow, surprised by my own sudden boldness. “And I suppose you’re the one who’s going to teach me a lesson?”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that I felt it. The shift in power. The heat. The quiet, suffocating authority.

“Haven’t I already?” he murmured.

My breath caught in my throat.

“You are dismissed, Miss Sinclaire.”

I didn’t hesitate. This time, I rushed out, my fingers curling into tight fists at my sides.

Who does he think he is?

The moment I stepped into the hall, I turned, ready to storm back inside to tell him exactly what I thought of his arrogance. But before I could, the next bell rang, jolting me back to reality.

I was already late for my next class. But at least this time, it wasn’t his.

Around ten, everyone gathered for breakfast in the Great Hall. As I stepped inside, the hum of conversations filled the space, laughter weaving through the air. My eyes swept across the room, taking in the already-formed groups.

Oscar and Ava held court at the front, surrounded by the other popular students. Blue sat near the top of the table, deep in conversation with three other girls, while Stella occupied a quiet corner with the cyber geeks, their heads bowed over screens and hushed discussions.

I didn’t want to be here.

Without a word, I turned and walked out.

The seat beneath the large ash tree was unoccupied, its shade casting a cool reprieve from the morning sun. I sank onto the bench, my gaze drifting to the stone path in front of me—its tiles arranged in the shape of a star.

A star.

I shut my eyes. The memory of last night surged forward, unbidden, raw. A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. I bit my lip, forcing myself to push it away, to breathe.

But my phone shattered the silence.

I glanced down. UNKNOWN NUMBER.

Again.

“All alone, Little Star.”

“I prefer to be alone.”

“Meet me at the library.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

The library occupied the entire second level of the academy, stretching endlessly above the houses in the floor below, a long, unbroken rectangle of tall bookshelves.

I knew I shouldn’t go. I knew. But I’d rather be with him than be here, listening to laughter that wasn’t mine, with people who never even saw me.

The door was in the east, with a winding stair that went up. When you entered, there was no simple way out, no clear path. The shelves built a maze of books, one that went in just one direction.

As I walked towards the stairs, a chill ran down my spine. Someone was following me. My heart pounded so fiercely that I was convinced that I could feel it thumping in my bones. Half way up, I turned back. Empty space. No one. But the feeling stayed, closing around my chest, as I went up the remainder of the stairs and in.

I strolled through the aisles, gazing around. The farther in I went, the darker it was, the bookshelves closing in, their shadows stretching long across the ground. I tried turning around, but my feet betrayed me, forcing me forward. The library was constructed that way. Once in, you walked the path laid before you. No turning back. No backtracking.

And then, behind me, a whisper:

“Close your eyes, Little Star.”

His warm breathing stirred the air inches from my flesh.

I obeyed.

A light touch of his fingertips against my cheek before something more substantial fell over my head. A gas mask. Again. But this time, the glass was dark, a deep, inky black. Images were fuzzy, blurry around the edges, as if through broken glass.

“Trust me.” His warm voice was a thread against my ear, drawing me deeper into the dark.

And then—nothing.

I stretched out, my hand closing around nothing. He was nowhere.

“Where are you?” My voice shook as I stretched out my hands, trailing them along the bookshelves, the rough spines against my fingers. “Please,” I said softly, a plea beginning in my throat. “Tell me.”

The answer came in a whisper—so close that it sent a shiver down my spine. “Closer.”

I spun around, pulse pounding. There was nothing. The air vibrated with his words.

“Too slow, Little Star.”

His voice drifted over my ear. I turned once more, flailing my arms about, but caught nothing. No warmth. No mass. Only the whisper of quiet movement, moving in circles. Hunting.

“You’re mean,” I told him, but my voice was unconvincing.

A chuckle, low and quiet, followed by the sound of a book hitting the table.

“What is wrong, Little Star?” His deep purring voice was so close and yet so far away. “Scared?”

“No,” I lied, inching closer. My hand found him before my eyes did—his chest, warm and bare beneath the parted shirt. Scars beneath my touch, warmth through my palm.

I swallowed, reaching for his face, but he caught my wrist before I could touch him. Slowly, he turned me, my back against the wall. His hands traveled over my thighs, down, and back up, until they rested at my hips.

Fabric rustled as he moved beneath it, as he pulled my underwear down, leaving me naked in the dark.

I moved forward, stumbling, and took another, my breathing rough. My hand trailed down the bookshelves, guiding me through the twisted maze. His voice was my only anchor, but I didn’t trust it. Not when he moved through the shelves, gliding between them, always just out of reach.