Page 11 of Nothing to Fear (Wicked Games #1)

I glance at my watch, noting the time, my stomach rolling with the oddest fluttering sensation. There’s no way I’m feeling butterflies like some playground crush. Jesus. I groan out loud, gaining the attention of my two friends.

“Everything okay, dude?” Jay asks.

“Yeah, just time for me to head out.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you live here.”

Parker makes a choked snort sound. “He’s got to go hang out with Silas Blackwood.”

“We aren’t hanging out,” I correct, using my fingers to air quote. “I’m tutoring him.”

“We graduate soon, don’t you think it’s too late to teach him how to use a pencil?” Jay jokes.

“Or that one plus one equals two?” Parker adds.

“He’s actually wicked smart.” I don’t know why I defend him. I don’t even realize it comes out until the words are strung in the air and Parker and Jay are looking at me like I’ve sprouted two heads, but it’s the truth. “I’m just sayin’, maybe he’s not all that bad.”

“This is a classic case of Stockholm syndrome. I’ve learned about this before. You’re feeling empathy for your abuser. Blink if you need us to get you out.”

“Shut up, Park. I feel empathy for everyone because that’s who I am. I don’t believe anyone is inherently evil. Maybe he’s just had a hard run and is taking it out on everyone around him? Maybe no one’s in his corner?”

“Definitely Stockholm syndrome.”

“Jesus. You two are ridiculous.”

“The Asher I know would never say that! He’s got his claws in deep!” Parker dramatically wails.

“I just called you a fuckin’ twat yesterday. You’ll survive! I’ll be home late.”

“Good luck! Text me if you need to be saved. ”

“Will do. Don’t make a mess on the couch!”

“No promises!”

After stopping in my room to change my clothes, opting for a pair of ripped black jeans, a lightweight tan sweater, and my leather jacket, I slip my white sneakers on and I’m out the door.

Ever since I found out the location of Noctis Archives sophomore year, I’ve been hiding down there as my own personal escape from the world.

I have no idea what compelled me to invite Silas into my space, as if my mouth had a mind of its own.

It didn’t really hit me until he showed up, taking a seat in front of me like he had done it a million times before.

His presence should irk me, especially in a place I covet so deeply, but instead, it’s almost comforting, as if he were always supposed to be there among the books I love so much.

I wish I could understand him more, the constant hot/cold behavior, and how he lashes out so quickly.

What must he be going through to behave that way?

I meant what I said to Parker and Jay: Silas is incredibly smart, so why isn’t he trying?

Why is he slacking off so badly when it comes to the most important thing he should be focusing on right now?

After pulling the book of whispers from the shelf, I slip past the hidden door and start my descent below the school. I take my time, my hand gliding over the roughly aged iron handrail as I take each tight step, round and round until it spits me out in the first room of the archives.

Light flickers from the candles that sit in sconces, eternally burning and never needing to be changed. I tried to figure out how when I first stumbled across this place by accident, but I’ve long stopped trying to understand the mysteries of Corvus College.

I take my usual seat at a table farthest from the entrance, past rows and rows of bookshelves and tables, and pull out my coursework for Fear and Ink, looking over my notes from class. I’m amazed that they’re actually coherent, since I was so distracted.

Silas walks in a moment before nine with a shit-eating grin plastered to his face. His blond hair is hidden under a backward hat, and it’s ridiculous just how good that look is on him.

His body is toned and muscular, noticeable even under his casual hoodie and joggers.

He makes the athleisure vibe look damn good.

My eyes slowly peruse his body before meeting a set of pretty blues.

His eyebrow hitches, catching me blatantly checking him out.

I clear my throat, turning away from him as he walks over and takes a seat.

“Did you read the collection of short stories?” I ask, getting right to business, even as his rich, woodsy aroma takes over my senses.

“I did.”

I arch a brow at him. “Really? Which was your favorite?”

“ The Fall of the House of Usher. ”

“Really?”

“Really. Rodrick’s spiral into madness and Poe’s use of the house as a character . . . do you think? Never mind.”

“No, tell me. Do I think what?” I say quickly, wanting him to keep engaging with me.

“That our environment . . . can it contribute to how we feel? Like the house of Usher aided in his decline?”

I think for a moment. I’ve always been intuitive, overly sensitive to environments, auras, and energy, and I know my answer before I reply, but I don’t want to steer him one way or the other if he’s spiraling, questioning things himself.

I’ve always felt as though Corvus played a bigger role in people’s destinies here.

That our fates are etched out by the magic with which the school was founded.

I feel it pushing me one way or the other, edging me in the direction it wants me to go .

“I think some people are sensitive to their environment and other humans, while others aren’t. So, yes, I think it absolutely can contribute to how we feel. What’s your favorite part?”

“The epigraph.”

I tilt my head to the side, studying his crystal-blue eyes and the honesty reflected back in them. The epigraph of The Fall of the House of Usher is a metaphor for one being deeply isolated, but desiring connection and more .

Maybe everything I’ve been feeling lately has been pushing me toward this. Toward Silas. Maybe I’m his more.