Page 39 of Storm of Shadows

I’m waiting patiently in my study for the knock on our door, distracting myself with some reading – some reading I’ve barely looked at, because, shit, I’m impatient. I want to see her again.

But there’s no knock.

More and more minutes pass.

The excitement I was feeling curdles in my gut, anger filtering through my veins to replace it. I glance at the clock on my mantel again. 8:30. She isn’t just late. She isn’t coming.

My hands curl into fists on my desktop.

I was wrong about her. This isn’t fun – some clever act to rile us up.

The little brat is for real. And this is fucking disrespectful.

Does she know how many of the losers out there would kill to be in her shoes? The things they would do to be given half a chance? Does she realize who the fuck she is dealing with here?

She’s about to find out.

I yank open the bottom drawer of my desk and pull out the pages of neatly typed text I was given yesterday, fastened together by a staple in the corner. These are the names of all the new students at the academy. Their names and their rooms.

I flip the pages until I reach surnames starting with S, then run my forefinger down the rows until I find her name.

Storm, Briony Mae. Date of Birth 23rd April. Born: Slate Quarter. Room: 10, Old Tower.

I stare at that information for several minutes, then slam the pages shut, grab my jacket from the back of my chair and step out into the night. The wind churns violently, flapping the tails of my jacket and whipping my hair around my face. I lower my head against it and set off from the front of the academy where the towers are shiny and new, towards the far side where the towers are much older, their upkeep clearly not a priority.

I meet one or two other students out on the pathways, heads also bowed against the storm, hurrying this way or that, eyes darting at me in curiosity. Those looks of curiosity become even more apparent the closer I draw to her tower and the more rotten the buildings grow.

Her tower has definitely earned its name, the oldest and most decrepit by far. It must have been built at least a millennium before and it’s a miracle it’s still standing. I climb the narrow stairwell, a few doors creaking open as I pass, people peering out. They’ll be whispering about this tomorrow.

It makes me even angrier. She’s making a laughingstock out of us. Once, I can over look. I can dismiss it as a bit of fiery fun. But twice. I can see Kratos and his brothers laughing at me now. Can see the Smyte twins sneering.

I growl under my breath as I reach the final floor.

For one brief moment, I consider hammering on the door. Then I dismiss that, raise my hand and hurtle magic right at the locked doorway. It buckles and slams open and I catch sight of her, curled on top of her bed, gaping at me in horror.

I don’t wait for an invitation, I stride straight inside and slam the door behind me.

“What the hell are you doing?” she shrieks, leaping off the bed. She’s dressed in just a t-shirt, one that barely skims the underneath of her ass, a lot of freaking bare leg on show.

“You’re late,” I growl at her. “Don’t you have a fucking watch?”

She lifts her chin like she did when I backed her soft body against the wall. Fuck, it was hard not to press my body against her then, it’s even harder not to do it now. Not to slam her onto that bed and cage her again.

“No, I don’t have a watch.”

I snatch up the sleeve of my jacket, and snap off my own wristwatch, flinging it on the mattress that stands between us.

“Well, you do now.”

Her eyes dart down to the watch.

It’s made from rare rose realm crystals. It’s probably worth more than all her possessions combined, which, by the looks of this bare room are few and far between.

“I told you before,” she says calmly, “I don’t want to be a thrall.”

“Because?” I say, humoring her.

“I’m not some thing to be owned and ordered about.”