Connor hands his detention slip to Coach Norris, who seems to have a never ending supply of retina-burning red tracksuits.
The coach looks up at him with sympathy and asks, “What’s it this time?”
Connor shrugs and mutters, “Unexcused absence,” before making his journey to the back of the classroom.He’s in here a lot? Is it because of things like yesterday or… the Alpha?I want to ask him, but I don’t know if I’m supposed to know about his home life. I feel like I’m drowning in secrets, and for once, they’re not just mine.
When he gets near me, I hop up and hug him, my forehead resting against his upper abs. He freezes for a moment, before gently wrapping his arms around me.
“The world is weird,” I complain, breathing in his clean foresty smell and knowing he won’t ask me to explain further.
He hums a general agreement, his right hand reaching up under my hair to massage the tense spots behind my ears.
This is what I needed.I sigh, soaking up Connor’s ‘it’s okay to just exist’ calm that he normally exudes-- when he doesn’t want to murder someone.Yep, my life is so very, very weird.
The coach clears his throat. “Sit down. You can hug your girlfriend after detention.”
A blush burns across my cheeks, and I open my mouth to correct him, but Connor simply shrugs again, gives me a tight squeeze, then pats my head before releasing me, seemingly uninterested in what people think. Which is usually my reaction.
I’m being ridiculous. The guys are my friends, and I need to stop obsessing. I have bigger issues to worry about than what the hell a random hug or accidental kiss means.
Feeling like I finally have my head screwed on straight, I sit back down, Connor taking the seat next to me.
It’s mostly quiet, except for some PSA video on how to stay out of detention playing on the TV mounted to the wall. The few other students in the classroom are either doing their homework, staring at the walls, or stealing looks at me, while Coach Norris reads something on his phone.This school is way too small. I don’t know any of them, but they sure as hell know me, apparently.
I’m about finished with my AP Chemistry homework, when Donovan comes strolling in, handing over his detention slip to Coach Harris.
Harris rolls his eyes and asks, “How many times has it been this semester?”
“It’s not my fault Mr. Deniel is a fucking moronic sheep who doesn’t know the difference between a simile and a metaphor,” Donovan drawls, adjusting the strap of his backpack on his right shoulder. “Just because it’s written in the textbook doesn’t make it true.”
“Hey, language. Now, go sit down and be quiet,” he sighs, with a slight shooing motion, before going back to his phone.
My mouth suddenly goes dry and there’s a fluttering in my stomach, as Donovan makes his way down the aisle.Act normal. And breathe. Everything’s totally fine.
He smirks when he gets close and leans down so his mouth is near my ear. “You’re in my seat.”
“What?” I squawk, then clear my throat.
He chuckles, pointing his finger at the letters ‘DA’ carved into the desk on the upper right corner.
“Seriously?” I groan, rolling my eyes, as my anxiety begins to slip away. “You’re here enough that you’ve carved your initials into one of the desks?”
“With a pencil,” he boasts, moving out of the way so I can get up.
“I don’t know why I’m surprised that you’re proud of that,” I mutter, moving to sit in front of Connor.
“Me either,” Donovan replies, his vivid, aqua eyes dancing with mischief.
Connor snorts.
More of the other students steal looks at us, and I wonder if it’s the rumors running through their heads, or the general curious surprise over my easy banter with the two guys the school seems perpetually terrified of.If they only knew that I’m the real one to fear.
Plopping my backpack next to me, I tuck my feet to one side so that Connor has enough room to stretch out his legs, and Donovan hands me my textbook, notebook, and pencil. While I finish up my homework, and Connor continues to work on what looks like an English paper, Donovan pulls out the demon book from Tuesday.
I give him a look. He grins back to illustrate the lack of fucks he gives over what people might think he’s doing, and it gives me an idea. I’m stuck here anyway, and unlike the lostDraculaprop, the Volkov journal just looks like an old book.
Quickly, I put away my homework and grab the journal from my backpack. My aunt would probably not approve that I brought it to school, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt me.
The journal reads less like a diary, and more like the spark notes edition of spirit witches, which is weird. Agata, the author of this journal, and the translator notes meansthe good, mentions the growing unrest in her people and that she can feel dark change in the air.Nice and cryptic.Then explains who and what we are, our purpose as voices for the goddess, and that keeping balance sometimes means…
