A hushed whisper falls over the dining hall as some of the upperclassmen start trickling in. All conversation at our table ceases entirely. Between being completely deflated and the newcomers acquiring our attention, it’s enough to effectively shut us up.
Thank the gods.
Interestingly enough, the Veils tend to enter in larger groups, laughing and talking among themselves, whereas the Noctryns come in alone or just a few at a time. They’re also no longer in battle gear, allowing me to finally see their faces.
I was correct in my assumption. They’re just as terrifying out of the armor as they are in it. It appears they traded their battle attire for dark fighting leathers. I also notice that each one of them is still fully armed with various weapons.
They sure don’t let their guard down.
Even to eat.
The Veils are also in their academic-issued fighting leathers, but unlike the black ones, theirs are dark brown. Only a few have weapons. A bow here or there, maybe a throwing spear. It makes sense, really, since Veils aren’t known for their hand-to-hand combat skills. Their weapon of choice is their manifestations. It would be a mistake to underestimate them. Their abilities are formidable, far more than a piece of steel.
My appraisal is cut short as Ambrose walks in with his head thrown back in laughter at whatever the woman attached to his arm just said. Of course, he couldn’t be in a large group like the rest. Instead, he’s attached to a random, adoring female.
A lump forms in my throat, and I quickly avert my gaze. I know he isn’t a virgin or anything. I was there the night that bitch Lynda dragged him off during one of our shore parties and effectively removed that label. I hated her then, and I still hate her now. I may be kindhearted, but I can hold a grudge with the best of them. If it’s fuck you now, it’s fuck you until the day I die. I’ll see you in the afterlife and hate you there too.
A swift kick to my shin causes me to grunt and look across the table. A sympathetic smile lines Mallory’s face. “You got it bad, huh?” she asks softly.
No, but my shin is now throbbing.
Thanks for asking.
I shake my head in denial. “Me? No”—I laugh nervously—“it’s not like that. We’re just friends,” I assure her. The fake smile plastered to my face is a dead giveaway, I’m sure. I probably look like I’m snarling instead of smiling at her.
I’m a terrible liar. Always have been. Probably always will be.
She reaches across the table, giving my hand a soft pat. “It’s okay. Your secret is safe with me. Just remember, Nori, he may be pretty to look at, but no boy is worth having your heart willingly stomped on.”
Trust me, it’s not willingly.
“I know the score, and besides, my focus is on this place right now, not my love life.” Or lack thereof. But whether I say it for her benefit or mine is anyone’s guess.
I remove my hand from under hers and go back to moving the food around on my plate. I didn’t have much of an appetite before he walked in, but I certainly don’t have any now.
I force myself to look in their direction again.
I never thought of myself as a masochist, but look at me now. A full-blown masochist. Glutton for punishment. Pity party for one, please.
The leggy brunette has her arms draped all over him, but he’s just staring down at the food selection like he doesn’t notice. He probably doesn’t. It’s just another Monday for him. He may only be one year older than me, but it feels like he has decades of experience on me when it comes to the opposite sex.
Whenever a boy showed the slightest notion of interest in me, I would say the wrong thing, or awkwardness would become my entire personality. And that’s if Ambrose didn’t catch a whiff of it first. If he did, he would ruin it before anything could even potentially come to fruition. He said it was in my best interest, looking out for me and all.
I eventually just kind of gave up and accepted that I’m going to die alone while watching my best friend sleep his way through the realm.
Fun times.
After picking out his food, they start walking in our direction.
Shit.
I quickly duck my head and become very invested in the potatoes on my plate. I do not want to have to bear witness to Ambrose getting his face sucked off the rest of lunch.
Gods, please, anything but that.
It’s one thing to know about it. It’s another to have to sit there and witness it. Knowing it’s hardly unlikely that he won’t spot my unruly red hair, it’s impossible to miss after all, I slouch down further, trying to make myself as small as possible.
I can be quite good at that.
