The room slightly tilts.
He moved impossibly fast. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’d heard the rumors of his skill set and how he climbed the ranks quicker than those before him. To be a major in second-year, you have to be ruthless and superior to your peers, but I’m starting to think he hasn’t even shown us what he’s truly capable of. He’s an irreplaceable tool in the realm’s fighting force and hasn’t even graduated from Kintoira.
The possibilities of what he will become before he leaves these walls are endless.
Endless and horrifying.
His eyes move to my hand, locked on the remnants of his bite. They rise back to mine before shuttering, locking down any kind of emotion that might have been swimming in their dark depths.Turning to leave, he grabs his bag from the floor and walks out, leaving me standing in the center of the mat with blood dripping down my neck, filled with more questions than answers.
Chapter sixteen
What I lack in grace, I make up for in spite.
So when we’re given leave for the weekend to spend it how we want, I bask in sheer joy that Yaretta can’t join. Apparently, those gifted with perception are needed for a project this weekend at the academy. I’m not sure how I feel about the fact that she can determine the location and status of other people, but I hope she sees Ambrose and me walking side by side.
I also hope it eats her alive.
Tree branches, brittle and frost-covered, rustle in the frigid wind as we make our way through the Witchwood. The cold air bites into my exposed cheeks and weasels its way through the heavy layers I wrapped myself in. These woods sit slightly farther northwest than the Forsaken Forest and are not only marginally more ominous below the bruised-colored sky but also vastly more dangerous.
This is my first time experiencing their unwelcome ambience.
Since it’s the only way for students to reach Moorechester, the quaint little village that is technically a part of the academy, I have no choice but to walk through its Gothic embrace. Only students, academy staff, and supposed witches have access. Since these are their woods after all.
I’ve heard there are a few shops, including a bakery and even a charming little pub. At this point, I’d walk through lava to experience something sweet paired with a nice cup of something frothy that doesn’t come from the dining hall.
I lean over, careful my hair doesn’t sway and reveal the bite marks lingering on my neck, and nudge Ambrose in the shoulder. “So, are there really witches in these woods?” I ask, only partially teasing. “Are the rumors true? Do they really despise all men?”
He turns those frosty eyes on me, and I could sink into their glacial depths. “Yes. And yes,” he answers.
I frown. “Seriously? Should we be worried?” I mean, the last thing I want to do at the moment is stumble upon some highly dangerous women who hate men. Definitely not while walking next to a man I care very much about.
I’ve heard stories about how vicious they can be. Of course, who knows how much of it is actually true and how much is simply tales passed down as scare tactics. I’ve never met one. They’re not exactly beach dwellers and are certainly not welcome at any of the ports.
“Some say they kidnap men and turn them into slaves,” he whispers, looking down at me, his brows drawn tight. “Especially in the bedroom.”
I feel my jaw drop in horror.
A smile tugs at his lips before he casually bites down on the bottom one to prevent it from spreading.
“Very funny.” I shove him playfully and step back, running my fingers through the ends of my braid.
Pictures of Ambrose tied to a bed flutter through my head. How would it feel to have a man like him completely at my mercy? To be able to play out every dark fantasy I’ve ever had. My lips part slightly, and my eyes become unfocused, lost in the make-believe scenario.
I’m shaken from the direction my thoughts have taken by the heavy weight of his stare. I clear my throat and look over at him as casually as possible, praying the lustful thoughts aren’t plastered across my face.
For a moment, his expression doesn’t change, but then I see the way his jaw tenses, fingers curling into his palms, before quickly averting his gaze as if looking too long might open something in him that he isn’t ready to acknowledge.
I cross my arms and move to safer territory. “Have you seen one?” I ask.
He answers, his voice rougher than before, “No, haven’t had the privilege.”
We walk in silence for a while through the dense trail. Ancient trees surround us, their branches clawing at the sky, black silhouettes against a gray backdrop. Mist curls along the cold, damp ground, like something sentient and patient. The air presses down upon us, thick with moisture and the faint smell of decay. Winter is but a touch away.
The trail is wide enough that we can walk side by side with room to spare. I throw an occasional glance out of the corner of my eye, but he seems to be too deep in thought to notice. Why am I being so awkward? This isAmbrosewe’re talking about. The man who has seen me at my absolute worst and still considers me a friend.
“How long until we get to Moorechester?” I ask, brushing imaginary lint from my sleeve, needing to break the tension.
“About another two miles. We just have to go a little farther before we cross the Blood River, and then we’ll be at the end of the Witchwood.”
