Page 33 of Stormbreaker

Obviously, I can’t take a zero. Storm Guards don’t get zeros on assignments. Poet Graves doesn’t get zeros on assignments.

Again, I glance at Rook. He gets no say in this, I suppose.

“It won’t be a problem,” I answer, and Dr. Sellers dips his chin, the corner of his mouth tipping into a smug smile. I’ve been punished for disrespecting his classroom schedule, and the world is right again.

“Excellent,” he says before he walks away, leaving me alone with Rook and his unsettling presence.

Everyone dives into their work, and slowly, I swivel in my seat to assess Rook.

He’s sitting perfectly still as he returns the favor, perusing me up and down.

“I can read,” he says, his gaze holding mine. I can’t help but notice that his eyes are the green of forest leaves in the center, melting into golden brown around the edges. “And write.”

I blink at the unexpectedness of the comment. “What?”

“I know that’s what you were thinking,” he says, his voice low, his tone devoid of emotion. “I can help with the assignment.”

“I didn’t think you couldn’t,” I say primly, lying through my teeth. I drag the microscope toward me and pick up the first slide. “I expect you to pull your weight.”

I’m rewarded with another derisive snort while I adjust the knobs, bringing the slide into focus.

“And you can stop with that,” I snap. “I will not be snorted at every three seconds. Use your words if you have something to say.”

He raises one eyebrow as he regards me with cool composure. Then he leans in, just a little bit, causing the air to compress in my windpipe. I swallow it down like a brick. “And who’s gonna stop me, Princess?”

My eyes narrow. “Don’t call me that.”

“No? Isn’t that what you are? Royalty in this little world?”

I press my mouth together, annoyed by his words for some reason I can’t figure out.

“Shut up,” I say, my cheeks heating with embarrassment, knowing that was the weakest comeback ever.

Though Rook doesn’t snort, I can feel the laugh he’s holding in at my expense.

“We have work to do,” I say, trying to move past it, as I begin taking notes about the damaged cells in my viewfinder. Over the next thirty minutes, we don’t say much to each other, only exchange terse requests to pass the next slide and pose questions about what we’re looking at. I’m careful not to touch him as we exchange items back and forth. I wonder if he notices.

Only once does his hand brush mine. It’s the softest touch, but every hair on the back of my neck rises to attention. I quickly snatch the slide away, while he continues like he hasn’t noticed anything.

Rook understands the assignment with ease. I don’t think Solitudes have schools, but someone taught him these things. Throughout it all, I feel his assessment, weighted with unspoken words. The side of my neck goes hot. It’s like he’s waiting for me to freak out or start screaming or react in some irrational way.

Our classmates remain focused on their work, though I can feel them sneaking looks at Rook and me. We’re a spectacle for so many reasons.

My foot bounces on the rung of my stool as I watch the clock’s minute hand counting down the hour. My knee is still sore, my ribs hurt, and the hard stool is starting to make my wound ache. My bandages are holding, but I should really get someone to look at my cut.

“You’ll be free of me soon,” Rook says in a low voice, catching the direction of my stare. “At least until our next class. I suppose you might have to be seen with me to finish our essay.”

I toss him a look that I hope conveys the plunging depths of my irritation when someone new enters the room. She walks over to converse with Dr. Sellers before their gazes fall on me. Oh great, what now?

“Miss Graves,” Dr. Sellers says. “Apparently, you have a . . . visitor.”

“Who?” I ask, already collecting my things, thrilled for a chance to escape.

“It seems . . . it’s your father.”

I stop moving, my stomach dropping to my feet. Every eye in the room lands on me as my neck flushes with heat.

My father.