Page 34 of Stormbreaker

There’s only one possible reason he’s here, and this is going to hurt.

11

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Lead pellets sink through my chest as I follow the messenger’s instructions to the dean’s office. I see my feet, hear the thud of my leather boots against the tiled corridor. But it’s like my body belongs to somebody else.

I don’t even have it in me to be nervous.

In fact, I feel almost nothing at all.

It seems like it takes forever and no time at all before I find myself in front of an ornate set of carved doors. The left sits slightly ajar, and I take that as an invitation to enter.

Inside, I find a room decorated with plush cream rugs and walls dressed in white silk. Ivory wood desks and cabinets fill the space, along with a reception desk where a woman sits clicking away on her keyboard.

At my entrance, she looks up and blinks. “Can I help you?” she asks in a crisp voice.

“I’m here to see . . . Dean Withers.” My voice cracks as a concerned line forms between her eyes. “I’m Poet Graves.”

My cheeks heat as she gives me a pitying look. “Oh. Of course.” She pushes herself up from her desk, rolling her chair back.

Everyone else in the office studies me with open curiosity. I recognize that I will feel self-conscious about this later, but their scrutiny slides away as I focus on what awaits me. It is a bittersweet reprieve.

At the edge of the reception desk sits a tablet with an invitation for those interested in Storm Guard training to sign up for the cadet program. I’ve been hesitating for the past week, worried that my father will find out.

My fingers itch to pick up the stylus, but he sits on the other side of one of these doors, and I have no doubt he’s already angrier with me than he’s ever been in his life.

“This way,” the receptionist says, waving me over. I glance one more time at the tablet, then follow her down a hall toward another grand door. She raps sharply on the surface before swinging it open.

The dean sits at another desk made of creamy white wood, only this one is three times the size of any in the reception area. Inlaid with frescoes along the back and sides, the top is painted with a stunning array of watercolor flowers.

Across from her is a set of chairs in which two people currently sit.

My parents.

“Hi,” I say. “Mom, Dad, what are you doing here?” I force the inflection in my voice, as if I don’t know exactly why they’ve come. I fool no one.

My parents share a meaningful look before my father turns toward Dean Withers. She presses her hands to the surface of her desk and stands.

“I’m sorry we haven’t had the chance to meet formally yet,” she says to me. “I’ve heard so much about you from your father.”

I blink. Has she?

The question is enough to pull me out of my fog, and my thoughts snap into focus.

“However, you have more pressing matters to deal with today. Hopefully, we can get to know each other better at some point.”

She rounds her desk and reaches for my mother. “Sariah, it was so good to see you.”

My mother nods stiffly and allows the dean to clasp her hands in hers, but there’s no warmth in it. Dean Withers purses her lips at my mom’s obvious dismissal. It throws me off. I’ve never known my mother to be rude to anyone.

“Grady,” the dean says to my father. “Sorry we couldn’t talk any longer, but I must be off. Feel free to use my office for as long as you need.”

My father offers her a warm smile and takes her hand before kissing the back of it. “It’s always a pleasure, Selena.”

Her cheeks blush a soft pink before she pulls her hand back.

I’m not surprised. I’ve met this charming man before. This is the scion of House Fiama. This is not my father. I catch the flash of annoyance that flits over my mother’s face. What on earth is going on here?