Page 158 of Wings of Destruction

She takes up my fantasies during the day and my dreams and nightmares when I sleep. I wonder what she’s doing and why she refuses to budge. She is colder than iron and more stubborn than the worst kind of mule, although the comparison feels mean-spirited despite the truth.

If nothing else, I’d done a masterful job of making her hate me.

Scoffing, my fists clenched tightly enough to dig my nails into the skin of my palm, I stalk away from dinner. My appetite is too soured to pretend to eat.

If I thought falling back into the role of tormentor would get Morgan to fall in line, then I’d do it. I’m used to playing the part for my father. Half the time, I slip into it naturally.

Tonight, at least, I have some pivoting to do, and the old role will help.

My responsibilities are to the people, to the ones I care about, and to my school work. My false betrothed will go ahead and make my life even more miserable with her advances, if the stress of classwork doesn’t force premature white hairs on my head.

I’ve ruined everything and there’s no easy way to erase the mistake without taking everyone else down with me. Other people are going to get hurt because I put my faith in the wrong person. I saw something in Morgan that clearly isn’t there or mistook what I saw for something else. I made her into what I wanted her to be rather than what she is.

Fighting with her this evening had been a colossal waste of time.

I doubt I’ve made a dent in that wall in her head, blocking her access to reason. It’s a fatal flaw.

My ears ring.

A group of students heading to dinner late crosses the hall in my direction. I swallow a groan and turn my head away from them. They go dead silent at the sight of me. One of them, another first year, ducks her head to avoid making direct eye contact with me.

Despite the rumble in my stomach, I head for the stairs and my bedroom.

“Was that Kieran Ryson?”

The question, whispered under someone’s breath, embarrasses me. I have to take care with the image I present. Otherwise my father will hear about it.

“Who would be stupid enough to rile him up?” one of the group whispers. “Someone’s going to bleed tonight.”

They fear me as much as they admire me. Tristan is much better at weaponizing his magnetism. He has the kind of charisma you can’t fake. For me, it feels like I’m a star on the verge of death. It’s hard to continue to shine without the character or conviction to back it up. I’m apparently lacking both of those things.

I can’t let myself falter this way. It’s not only weak but embarrassing.

Is there a way to undo what I’ve done today? To somehow spin it into a win rather than a colossal waste of time and energy?

Shame tastes like the worst kind of burned meat pie in my mouth. I drag myself upstairs and along the long passage to my bedroom. I stop in front of the door with my hand on the knob, hesitating, thinking. Letting the seconds tick by.

I messed up, and for what? For one stubborn, pretty girl? There’s a strong possibility I’m wrong about the girl on every level and not just this one. My unwillingness to accept her mindset should concern me, should worry me much more than it does.

The truth of the matter?

My motivations are dark. I can’t dislodge her. I don’t want to, because I need her, and if my motivations have to stay black as my dragon, then Ether take me.

Can I threaten Headmistress Harbi into undoing her proclamation?

Yeah, sure, and maybe the ground will open and swallow me whole so I don’t have to face the consequences.

Frowning, I pull open the door and scan the bedroom. The bed is exactly as I left it, with the sheets pulled up to the headboard and folded over with military precision. My desk chair is empty, and the doors locked tight against the growing twilight.

There’s no Evie.

The thought immediately sinks to the bottom of my stomach, heavier than stone. There’s no Evie because she’s bleeding in the infirmary right now from the violent beatdown after lunch.

Groaning, I step inside and concentrate on my breathing as I flip the lock closed behind me. This moment, although there is no inherent physical danger, carries the same tension as the start of a battle. I’m waiting for the horn to blow and send the troops into ruthless motion.

Everything inside me withers, shrinks, turns to ash.

Feeling like a bull in a too small paddock, I throw myself in the chair in front of the desk, running a hand over the grains of the cherry wood making designs at the heart of it. There are more books here too, leather bound and mint condition, things that will never grace the shelves of a public library.