Page 67 of Hallowed Bones

CHAPTER 24HAVEN

After reviewing Haven Wardwell’s application, we regret to inform you that we cannot offer her enrollment at Huxley Academy at this time. There were a few concerning reports from references at previous schools, and we believe that she would not be a good fit for an educational program within a boarding school.

This decision is made with Haven’s best interest and well-being at heart. We encourage you to seek a placement better suited to her emotional needs.

—EXCERPT OF AN EMAIL SENT FROM PRINCIPAL ATWOOD TO TRISHA DEVI

“Haven?”

Elodie’s voice cuts through the fog of hedonism and moral philosophy that I’ve been wading through for the last hour. I don’t look up as I drag a highlighter over the next line of The Picture of Dorian Gray, the yellow streak bright against the thin paper.

Has Cameron struggled with Dorian’s personality as much as I have when he was reading it?

“Haven, you, uh … you have a guest.”

“That’s nice,” I mutter, switching to a pen and scribbling a sharp note in the margin: beauty as rot.

I bet Cameron didn’t care for Dorian either. Then again, maybe that’s the point. Maybe we’re not supposed to like Dorian so much as we’re supposed to understand him. Ugh. I reach up and start to rub my temples when Elodie’s words actually register. And by the time they do, it’s already too late.

I glance up.

Then nearly drop the fucking book.

Lyall smirks at me from where he stands just inside the door to my dorm room. Tall and dressed in a pair of low-slung jeans, an unreasonably fitted shirt, and a black, scuffed leather jacket. His presence fills the room like smoke, curling around the corners and making my pulse stutter.

Fuck.

“Hey, Rabbit.”

That grin of his stays in place as he takes a slow pass around the room. From the messy open door of Elodie’s wardrobe to the books stacked on my desk—including the ones that had appeared not long after I’d left Bishop Manor. If he’s surprised they’re out in the open, though, in front of Elodie, he doesn’t comment or show it.

I snap my book closed and shove it to the side as I get off the bed. Elodie hovers near Lyall, her eyes wide as she looks from him to me and back again. Lyall slowly pivots toward me, finishing his perusal of the room. “Did you forget about our date?” he asks, arching a brow.

Damn it. Yes, I had. I wince and look back to the textbooks hanging open on my bed along with the binders, notebooks, and other schoolwork. “Now’s not really the best—”

“You didn’t strike me as the type to break your promises,” he says, cutting me off.

I snap my gaze up, jaw tight. “Guilt-tripping?” I deadpan. “Seriously?”

He shrugs, a casualness to his arrogance. “I do what I have to.”

Behind him, Elodie’s eyes are wide. Her eyes keep bouncing back and forth before she finally settles on me. She flails her arms behind his back, mouthing, What the fuck are you doing?

But then Lyall steps closer—and the rest of the world blurs. My attention narrows, sharp as a blade, fixed on him. He’s big, and all that slow, predatory grace he carries like a second layer of skin makes the air feel heavier between us. I tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. His eyes aren’t just golden—they’re inhuman.

That day with Reyes flickers through my head like static. He’d never said it, but then, he didn’t have to. The words hang in the air even now, clinging to me, reminding me that I can’t keep running from them forever.

I sigh, the sound laced with more irritation than I actually feel. “Fine. Let me change, and we’ll go.”

His gaze drags down my body, slow and unapologetic. I’m suddenly hyperaware of my baggy white T-shirt slipping off one shoulder, my lack of a bra, and the loose plaid shorts that leave nothing to the imagination. His lips twitch into a wolfish grin.

“Don’t even think about it,” I mutter, jerking my thumb toward the door. “Out. If you want me to come, I’m not doing it while you ogle me in my pj’s.”

His laugh is low and masculine. It rolls through me like a warm breeze after a cold night, brushing places I shouldn’t let him near. My stomach tightens. He raises both hands in mock surrender, backing toward the door with that smirk still playing on his mouth.

“All right, all right,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right outside. Don’t keep me waiting, Rabbit. I’m not as nice when I’m hungry.”

Something tells me that his hunger has less to do with food than it does with other pursuits.