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She leaned forward. “What are you hiding? What aren’t you telling us?”

Part of me wanted to tell Nyxaris that botany could actually be quite exhilarating. And part of me was all too aware of everyone staring at me. My mind raced, thoughts all a jumble. It might have been funny—if Lochlan hadn’t suddenly rushed at us again. His arms locked around Medra’s neck, hauling her off her feet and choking her.

“Medra!” I cried.

Horrified, I watched as she clawed at his arms, struggling to break free. But he was so much bigger than she was. Stronger. His thick forearm was locked so tightly around her throat. Medra’s face turned red, her boots scraping against the floor as she fought him, kicking at his ankles, stomping on his feet.

I couldn’t help it. I screamed.

I must insist you clarify the nature of this class immediately, fledgling. Nyxaris’s voice was commanding, insistent.

But there was no time to talk. “Let go of her!” I shouted.

Medra tried to shove her hand between the vise of the boy’s arm and her throat. I could see her gasping, choking, and there was absolutely nothing I could do. I’d made things worse. So much worse.

Lochlan grinned at me and squeezed tighter, the muscles of his forearm bulging against Medra’s windpipe. I’d never hated anyone so much.

The girl, Isha, leaned in, her eyes triumphant. “Florence, isn’t it? You’re in Avari, right? Tell us what you were going to say, Florence, or Lochlan here is going to hurt your friend.” She glanced at the boy and nodded. “Tell us or he finishes her here and now.”

Medra’s eyes were on me. I could feel her silent plea. I knew she didn’t want to hurt the boy, but he was hurting her.

If I said nothing, she might die. Medra had saved my life. I wasn’t going to let that happen. Lochlan’s grip seemed to tighten.

“No!” I screamed. “Stop! Nyxaris is mine. He—” The words left my mouth just as Medra exploded.

There was no other word for it. It was like something had been building in her and suddenly she snapped. With a feral snarl, she twisted her body, angling her elbow up and smashing it into Lochlan’s ribs. Hard. I heard the cracking of bones and gasped. Lochlan stumbled backwards, his grip loosening. Medra wasn’t through yet. She pulled her head back as far as she could go, then drove it backwards, hitting his nose with a brutal blow. Blood sprayed. Lochlan let out a howl, and his grip faltered. And then my friend moved faster than I’d ever seen her move. She pulled out of his grip, dropping back down to the floor, grabbing Lochlan’s wrist as she went and twisting it with her full weight, slamming him down. Medra staggered back, coughing and gasping—as if the impact of what Lochlan had done was finally taking effect. But the boy on the ground wasn’t finished. He pushed himself up, violence flashing in his eyes. His mouth twisted savagely as he yanked a knife from his belt.

Medra was breathing hard, but she’d stepped back. I could tell she didn’t want to hurt him. She just wanted him to stop. But he wasn’t going to stop. This was going to end badly.

Tell me where you are. You are not at the greenhouse. Nyxaris’s voice was urgent.

Isha was suddenly moving to join Lochlan, fists clenched, teeth bared. There was no time to do anything. To even shout. It all happened at once.

A shadow tore through the crowd. A blur of red and black.

Blake.

I hadn’t even seen him arrive. But one second Lochlan was standing, dagger poised, and Isha was rushing up behind Medra—and the next … the next, Lochlan went sprawling backwards again with another sickening snap of bone. His head twisted at a grotesque angle. An unlivable angle. His body hit the ground. He didn’t move again.

A sob choked my throat but never made it past my lips. Isha screeched and reached for Lochlan’s blade, but Blake was faster. He lunged, fangs bared. He was beside Isha in a flash, seizing her wrist and twisting the knife out of her hands. It fell to the floor with a clatter as she cried out in pain, stumbling back and falling hard onto her knees, as she cowered beneath him. The Drakharrow House Leader loomed over her, his mouth still twisted in a ferocious snarl.

I closed my eyes. There was no doubt in my mind that he was about to finish her with his teeth.

“Blake! Stop!” Medra’s voice cut through the air.

I peeked through my half-closed eyelids. Blake was breathing hard, still leaning over Isha, fangs bared, his body vibrating with tension. He was a predator poised to kill. His chest heaved with the effort of holding himself back. I held my breath. Around me, no one dared to move.

“Blake, stop it,” Medra commanded, the only one brave enough to address this terrifying man.

The highblood slowly straightened, turning his head to face Medra, his fangs still out.

And that’s when I saw it. His eye—the one good one that should have been gray—was red.

Blake’s gaze flickered, and suddenly his eye was gray again. The tall highblood scanned the crowd of blightborn students, now so still and silent, many backing away, faces pale with horror.

He growled. “No one,” he snarled, his voice echoing down the hall, “touches her.”

Medra didn’t look away. She moved towards him carefully and placed a hand on his chest. “Blake,” she whispered. “Stand down. It’s over.”