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26
Even though I’m seriously tempted to ignore Braxton’s advice and head downstairs in my fancy dress and Louboutin heels—if for no other reason than to prove that I make my own rules—I’d also hate for Arthur to get the wrong idea and think I’m so superficial he’s already won me over with a room full of luxury clothes.
Not to mention, these heels are seriously starting to kill.
So, when I do finally head out in my green Gray Wolf sweatshirt, dark denim jeans, and a brand new pair of sneakers, only to find Braxton at the bottom of the stairway, I must do a pretty good job of not hiding my frustration, because he’s quick to say, “Look, I get that I’m the last person you want to see, but there’s a lot of ground to cover, so we really should get started.”
He tries to hurry me along, but I stubbornly stick to my own, more leisurely, pace, moving so slowly, my sneakers practically drag across the floor.
He frowns at my feet. “Don’t you think this is a little childish?”
I come to a full stop, refusing to budge a single step farther. “What—you’re afraid I’ll be late for my Procurement exam?”
“Natasha—” He starts to move toward me, but I stop him with a hand raised in warning.
“It’s Nat,” I say, instinctively hugging myself at the waist. Then, realizing it probably makes me appear as scared and small as I feel, I force my arms to my sides.
He makes a point of looking from me to his watch. “I know you’re upset,” he says. “But if we could just get through this, then—”
I lean against the wall and hook a defiant hand on my hip. I’m testing his patience. I can see it in the tightening of his jaw, the quickening tap of his foot against the limestone floor. And when his gaze lands heavily on mine, even though it’s partially obscured by the stray lock of hair falling over his brow, it’s clear I’m successfully wearing him down.
Which would be great, except for the fact that I’m wearing myself down as well.
It’s been years since I last let myself cry, but I get the distinct feeling that if I were alone in my room, with the shower running on high, that’s exactly what I’d be doing.
“For the record,” he says, voice barely a whisper, “on my first day, I was scared out of my wits, too. All of us were. It’s perfectly normal to feel like you do.”
The look he gives me is so gentle and kind, it’s like I’m seeing him for the very first time. Not just as some unattainable hot guy—the enemy who stole my backpack along with my (admittedly crummy) life—but as a true flesh-and-blood person with maybe his own regrettable past.
The academy will reveal itself soon enough, but this may prove to be my one and only chance to really learn something about him.
“So youwerea student once upon a time. How’d you end up at Gray Wolf?” I ask.
His gaze meets mine, and he doesn’t even flinch when he says, “Theft. Just like you, I drew the Wheel of Fortune card, too.”
My breath hitches. I take a moment to process. “Was Elodie responsible?” I ask, already convinced that she was.
How many people has she manipulated?
How many lives has she ruined?
I should’ve listened to Mason when he tried to warn me, but I was too caught up in the rush of hanging with her.
Elodie was exciting. Intoxicating. She did what she pleased—pushed every boundary, broke every rule—without any consequence.
My life was the opposite. I was walking a high wire with no net to catch me. And yet, whenever I was with Elodie, I fooled myself into believing I could live like her, too.
Braxton studies me for a prolonged beat, then abruptly turns away. “Come, Tasha,” he says. “We have a lot of ground to cover.”
“Nat,” I correct him as I race to catch up. But he pretends not to hear.
The campus is surprisingly big, covering way more ground than I initially guessed. And as Braxton leads me through a never-ending labyrinth of halls, I can’t help but admire how Arthur has managed to so seamlessly blend the opposite worlds of classic art and high tech.
We pause outside a formal, old-world-style library with polished wood paneled walls and an endless collection of books arranged on stacks of shelves that appear to soar as high as the sky.
“Actual books?” I turn to Braxton. “I would’ve expected a towering pile of ereaders.”
“Arthur made his money in tech, but he prefers tangible things he can touch. Also, most of those books you see are rare editions. Now come.”
