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Braxton leads me away from the library and over to a classroom that looks like it could double as an operating room from the future. Every single surface is so glossy and white, I’m forced to squint in order to take it all in.
“Is this where the lessons in swordcraft happen?” I glance over my shoulder at Braxton, but he’s waving at me to move on.
The next room is more like a theater. There’s a large round stage in the center, with a few rows of comfortable-looking chairs arranged all around it.
“And this must be where the cast of the school play meets for rehearsal?” When Braxton ignores me, I say, “I thought you were here to answer my questions.”
“Then ask me a real one,” he says, moving farther down the hall.
“Is that an original Picasso?” I jab a thumb toward a painting I recognize from sophomore year art class.
“One of many.” Braxton nods. “And the walls, in case you’re wondering, are covered in the most expensive Venetian plaster money can buy.”
Not wanting to appear too impressed, I run a hand along the big ticket wall and say, “And yet, it looks a lot like cement. Also, this place could definitely do with a window or two. I mean—” I accidentally bump my thumb against a biometric door pad, prompting a bark of an alarm to sound in protest. “Guess that room’s off-limits.” I let out a chirp of a laugh, hoping to cover how embarrassed I am, but Braxton barely notices.
“Think of Gray Wolf like a small city,” he tells me. “It contains everything one might possibly need without ever having to venture outside.”
“Is that because no one’sallowedto venture outside?” I shoot him a sideways glance as I walk alongside him. Considering the remote island location and fortresslike walls, the suggestion can’t be all that far off.
Braxton leads me around a corner that opens to yet another long hall. “You act like this is a prison,” he says, our footsteps landing in unison.
“Well. Isn’t it?”
“You can’t be serious.” He gives a quick breath of a laugh and motions toward the gleaming marble floors, the gilt-framed old masters lining the walls, the abundance of crystal chandeliers hanging overhead, the intricate mural of glorious angels and terrifying demons engaged in the ancient battle of good versus evil depicted on the domed ceiling.
“Fine,” I say. “So it’s less a prison and more a luxury snow globe. Either way, there’s no viable way to escape.”
Braxton stops dead in his tracks, his mood looking like it’s taken a serious turn. “This is your home now,” he says, his authoritative tone clashing with the quick glance he shoots over his shoulder, as though worried someone might overhear. “As for your former home, you need to leave it behind. You can never go back there.”
