Page 29 of Shadowed Whispers

My head jerks up, and my stomach twists. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I snap at him and go to step around him.

Matteo grabs my bicep, tugging me close, too damn close, and somehow, I don’t react as he touches me. He’s close enough that I can smell his scent—cinnamon and cloves.

“Again,” he whispers close enough that his breath gusts over my ear. “No one will hurt you again.” His dark eyes stare into mine, peering through my soul, reading me in ways no one ever has before.

I jerk out of his hold. “I don’t need you to protect me.” By now, everyone is in the classroom, leaving us alone out here with the unconscious kid.

“No, you don’t,” he murmurs, his eyes darkening to a near black, a chilling smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Even precious gems shatter under the right amount of pressure.” His words hang in the air, heavy with an ominous promise, as a shadow seems to flicker at his back—a shadow that wasn’t there a moment ago.

“Let’s go!” the professor shouts from the door, shocking me out of the moment.

With my brows furrowed, I turn away and walk through the door, taking a seat at the very back. Matteo follows me in, sitting right beside me.

I guess he isn’t about to leave me alone, at least not this early in the morning.

Chapter 10

Dorian

I am nothing more than a portrait on the wall, a mirage amongst goblins and creatures of lore at Shadow Locke University. As I watch from the shadows, they see me but overlook the truth of what I am. The corridors are steeped in the musky scent of age and secrets, the walls lined with whispers of those who passed before.

Professor Blackwood prefers it that way. He prefers no one sees me, yet he insists I observe everyone—their idle chatter, their pointless notes, their deceitful lying, and their transparent cheating. My ears fill with the dull hum of their mundane conversations, the scratch of pens on paper echoing like distant thunder.

I do as I’m told, watching and judging, my sharp gaze cutting through the pretense and facade.

That’s when she prances in, with her slender form and long hair that absurdly kisses her thighs, swaying like silk in a gentle breeze. Her eyes are too big, too wide, and too bold as she stares at the classroom as though she is a gazelle utterly lost amidst a forest of knowledge.

She isn’t lost. Oh no, she is precisely where fate mistakenly placed her.

Francesca Vale. She is the last in her class to comprehend who and what she is, and naturally, the professor has chosen to coddle her. He loves a challenge. She doesn’t know this, of course, but she will. The air around her seems to shimmer with the faintest trace of unused potential, like heat from a dormant fire.

All through class, she diligently scribbles notes, focusing and nibbling on her garishly red lips—large, pouty, and constantly tortured by her own teeth. I imagine the taste of cinnamon and defiance on them.

I would teach her the proper use of those lips and force her to acknowledge their misuse.

I want to abuse her lips, force her to her knees, and wrap that long hair around my?—

“Class is dismissed! Francesca Vale, may I see you up front, please?” Professor Blackwood announces prematurely. It’s just as well. Most of today is nothing more than a trivial handout of the syllabus and readings. “Dorian,” he whispers to me.

I detach myself from the wall, observing as the little vixen slowly stands, squinting at the professor. Beside her, the boy’s eyes narrow, but he remains planted firmly in his seat.

Looks like he will be staying for this particular charade.

“Professor.” I position myself to the right of his desk. His eyes remain on Francesca. There’s interest there, intrigue. It’s a foolish notion to desire a student, but as I follow his gaze and watch Ms. Vale walk down the aisle, I can’t help but understand why he finds her superficially attractive.

She is slight, more from a lack of proper nutrition than anything else, and she doesn’t engage in sports, yet her long legs still have perfect curves, and her stockings draw my gaze like a moth to a flame.

She’s a vixen and a nuisance, and I’m thankful I don’t have to tolerate her more than necessary—like right now.

“Ms. Vale.” Professor Blackwood extends his hand to her to shake. She hesitantly reaches out. I notice the slightest tremble in her fingers before she masters it, her chin jutting up in defiance of her own emotions. “I don’t know if you’ve been informed, but I’m your academic advisor for the remainder of your time here at Shadow Locke.”

Frankie, as she calls herself, snatches her hand back and wipes her palm on her skirt, uncaring of how disrespectful it appears—intriguing—and her little brow furrows. “I don’t understand. What happened to my former advisor?”

“Leave of absence,” he replies quickly.

I suppress a scoff. Sure, deceive the unsuspecting shadow. That’s one way to build trust. I don’t believe in lying. It’s an awful habit, one that others will find themselves ensnared by.

I will never find myself ensnared.

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