Page 55 of Tempest

I stare at it suspiciously as it glints within her fingers.

“Do you see me having nightmares and becoming terrified of third-story windows?”

I pull my lips to one side. Clover has a point. Wasn’t I admiring her peaceful acceptance of a traumatic experience a few moments ago, too?

“Fine. I’ll go with you.”

She smiles, her face somehow beaming through the night. I bend around her once she stands to rifle through my bedside drawer. “Until then, I’ll take some Xanax.”

Usually, I’m averse to my pills, considering they were shoved down my throat involuntarily for months. But my need to fall back asleep and not be haunted by old memories reshaping my dreams outweighs my principles. I shake two tablets out of the bottle and dry swallow them both.

Clover watches my movements quietly. Probably thought she could heal me so much better if given the time to work me over and convince me that becoming one with nature is better than any chemical.

Maybe she’s right. I have nothing to lose except for the one trait I fought like hell to regain—my sanity. Part of staying at TFU is to show everyone that I’m fine. If that means learning Clover’s Wiccan practices and letting her fuss over me until she’s satisfied I’m not going to speak gibberish to her again, then fine. I’ll do it.

It’s not her I’ll have to act my best in front of.

It’s her brother.

I know what I saw.

* * *

After getting ready for the day, Clover and I split off in front of our dorms. My walk to class is more of a trudge, my brain a hard mix of grogginess from the Xanax, twitchiness from my nightmares, and paranoia from what I’m now terming “the Hand.” My attention is scattered but aware, diving from side to side and clocking anyone who walks too close to me.

No one pays me any mind, most wearing headphones or beanies to drown out the rumbling gray clouds. The quad is wet and smelling like dead leaves, and smoke as stragglers drop their cigarettes and head into the buildings last minute.

I make it into the business building before it starts to drizzle again. Sadly, my hair did not make the trek undamaged. The electricity in the air from held-in lightning frizzed my ends, and I pull the scrunchie from my wrist and tie it into a low, messy bun as I take a seat in Rossi’s class.

Rossi isn’t late this time, walking in right behind me. His confident footsteps release lightning into my spine. I have to coax myself down from the ceiling, internally berating my lack of poker face.

Knock it off. He’s just a professor.

“All right, folks, I have your first papers right here.” Rossi pats a stack of stapled and spiral-bound essays once he reaches the head of the table. He scans everyone seated. I can’t help it—when he reaches me I hold my breath, otherwise chanting at myself to stay blank, calm, and blasé. My worries are unfounded when his disinterested gaze glides past me and to my neighbor, cataloging me as any other student.

He’s handsome. I’ll give him that. All cut cheekbones and sharpened jaw. His eyes are like dark chocolate. Not the kind that melts, but the kind of chocolate bar you leave in the fridge so long, it becomes hard and brittle, with a white, frosted cast over the sweet bitterness. Miguel Rossi also has height on his side and broad, intimidating shoulders that his suit jacket can’t quite contain. I can see why Clover thinks he’s sexy—the silver wings of hair at his temples and his brown-black waves held back from his forehead like he just casually scraped it back with his fingers. A few lines on his forehead and crinkles around his eyes make him seem mature and experienced, not old.

“I must say, I’m impressed with most of you,” Rossi continues, his rich baritone captivating all pronouns in the class. “I read every paper, and Mr. Callahan took a second pass, deciding on the grades.”

Two damning words snap me out of my study of the man. Tempest and grades. A light sweat grows under my arms, nerves warring with fear as Tempest enters the room with a folder tucked under his arm.

He’s dressed in a casual black tee and dark denim and is smaller in stature than Rossi with paler skin and shrewder eyes. Yet … my gaze falls on him and doesn’t move, even while Rossi goes on about skill levels and what he expects from us.

I really should be writing this down. I’m adept at lists, often planning out my days weeks in advance. What else is there to do when you’re locked in a room, either in a mansion or a facility?

My fingers don’t move for my pen.

Tempest slides in next to Rossi, his head down, his expression tense. A piece of hair falls onto his forehead. He impatiently shoves it back.

His eyes dart up.

I was so busy staring at his fingers and how he buried them in his thick hair that I’m caught red-handed, my thoughts as clear as the flush on my face.

Those fingers were in me. Stroked and collected and pleased.

There’s no intensity in those surreal green eyes. Just a flatness, like a shark’s. Alive enough to approach a fish and snap it in half with the barest bite.

I swallow.

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