Page 58 of Switching Graves

I can’t lose it right now. Not here.

Poppy doesn’t have these problems. If I’m going to be her, I can’t either.

Expanding my lungs in a breath so deep, my ribs stretch against the unforgiving fabric of my gown. I hold it for a beat, collecting every pointless insecurity I’ve been hit with sincebeing invited to this thing. Then, with one long exhale, I force myself to release them.

When I lift my eyes from the impossibly black tablecloth, I’m startled by the terrifyingly familiar gaze of Dr. Whitlock just a few feet away.

“You’re okay,” he mumbles beneath his breath. Not a question or a comforting command. Just a confirmation.

You’re okay, so I don’t have to have you hauled off somewhere.

Nodding, I flatten my lips into a line and look around for some excuse to escape his intense stare. Hopefully, he’s only passing by. I’m not sure my nervous system can take another encounter with him right now. Especially after all the warnings I received this past week.

He proves me wrong by setting his drink onto the table beside me, then dropping a second one beside my wringing hands.

Giving me a once-over, he lifts one side of his mouth in a smirk that somehow looks more miserable than his usual grimace. “Nice to see you were able to put off your studies long enough to prance around Nocturne Valley for a gown.”

I can’t help the way my eyes roll at his comment. It’s like this guy has his own secret access point to dance directly on my nerves.

“I made it work,” I reply, my tone as cold as ice.

I wish I could tell him how everyone seems to hate him there, but I don’t have the heart to be that cruel. Besides, he probably wouldn’t care, anyway. He doesn’t seem to care about anything.

I’m hoping he’ll take the hint and move on, but the way he taps his fingers on the table and casts his judgmental glare around the room tells me otherwise.

“This is all such a gross display of privilege, don’t you think? An excuse for all these families to flaunt their wealth and power over everyone else?”

Pursing my lips, I blink at him. “And why would I think that? I’m here too, aren’t I?”

Never mind that I stick out like a sore thumb.

“You aren’t one of them,” he dismisses confidently, confirming my thoughts.

“Sure, I am. And so are you. Why else would you be wasting your Saturday night here if not to show everyone how important you are?”

The miserable smirk lifts even higher until—dare I say—it blooms into something pleasant, stretching up to his smiling eyes. He’s pleased with my sharp tongue. But the seemingly happy expression falls when he examines the mask across my face, as if he’s only just now noticed it.

“Do you know why it’s called the Falconry?”

“No,” I admit, shaking my head. “There’s a lot about this that I don’t understand.”

He shoots me a knowing look, raising his brow as if to say,you’ve got that right.I’m so sick of his games and condescending comments—especially the ones he doesn’t ever say aloud.

“Falconry is the sport of using birds of prey, such asravens, to hunt other animals.” Twirling his hand around to gesture toward the surrounding people, he continues, “They’ve set up this little game to gather women in a small space and hunt them down like rabbits. They think they’re clever.”

“It’s a smart play on words,” I admit.

I don’t particularly enjoy being compared to a small, helpless animal, though. As a student of the university and a raven myself, I’m just as much a bird of prey as whoever sent me the invite. It’s insulting when he puts it like that.

“Is it? A raven isn’t even technically considered a bird of prey. A simple Google search can tell you that. How clever can they really be?” He levels me with a chastising glare, lowering his brows in a way that only makes his dark features stand out against his smooth, pale skin.

God, he’s such a smart ass. A handsome, attractive smartass who appears to know the effect he has on women. I want to slap him just as deeply as I want to wrap my legs around his waist. Or run away from him. It changes with every passing minute.

“Why are you here if you hate it so much?” I snarl, more irritated with myself than the man before me.

He opens his mouth to rattle off what I’m sure will be a cryptic, nonresponse, but slams it shut when a large hand claps over his shoulder.

Dean Hatchcroft stands behind him, face bright and smiling as he gestures to the man standing to his left. “Raze . . . Speak of the devil. I was just trying to tell Richard about that research project you did a few years back, and I’m failing miserably. Maybe you can do a better job.”

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