Page 20 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

“It’s you, isn’t it?” The words slip from my lips before I can stop them, barely audible, but undeniable.

It is him. It has always been him. I see it now, clearer than I ever could before.

His head cocks ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. The way he looks at me, like a person who has already claimed me without saying a word. He doesn’t need to say anything. His presence, his silence, speaks volumes.

However, that doesn’t make it right, does it? Had he been anything less than the beautiful enigma before me, perhaps I would have felt disgust clawing at my throat, forcing me to recoil from the judgment I knew I would make. But no. Instead, the veil of charm pulled tight around his frame, and here I am, mesmerized by the facade that betrays my own sense of propriety. After all, the devil wears cashmere, and he is said to be strikingly handsome.

“Take a walk with me.” His voice is a low, almost melodic command as his hands settle in the pockets of his slacks. His height towers, both commanding and captivating, like a looming shadow pulling me toward him.

“You’re the founder of this academy?” I question him, my voice cutting through the air like a blade, my gaze fixed on him as my legs move.

“No, the founder died.” I find no clarity in his reply. My thoughts fray at the edges, hesitant but persistent.

“So, who are you, then?”

“One could say I wear a thousand skins.” The words spill from him with unsettling ease.

I scoff, heart quickening in a strange mix of curiosity and apprehension.

“Am I supposed to find that flattering?”

“The response or the sobriquet?” His reply lingers in the air, thick with something unspoken.

“Both,” I retort dryly.

“Depends.” He only shrugs, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes at his nonchalance, unwilling to let him see my thoughts, though they are as transparent as glass.

“On what?” I press, defiant.

“Appeasing yourboss,” he murmurs, his tone sending a ripple of unease through me.

My steps falter, my body tensing. Did he just?—?

Before I can think any further, he clears his throat, “I did not pardon you to stop walking.”

A brief haze settles over me, my mind swirling. My jaw tightens as I hold back the retort, but the reality of the situation sinks in. I’m no longer playing a game of hide and seek. This man has more power in his presence than I can begin to understand.

Bird Dogshad always been a familiar term—patrons sent to find talent—but this feels different, darker. What could he possibly want with me?

“You must be confused,” I begin, my voice shaking ever so slightly, “My dancing was paralyzing, to say the least, and I doubt anyBird Dogswould?—”

“The words that come out of my mouth will never be short of unequivocal,” he interrupts, and my breath catches in my chest. “While your dancing was abhorrent, it was not you. I’ve seen your flair, Odessa, and I might just want it for myself.”

We round yet another corner, and my senses are assaulted by the soft scent of jasmine, the blooming dandelions, and the melancholic beauty of the garden that unfolds before me. The space around us is lush, a labyrinth of vibrant flowers, each shade more vivid than the last, their fragrances heavy in the air. The garden stretches out like a secret world, a cocoon of beauty. I barely notice when he pulls out a chair for me to sit, his movements smooth and deliberate.

“Perhaps a name would be a great start, don’t you think?” I say, my voice steady despite the tension in the air.

I take my seat, and his lips brush against my ear, sending a shiver through me, sharp as cold iron. The scent of sandalwood and vetiver surrounds me, intoxicating, and I can’t resist leaning into it, like a moth drawn to flame. My body betrays me as I inch closer, yearning to inhale his scent deeper, to bury myself in it.

“That would be Sebastian,” he whispers, his voice low, as if sharing a secret. His proximity makes my head spin, the warmth of his breath on my skin like fire against ice.

Sebastian. The name settles on my tongue, bitter yet sweet, lingering like poison and honey. For a moment, I consider how strange it would be, if the circumstances were different. If I were not in this tangled mess. A moonlit lake ripples beside us, its surface clear and cold, a perfect reflection of the sky. Swans glide through the water, their elegance a stark contrast to the chaotic knot tightening in my chest. Wild roses bloom nearby, their scent sweet, almost cloying in its perfection. The table between us is set with bread, wine, and delicacies—luxury laid before us like a tempting siren’s call. But none of it matters. Not the view, nor the beauty surrounding us, because my attention is anchored solely on the man across from me.

He catches me staring, and a smirk tugs at his lips, again. I quickly avert my gaze, seeking distraction in the water, in the wild, fragile beauty of the world around me.

“Local legend has it that centuries ago, a gash of stone was scooped away here and replaced by a heap of diamond, clear as day. It was molded into this very spot, hidden behind this convent quiet, drenched in the saccharine sweet nectar of the gods.” His voice wraps around me like a velvet rope, dark and honeyed, and I find myself leaning in, drawn to his words.

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