Page 23 of Wildfire

One more mish-mashed word, and Wilder was going to blow his top. He flipped the egg over with an expert twist of his wrist and said nothing.

“You know, you don’t have to be worried. I’ll walk you to class. Hell, I’ll even carry your books, hot stuff.” Batting his eyelashes, Hermes leaned into him, his hands clasped in front of his chest.

But on the way to Banneker, Wilder most certainly didnotlet Hermes carry his books. When they crossed into the college’s imposing halls, Hermes bumped against his side. “So you know what to do if you get in trouble, right?”

Wilder blinked at him. “I know how to fight, yes.”

Hermes laughed. “No, I mean, if—you heard Lysandros call me yesterday, right?Hermes.” He lowered his voice to that approximation of the godly tone that never failed to get Hermes’s attention. It was a resonance mortal voices couldn’t reach, but Hermes still wanted to watch Wilder try so he could have one last giggle.

At first, all the professor did was stare at him like he was asking the man to stroll through the halls in his fancy silk boxers and nothing else. Hermes gave him a nudge with his elbow, and finally, Wilder cleared his voice and tried. “Hermes,” he mumbled, low and deep.

Hermes snickered. “Oh gods, you’re too much, Pratt. That’s—that’s perfect. Yeah. I’ll be listening.” He couldn’t stop laughing, even when Wilder marched in front of him into his office. There, a woman sat perched at her desk. She lit up when they stepped inside.

“Oh, hello! Are you Wilder’s friend? I’m Helen.” At once, she was out of her seat, extending her hand to Hermes as Wilder marched past. It was a small wonder he hadn’t slammed the door in Hermes’s face.

Grinning, Hermes shook her hand. “Oh, we’re not friends.”

We’re lovers, he’d wanted to say. But when he looked at the absolutely rigid set of Wilder’s shoulders, he swallowed the words down. He enjoyed teasing the man, enjoyed almost everything about him, but Hermes knew that look. He’d long been the runt, the annoyance. Wilder wanted absolutely nothing to do with him in public, and for once, Hermes didn’t want that horror played out on every line of his handsome face. He wanted to pretend there was something Wilder Pratt liked about him other than his ass.

Helen was watching him, head tilted curiously, waiting for him to explain.

“New security detail. Dean Woods’s orders. Hermes Fleet at your service, Helen.” He shook her hand exaggeratedly. “I’ll see you in a couple hours, Mr. Pratt. Remember to get in touch if you need anything.”

And before he could watch that wide-eyed shock in Wilder’s eyes turn to annoyance, Hermes darted away to go see what his uncle had to say.

Tactical Retreat

Of course they weren’t friends.

Wilder wasn’t sure why he had, even for a second, forgotten that.

Even worse, Hermes had left him alone with Helen, and Wilder—well fuck, Wilder missed him. Maybe it was just because his choices were Helen or Hermes, and there was no competition about which of them he liked better. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that instead of going snarky and rude, and telling Helen he was there to take care of helpless baby Wilder, or that he was the fashion police there to check up on Wilder’s choices, he’d told what amounted to the truth.

Maybe Hermes didn’t want to be around Wilder, but at least he hadn’t spent effort making it clear to Helen just how much he disliked him.

“He’s... interesting,” Helen offered, her nose scrunched up in distaste.

He scowled at her. Was she serious? First Melly, now Hermes? Wilder did not bother taking a deep breath. He did not count to three. No, he just bit out, “He’s the dean’s brother, so I’d suggest you not let her hear you talking about him like that.”

Helen blinked and turned back to stare at the door. “Dean Woods is related to that tiny little man?”

Was she actually insulting the man for being short where his sister was statuesque? Wilder would admit—at least to himself—that sometimes he took offense where it wasn’t intended. But he was sure this time it wasn’t his imagination. Why was there a need to mention Hermes’s height at all?

He sat at his desk, staring at the green blotter without really seeing it.

There were papers to grade. There were always papers to grade. He wanted to leave immediately, to go down and once again invade Ward’s space, since the man seemed content to let him do so. But these were his office hours, and Dean Woods didn’t like professors taking their office hours anywhere but their offices. His first year he’d tried to make a case for doing the time at the range, but she’d said that wouldn’t “set his students at ease” the way an office would.

So he ignored Helen, pulled a stack of assignments out of his bag, and started working. It took all of a minute for her to hop up and start pacing the room, talking aloud about how clever the freshmen were, what with their being able to assemble occasionally complete sentences with passable grammar.

It was a relief when Elise showed up in the doorway, looking nervous. He shoved the assignments out of the way and motioned her in emphatically. “What can I do for you?”

She seated herself gingerly on the very edge of the chair in front of Wilder’s desk, and he couldn’t blame her. The thing was hard plastic, and incredibly uncomfortable. “I was just wondering. I don’t—That is, I didn’t want to be rude or ask in front of the class, but why do you have a bodyguard?” She only paused for a moment before surging on. “Is it because of Matt and Rebekah?”

Well hell. He couldn’t exactly say no to that, could he? And Hermes was making no secret of the fact that he was, in fact, guarding Wilder’s body. He didn’t look up to meet her eye, but nodded.

“Is he a mage?” Helen interrupted from across the room. Her voice was calculatedly nonchalant, so he glanced up at her. What the hell did she expect him to say? Was she looking for gossip about the dean’s brother? Probably.

So he shrugged. “Maybe. I haven’t actually seen him do his job yet, but Dean Woods assures me he’s good at it.”

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