Page 23 of Blood Moon
When the sound came again, I glanced above me, the golden chandelier twinkling. I followed the stairs back up, eyes wide with a keenness, inhaling the smell of leather and pine. In small clusters were students. Some of them were closed away in private studies, a few stationed in the dimly lit computer lab, but many of them were out in the open, scattered at tables and desks, resting on couches. Not one of them the culprit.
I’d considered it was a figment of my imagination, a sure sign I needed to sleep. I disregarded the matter, onward to caffeine, until the sound came again.
“Mira,” they said.
With a snap, I progressed toward the voice, following the checkered floors down a narrow path that led to a row of books. These withered things probably hadn’t seen the light of day in years. Edging closer, I bobbed between the empty rows, catching the unsteady sound of breath until the very thing altered into a deep, throaty chuckle.
A tall figure rose in the last row. Panic struck me, my chest warming against the heirloom clasped around my neck. I questioned my judgment, wondering how it’d been so easy for me to walk hastily into a trap.Foolishness at its finest.All that changed when the figure shuffled from the shadows. It was Seven.
“Damn you,” I sputtered, flooded with relief. I wanted nothing more than to punch him in the arm from the headache he’d caused.
A quiet laugh, and then, “Hi,” he said, his mouth curving at the sight of me. It was that smile and those alluring eyes. Utterly irresistible. A sliver of the sun beamed on his deep brown skin, and I noticed how he regarded me—a look too long to simply be friends.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, pointing out the obvious. I’d rather a ghost than whatever I believed was after me.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered, peering around to see if we’d disturbed anyone. The library rules were simple: No talking on the second floor.
Seven closed the distance between us before leaning against a row. His curls pulled into a high puff, a fresh taper fade on the sides and back. He was dressed simply: a black knit sweater and jeans. The start of a gold chain at the collar of his shirt grasped my attention.
“What do you mean ‘what am I doing here’?” He tilted forward, and my breathing hitched at the sudden closeness. “I’m in the library studying just like everyone else,” he continued. “Unless you’re under the impression that football players don’t study?”
I pursed my lips. “Don’t get it twisted. That’s not what I meant.”
A line creased his brows. “I mean, I don’t know, Mira. You didn’t even agree to come to my first game,” he teased.
“I can’t say yes to every guy who asks me out.”
He paused. “Are many of them … asking you out?”
No. Not even slightly,but I didn’t tell him that. Instead, I dropped my shoulders and broke his gaze. Less was more. Not that I knew. I’d had the worst luck when it came to dating, but I’d seen it depicted in movies and books.
“But listen, I never said Iwasn’tgoing to your first game—just that it was a ‘maybe.’”
He laughed. “Semantics, girl. Semantics. The real question is, what areyoudoing here?”
I scrunched my nose, deciding how much of the truth I wanted to share. Stevie was hosting a study party in our dorm, and the environment was overstimulating. Amid my despair, I’d reached out to Bobby again, but he hadn’t responded. I’d rehearsed how I’d inform him on all that occurred, how I’d gently ease him into the idea of Rena returning, like introducing a puppy to a warm bath—but each time it ended with him falling apart. And I knew that coddling would only hurt him; I needed to rip the bandage away quick and easy, but still, I was unsure how.
Alternatively, I needed solace while I researched the phraseamor vincit omnia. It was crucial to grasp why Rena had used that phrase when it was so deeply embedded in the folklore of our town. Much too precise to be unintentional.
In my exploration, I’d gathered that the phrase originated from a Roman poet who’d been born around 70 B.C. It was written in his first work,Bucolica.The initial phrase wasOmnia vincit amor: et nos cedamus amori.Translated to: Love conquers all; let us, too, yield to love.
Within this work, the words were spoken by a man named Gallus on his deathbed. He’d gone terribly mad from lovesickness, and when the god Apollo asked him why he continued this way, he simply responded: Love conquers all.
So, in response to Seven, I settled with: “Researching Roman history.”
He rocked on his heels. “Impressive.” There was a beat of silence, followed by the clearing of his throat. “About next Saturday …”
I hid a laugh, pressed my lips together. “My friends are performing during halftime. I’m obligated to be there.”
“Cheer?”
“Dance team.”
“Oh, right, right. Where are they this evening?”
“Study party.”
“And you weren’t invited?”
