Page 16 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
“Easily broken.”
“Let’s not test that theory.”
There’s a moment where the space between us feels tighter, the air thickening with unspoken things. I keep my voice casual, but my heart’s doing this annoying quick-step in my chest. “You know, most people don’t look at a map and immediately think about conquest.”
“I am not most people.”
I believe him. God help me, I believe him.
I try to keep my tone light, my questions tucked into the spaces between map talk like they’re harmless filler. “So… where exactly in Protheka are you from?”
“Far from here.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’ll get.”
I tilt my head, watching the way he studies the coastlines like he’s looking for a way to invade them. “Okay, fine. What about your family?”
He doesn’t even blink. “They exist.”
“That’s… wow. Thanks for the detailed intel, Agent Stonewall.”
His eyes cut to mine, flat as obsidian. I can almost hear the silentyou think you’re clever.
I lean back in my chair, balancing it on two legs. “You’re allergic to honesty, aren’t you?”
That earns me something—not a smile, exactly, but a twitch of his lips, like he’s deciding whether or not to be amused and ultimately choosesnojust to spite me. Still, it’s there, and it feels like a win.
“Some truths,” he says slowly, “are… weapons. You do not hand a stranger your blade.”
“Well, lucky for you, I’m not planning to stab you with your tragic backstory.”
Before he can come up with some dark, broody retort, movement catches my eye at the front of the library. A tall guy in an ill-fitting suit stands just inside the doorway, scanning the room to match faces to a mental checklist. He’s broad-shouldered, all squared jaw and government-issue hair. And he doesn’t belong here—not in a campus library on a Tuesday afternoon.
Bill Smith. I’ve seen him once before, leaning against a black SUV parked just outside the quad, pretending to check his phone while very obviously watching the science building.
Rovax must see him at the same time I do, because every muscle in his body tightens under the glamour. It’s subtle—just enough to shift his posture fromcasual intimidationtoready tostrike. His eyes narrow, tracking Bill like a hawk sighting a fox too close to the nest.
I murmur, “You know him?”
“No,” Rovax says, but his voice has that low, dangerous edge I’ve heard twice now—once right before he collapsed in the woods, and once when I asked him about his home. “But he smells of pursuit.”
The phrasing is weird, but I know exactly what he means.
Bill’s gaze sweeps the far corner where we’re sitting, and for a split second, I swear his eyes lock on us. OnRovax.
“Don’t look at him,” I whisper, already shoving my laptop shut.
“I am looking to measure threat,” Rovax says, but he doesn’t move his head—just tracks Bill in the reflection of the darkened screen. “This one is not prey.”
“Great, neither are we,” I hiss, standing so fast my chair’s legs scrape against the carpet. The sound is too loud in the library’s hush, and Bill’s head tilts just slightly. My pulse spikes.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and nod toward the far stacks. “Back exit. Now.”
Rovax rises without a sound, and suddenly I’m aware of just how big he is again. Even disguised, he carries a kind of weight that makes space around him bend. As we move toward the back, weaving between the shelves, I can feel Bill’s line of sight like a cold finger pressing between my shoulder blades.
If he follows, we’ll have maybe thirty seconds before Rovax stops pretending to blend in. And I don’t know if the campus library is ready for that particular brand of chaos.
