Page 18 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
“Skylar! Hey—Sky!”
I turn, and there he is, a man striding toward us with the swagger of someone who’s never had to earn a thing in his life. Blond hair cropped short, shirt sleeves rolled to show off tanned arms that speak of more time in gyms than in battles. His gait isn’t the cautious prowl of a fighter—it’s the bounce of a man who expects the world to get out of his way.
Skylar’s mouth tightens in a way I’ve already learned meansthis is not a welcome arrival.
“Johnson,” she says flatly, but the edge in her tone seems to bounce off him like rain on stone.
He grins, and it’s not the grin of a friend. It’s the grin of a man walking into a room already convinced he’s the most important thing in it. His gaze slides over her, then lands on me, holding there with blatant challenge.
“And who’s this?” he asks, chin tipping up.
I take him in—the too-bright white of his teeth, the faint chemical tang of whatever gel stiffens his hair, the faint scent of cologne clinging too long to his skin. He smells… curated. Manufactured confidence over something hollower beneath.
“This is Rovax,” Skylar says. No explanation. No softening.
“Rovax?” Johnson repeats, like the name itself is an affront. “That’s… different.”
“It suits me,” I say, my voice low and even. His eyes flicker—just for a moment—at the sound of it. Good.
Johnson takes a step closer, the kind of step that’s meant to establish territory. “So, you, uh… new on campus? Exchange student or something?”
“Or something,” I reply.
He chuckles like I’ve said something clever, but the sound doesn’t reach his eyes. “Skylar, you didn’t tell me you were… seeing someone.”
“I’m not in the habit of telling you anything,” she says, crossing her arms.
That makes him blink, just once, but the grin snaps back into place like armor. He angles himself toward me again. “You play ball?”
“I do not play,” I answer, letting the weight in my tone hang between us.
Johnson’s smirk falters, but only for a heartbeat. “Well, maybe I can show you around. You know, help you… fit in.”
I take a slow step forward, closing the gap until we’re only a pace apart. His chin lifts, and I can see the pulse tick in his throat. “I fit where I choose,” I tell him.
Something in my gaze must land, because he shifts back half a step before catching himself. His nostrils flare like he wants to cover the retreat with some other movement, but I’ve already marked it.
Skylar clears her throat, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Johnson, don’t you have somewhere to be?”
He glances at her, at me, then back at her again. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “but I’ll see you around.”
It’s phrased like a promise, but it feels more like a warning.
I watch him go, noting the stiffness in his shoulders now that his back is to me.
“That,” I say once he’s out of earshot, “is a man who believes the sun rises because he wakes.”
Skylar lets out a snort she tries to hide behind her hand. “Yeah. Pretty much nailed it.”
I keep my gaze on the path he took, filing away his scent, his posture, the exact weight of his stare. Men like that are dangerous—not because of strength, but because they can’t imagine a world where they don’t win.
On Protheka, I’ve ended such men. Here, I suspect the rules are different… but that doesn’t mean I’ll play them any less well.
We don’t make it ten paces before Johnson doubles back, like some mangy street cur sniffing for scraps he thinks belong to him.
“Skylar,” he calls, tone dropping into that false-concern register people use when they’re about to disguise an insult as advice. “Just—look, I know you’re mad at me, but maybe think twice before hanging out with… dangerous strangers.”
My head turns slowly toward him, the way a wolf turns toward a noise it’s already decided is prey.
