Page 20 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
I arch a brow. “It was already suspicious when he approached you uninvited and with obvious hostility.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to… toloomat him like you’re about to eat him alive.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “And what would you have preferred I do? Lower my gaze? Apologize for existing? Turn my back so he could strike?”
She blinks. “Strike? Johnson couldn’t fight his way out of a pillow fort.”
“Not all battles are fought with steel,” I say. “Some are fought with posture. With presence. I learned young—if you want to survive in a court of predators, you make sure everyone knows you have teeth.”
Her expression softens for half a heartbeat before she catches herself. “This isn’t your court, Rovax. This is college. People don’t… do that here.”
“They should,” I mutter.
She groans, pacing a small circle in front of me. The movement stirs her scent—soap, coffee, something faintly floral—and I hate that it distracts me.
“Look, you can’t just go around radiating murder energy at anyone who annoys you,” she says. “If people get spooked, they’ll start talking. If they start talking, someone will come sniffing around—and we’ve already got enough of that with Mr. Ill-Fitting Suit hanging around campus.”
I don’t respond immediately. Instead, I watch the way her hands cut through the air when she talks, the way her eyes flash hotter when she’s angry.
When I finally speak, my voice is calm, deliberate. “You think I was posturing for myself. I wasn’t.”
Her pacing stops. “Then who were you?—”
“You,” I interrupt. “I was posturing for you.”
Her brows knit. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” I counter. “If others believe you are under my protection, fewer will dare to test you. Your world may not run on the same rules as mine, but weakness… weakness is universal bait.”
The word hangs between us, heavier than I intended.
Skylar crosses her arms, lips pressing into a thin line. “You think I can’t handle myself?”
“I think,” I say slowly, “you shouldn’t have to waste your energy on gnats when there are wolves in the forest.”
The line shouldn’t sound protective. I don’t mean it to. But her gaze flickers, the faintest crack in the stubborn wall she’s been holding since we met.
“Great,” she mutters, turning away. “Now you’re poeticandimpossible.”
I almost smile. Almost.
“Skylar,” I say, and she glances over her shoulder. “I will adapt to your customs. But understand this—blending in is the last refuge of prey. I will not wear it like a skin.”
She shakes her head like she’s trying to rid herself of my words. “You’re exhausting, you know that?”
“Yes,” I say simply. “I know.”
But as she busies herself at her desk, pretending she’s done with the conversation, I catch the faintest curve of her mouth—like she’s smiling when she thinks I can’t see.
CHAPTER 8
SKYLAR
The grocery store parking lot at midnight is its own weird little universe — all echoing cart wheels, humming streetlamps, and the faint tang of asphalt cooling after a long day. My arms ache from carrying two overstuffed bags, and I’m already planning my celebratory ramen when I catch sight of him.
Same guy from the library. Tall, broad, suit that looks like it came off a clearance rack for accountants who moonlight as assassins. He’s leaning against a lamppost across the lot, arms folded like he’s been there a while.
My stomach gives a little flip, but I force myself to keep moving. Syracuse isn’t tiny; creepy guys happen.
