Page 31 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
“You’re impossible,” she says.
“Untrue,” I answer, allowing the corner of my mouth to lift. “I am merely… selective.”
Her eyes meet mine for a fraction too long. It’s not the charged heat of battle or the cold appraisal of a political rival — it’s… something else. The air feels heavier, not unpleasant, as if the narrow space between us is drawing tighter with every heartbeat.
I’m just about to speak — though what I would say, I can’t decide — when a roar of voices bursts from the other room. It’s the sound of human excitement turning sharp, the pitch shifting toward danger.
Skylar straightens instantly. “What now?”
I can hear it clearly: shouts, the crash of something heavy hitting the floor, a chant starting up in the kind of rhythm crowds use before violence.
My shoulders square before I’ve even thought about it. “Stay here.”
Her hand darts out, fingers curling lightly around my wrist. “Don’t start anything.”
I let out a humorless breath. “I rarely start anything.”
Her eyes narrow. “That’s not what I’ve seen.”
I free my hand gently, but my focus is already on the noise. I move toward it with the same awareness I’d bring to a darkened alley in Vhoig — slow enough to read the room before stepping in, ready to put someone through a table if necessary.
Behind me, I can hear Skylar muttering under her breath, but she follows anyway.
The living room is a mess of bodies and adrenaline. Two males are squared off in the center, surrounded by a ring of shouting humans. One’s got blood at the corner of his mouth; the other’s knuckles are already swelling.
I know exactly where this night is heading.
The crowd parts just enough for me to see them — not the brawlers, not the drunken onlookers — but the pair of suited men who have no business being here. Bill, with that predator’s stillness wrapped in a government-issue shell, and Steve, carrying himself like he’s never worn a suit before.
Bill’s eyes sweep the room, land on me for a fraction too long. My jaw tightens. That look isn’t curiosity. It’s recognition.
“Noise complaints,” Bill says to no one in particular, voice carrying over the music without needing to shout. His badge flashes in the light — quick, practiced — and a couple of humans in the crowd exchange uneasy glances.
Steve, true to form, knocks his elbow against a beer bottle on the counter, sending it spinning toward the floor. He fumbles, catches it just before it shatters, then looks around like he deserves applause.
Skylar’s suddenly at my side, her hand pressing low against my arm. “We’re leaving.”
“I’m not?—”
“We’re leaving,” she says again, lower, urgent.
I let her steer me toward the back hallway, every step an effort not to turn and meet Bill’s gaze with the full weight of mine. The glamour itches against my skin — it doesn’t like being worn when the hunt is on.
The kitchen’s chaos is behind us in seconds. She shoves open a narrow door, and cold night air slices through the warmth, curling over my bare forearms and crawling into my lungs.
“Move,” she hisses, and we’re out on the back steps before I can point out that Iwasmoving.
The door clicks shut behind us, and the noise dims to a muffled throb. Out here, the night smells clean — pine from the hedges, the faint tang of frost creeping in with the season, and underneath it all, the electric bite of my own pulse.
Skylar blows out a breath, watching it cloud in the cold. “That was too close.”
“They’re watching you,” I say, my voice low, steady.
Her eyes flick up to mine. “They’re watchingyou.”
I don’t disagree. The truth is worse — they’re watching both of us now, and neither of us can afford to be careless.
She paces a short strip of sidewalk, arms wrapped tight over her chest. “Bill Smith and Steve Thompson… if those are even their real names… have been sniffing around for weeks. And now they’re showing up at a frat party? That’s not random.”
