Page 42 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
Her tea mug lowers into her lap. “Do you regret it?”
That question lands like a blade slipped between armor plates.
I should say no. The kind of no that shakes the air, the kind of no that reinforces every ounce of the legend I’ve built around myself.
But I don’t.
“I regret…” My jaw works, teeth grinding against the words. “I regret trusting some of the wrong people. I regret not killing others when I had the chance. But the choice to stand? To refuse?” I shake my head slowly. “No. That, I would do again. Even if it meant ending up in this world.”
She doesn’t look away. And there’s no fear in her eyes, no calculation. That’s the part that makes my stomach knot. Peoplehave always looked at me with one or the other — sometimes both. But she…
“You keep doing that,” I say finally, my tone sharper than I intend.
Her eyebrows rise. “Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.” I gesture toward her with a short flick of my hand. “Like I’m just… someone. Not a weapon. Not a danger.”
“Maybe because you’re not just those things,” she says simply.
The words land heavier than they should.
For a moment, I can’t find anything to say that wouldn’t sound like deflection, so I stand instead, pacing to the small window and staring out at the campus below. Humans drift between the pools of light cast by their lamps, their voices faint and distant. Fragile, all of them. It’s strange how quickly I’ve started cataloging them — not as threats, but as variables.
Behind me, Skylar shifts. I hear the soft scrape of ceramic on wood as she sets the mug aside, the creak of the mattress as she leans forward.
“You know,” she says, her voice low but steady, “you don’t have to tell me more than you want to. I’m not here to make you prove anything.”
I turn at that, narrowing my eyes. “Everyone wants proof of something, Skylar. You may not know what yours is yet, but you will.”
She shakes her head, just once. “Maybe I just… want to understand you. That’s all.”
That’s all. As if understanding me were not dangerous in itself. As if peeling back the armor doesn’t mean risking the cut of the blade beneath.
“You should be careful what you ask to understand,” I murmur, my voice quieter now.
She meets my gaze like it’s nothing to stand in the heat of it. “Maybe I’m willing to take that risk.”
Something in my chest tightens — not the kind of tension before a fight, but something stranger, more volatile. And it leaves me with the dangerous thought that maybe she’s not wrong.
But I don’t tell her that. I’ve given enough tonight.
Instead, I incline my head, slow and deliberate. “Then you’re braver than most. Or more foolish.”
Her mouth curves into the smallest of smiles. “I’ll take either.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s something else entirely — a live wire strung between us, humming just under the surface.
The pounding rattles the flimsy wood, cutting through the low thrum of whatever was building between us.
It’s the kind of knock that belongs to soldiers or debt collectors — blunt, impatient, certain of their right to be here.
Syndee, being Syndee, pops up from her bed without the faintest hint of caution. She flings the door open with a breezy, “Can I help y—” and then falters.
Bill. And the bumbling one, Steve.
Again.
Bill’s stance is different this time — not the casual prodding of a man sniffing for gossip. His shoulders are squared, weight balanced like someone expecting pushback. Steve lingers just behind him, holding a small notebook and wearing the pinched look of a man who’s about to get yelled at no matter what he does.
