Page 5 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
A low sound cuts through the rain — not a groan exactly, more like a growl dragged over broken glass. His eyelids snap open, and I freeze.
They’re not brown. Not hazel. Not even a weird amber like I saw on a wolf once at the zoo.
They’re red.
Not the bloodshot of a hangover. Not colored contacts. This isn’t a trick of the light — it’s coming frominside. A molten, living red, as if his pupils are gateways to some place where fire has learned to think. My stomach clenches, and my mouth goes dry. For a heartbeat, the streetlamp overhead flickers, and in the brief dim, those eyes glow brighter, like they don’t need anyone else’s light.
I jerk back on instinct, my sneakers squeaking on the slick road.
“Okay, okay, just… stay down,” I stammer, holding up both hands like I’m coaxing a wounded animal. “You’ve been hit, you’re bleeding, you?—”
He moves.
Not the sluggish, fumbling kind of movement I expect from someone half-conscious. It’s fluid, deliberate, every muscle under that armor shifting like it’s answering a call. He plants one boot solidly on the pavement, pushes, and suddenly he’s towering over me.
I swear the air changes — heavier, denser — like my lungs have to work harder to fill. He sways once, the faintest hesitation, but it’s not weakness. It’s the slow coil of something measuring the distance to its next step.
And then that step is toward me.
I’m not imagining it. It’s not some confused stumble. This is the kind of movement that has weight and purpose, the kind that predators use when they’ve decided the thing in front of themis prey. His gaze locks on mine, unblinking, unreadable, and tonight the cold outside seeps all the way to my bones.
“Hey—hey, nope,” I say quickly, backing up a step. My palms are up again, ridiculous defense against someone who’s probably twice my weight and three times my reach. “I’m not… whatever you think I am, okay? Let’s just—can you even understand me?”
The rain patters harder, streaming down his hair, dripping off his jaw. He says something low and rough, the syllables foreign and sharp-edged, cutting through the hiss of water. I don’t catch a single meaning, but the tone? The tone is pure authority, the kind that doesn’t need translating.
I take another step back. My heel hits the painted line of the road, and my heart jumps like I’ve just walked to the edge of a cliff.
His nostrils flare — subtle, but I see it. The way his eyes narrow, just a fraction. My mind scrambles through every self-defense tip I’ve ever half-listened to, and none of them coverwhat to do if the man you hit with your car stands up like he could still tear you in half.
“You’re hurt,” I try again, my voice pitching high from nerves. “Like, badly hurt. Just—just stop, okay? I can help you if you?—”
He tilts his head. Rain runs in a rivulet down one temple, disappears into the pale fringe hanging over his cheek. The glow in his eyes flares, and that single step forward feels like the world shrinking.
Every nerve in my body is screamingrun. But my legs? They’re locked.
The night around us feels like it’s holding its breath.
The moment his weight shifts again, my body makes the decision my brain’s too slow to reach.
I bolt.
One heartbeat I’m frozen on the painted line, the next I’m sprinting for the trees. My sneakers slap water off the pavement, splash into the ditch, and then I’m swallowed by the dark under the pines. The cold air burns my lungs, each inhale sharp enough to hurt.
Branches whip at my arms and shoulders, snapping against my cheeks. Pine needles crunch and give underfoot, the ground uneven, littered with roots waiting to grab my ankles. I duck low under a sagging branch and keep going, the pounding of my heartbeat loud enough that I almost miss the sound behind me.
Almost.
It’s there — deeper, heavier. Not the delicate crackle of twigs under a rabbit or the cautious tread of another person. This is a weight that shakes the earth in small pulses, each footfall chewing up the distance between us. I don’t have to look to know it’s him.
I push harder, my breath tearing out in ragged gasps, the cold biting into the back of my throat. The smell of wet earth and pine sap is everywhere, so thick it tastes green. Every time I think I might be pulling ahead, another crash of underbrush behind me snaps that hope in half.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon—” My own voice is just breath, barely sound.
A flash of silvered bark flies past in the beam of moonlight stabbing through the branches. My foot catches on something — a root or a rock — and I lurch forward, arms pinwheeling, barely catching myself before I faceplant. My shin throbs, but I don’t dare stop.
And then, as sudden as it started…
Silence.
