Page 9 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
I push myself to my feet, ignoring the lingering weakness, and fall into step behind her. The forest swallows the sound of our movements, the wet earth muffling each step. Somewherefar off, I can hear the strange low growl of her “car” again, but out here, the night is ours alone.
For now.
CHAPTER 4
SKYLAR
It’s a miracle we make it across campus without getting stopped. Between his size, his strange gait, and the fact that he looks like he’s about to either faint or start a fight with the nearest streetlamp, I’m convinced someone’s going to call campus security. But somehow, under cover of shadows and sheer dumb luck, we slip into my dorm’s side entrance without a soul noticing.
Getting himupthe stairs is a different matter. I’m panting by the time we reach the third floor, my palms sweaty from gripping his arm, which feels like steel wrapped in warm leather. He doesn’t seem to notice the effort it’s taking me; his attention’s everywhere at once, flicking toward every creak, every slamming door, like the whole building is a threat.
We reach my room, and the lock clicks under my keycard. I push the door open, praying Syndee’s out. She is. The bed on her side is still a mess from the morning, but the absence of glitter makeup on the desk and the faint whiff of last night’s perfume tells me she hasn’t been back since she left for “happy hour” yesterday. Good. I’m not ready to explain why I’ve dragged home a human mountain in leather and—what even is that fabric? It looks like silk got into a fight with a blacksmith’s forge.
I guide him inside, shutting the door behind us, and finally let myself breathe. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that harsh, pale glow that makes even healthy skin look like bad cafeteria chicken. His… doesn’t look like skin at all, not exactly. The glamour—if that’s even the right word—works in the shadows, but here it wavers, letting something stranger peek through. There’s an almost imperceptible shimmer beneath the surface, like oil on water catching the light, and it takes every scrap of willpower I have not to lean closer and figure out what it feels like.
“Okay,” I mutter, more to myself than him, kicking off my sneakers. “You… are not what I thought you were.”
He turns those darkened eyes on me, and for a second I swear the color deepens, the brown melting toward something hotter, more dangerous. My chest tightens. Not fear—well, maybe ten percent fear—but mostly the kind of awareness that makes you suddenly hyper-conscious of every inch of yourself.
I busy my hands, because the alternative is standing there staring like an idiot. I grab my first aid kit from under the bed. It’s pathetic compared to whatever just happened in the woods—Band-Aids, antiseptic wipes, some gauze. But I still set it out on my desk, because that’s what you do when you bring home someone bleeding. Even if they’re… whatever he is.
My brain tries to file him under something normal. Extreme cosplayer? LARP enthusiast with a dangerous commitment to character? A very lost Renaissance Faire actor? But the runes—glowing, alive, knitting flesh together under my fingertips—won’t let me pretend.
“Right,” I say, turning back to him. “I guess you don’t… need this.” I wave at the kit.
He doesn’t respond. Not with words, anyway. His gaze sweeps the room, taking in the cinderblock walls, the twin beds, the pile of laundry I haven’t gotten around to folding. His headtilts slightly, like he’s cataloguing my entire existence from the arrangement of my furniture.
I cross my arms, trying to anchor myself in something familiar. “You understand me? At all?”
Nothing.
“Cool. Great. This’ll be fun.”
I move toward him again, and that shimmer under his skin seems to pulse faintly in time with my steps. It’s probably my imagination, but I swear the air between us feels heavier, charged, like the moment right before lightning hits.
I stop within arm’s reach. He’shuge, the top of his head brushing close to the paper lantern I hung above my desk. The glamour blunts the sharpness of his features, but it can’t hide the uncanny symmetry of them. No one’s face is that perfect. No one’seyes—even dulled to brown—track a person with that kind of predator’s focus.
I swallow hard. “You… can stay here. For now. Until we figure this out. But you need to… I don’t know. Look less… you.” I make a vague gesture at all of him.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his shoulders loosens. I’m not sure if that’s good or terrifying.
This is insane. I should be calling the cops. Or at least campus security. But the image of him bleeding into the grass, the light spilling from his skin like a living thing, is burned into me. Whatever he is, he doesn’t belong out there—he’d get eaten alive. Or… he’d do the eating, which is maybe worse.
I scrub a hand over my face. “God, Syndee’s gonna kill me.”
He doesn’t blink. Just watches me like he’s waiting for the next move.
And the worst part? I think a little piece of me wants to make one.
The fluorescent light hums overhead, making the silence feel louder. My stomach growls—it’s been hours since I ate, and fromthe way he’s sitting there, unmoving, he probably hasn’t had anything in… hell, maybe days? Weeks?
I drop to my knees beside the mini fridge, which gives a defiant whir like it knows it’s mostly holding energy drinks and questionable yogurt. “Alright, welcome to fine dining, Syracuse dorm style,” I mutter, pulling out a bottle of water and rifling through the drawer I call my pantry. My fingers close around a dusty pack of instant ramen, chicken flavor. It’s not much, but it’s hot and salty and better than nothing.
I hold both out toward him. “Here. Food. Water.”
He stares at the offerings like I’ve just handed him two live snakes. His eyes flick between them, and then to me, as if waiting for some hidden trick. Finally, he reaches for the bottle, twisting the cap slowly, almost suspiciously. The faint pop of the seal makes his brows twitch. He sniffs it—actually sniffs it—before taking the smallest sip I’ve ever seen a person take.
The noodles get the same treatment, only more drawn out. He turns the package over in his hands, fingers brushing the plastic like he’s feeling for seams, his nails—are those nails? claws?—catching in the crinkled wrapping. I get the sense he’s not rejecting it so much as analyzing it, committing every detail to memory before deciding if it’s safe.
