by Tracy Wolff
With that in mind, I bring my hands up and push at his shoulders in an effort to get him to give me a little room. But it’s like pushing a wall of granite. He doesn’t budge.
At least not until I whisper, “Please.”
He waits a second longer, maybe two or three—until my head is muddled and my hands are shaking—before he finally takes a step back and lets the curl go.
As he does, he sweeps a hand through his dark hair. His longish bangs part just enough to reveal a jagged scar from the center of his left eyebrow to the left corner of his mouth. It’s thin and white, barely noticeable against the paleness of his skin, but it’s there nonetheless—especially if you look at the wicked vee it causes at the end of his dark eyebrow.
It should make him less attractive, should do something—anything—to negate the incredible power of his looks. But somehow the scar only emphasizes the danger, turning him from just another pretty boy with angelic looks into someone a million times more compelling. A fallen angel with a bad-boy vibe for miles…and a million stories to back that vibe up.
Combined with the anguish I just felt inside him, it makes him more…human. More relatable and more devastating, despite the darkness that rolls off him in waves. A scar like this only comes from an unimaginable injury. Hundreds of stitches, multiple operations, months—maybe even years—of recovery. I hate that he suffered like that, wouldn’t wish it on anyone, let alone this boy who frustrates and terrifies and excites me all at the same time.
He knows I noticed the scar—I can see it in the way his eyes narrow. In the way his shoulders stiffen and his hands clench into fists. In the way he ducks his head so that his hair falls over his cheek again.
I hate that, hate that he thinks he has to hide something that he should wear as a badge of honor. It takes a lot of strength to get through something like this, a lot of strength to come out the other side of it, and he should be proud of that strength. Not ashamed of the mark it’s left.
I reach out before I make a conscious decision to do so, cup his scarred cheek in my hand.
His dark eyes blaze, and I think he’s going to shove me away. But in the end, he doesn’t. He just stands there and lets me stroke my thumb back and forth across his cheek—across his scar—for several long moments.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper when I can finally get my voice past the painful lump of sympathy in my throat. “This must have hurt horribly.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he closes his eyes, sinks into my palm, takes one long, shuddering breath.
Then he’s pulling back, stepping away, putting real distance between us for the first time since he snuck up behind me, which suddenly feels like a lifetime ago.
“I don’t understand you,” he tells me suddenly, his black-magic voice so quiet that I have to strain to hear him.
“‘There are more things in heaven and hell, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” I answer, deliberately using his earlier misquote.
He shakes his head as if trying to clear it. Takes a deep breath, then blows it out slowly. “If you won’t leave—”
“I can’t leave,” I interject. “I have nowhere else to go. My parents—”
“Are dead. I know.” He smiles grimly. “Fine. If you’re not going to leave, then you need to listen to me very, very carefully.”
“What do you—?”
“Keep your head down. Don’t look too closely at anyone or anything.” He leans forward, his voice dropping to a low rumble as he finishes. “And always, always watch your back.”
4
Shining Armor
Is So Last Century
“Grace!” My uncle Finn’s voice booms down the hallway, and I turn toward him instinctively. I smile and give him a little wave even though there’s a part of me that feels frozen in place after being on the receiving end of what sounds an awful lot like a warning.
I turn back to confront Mr. Tall, Dark, and Surly, to figure out exactly what it is he thinks I need to be so afraid of—but he’s gone.
I glance around, determined to figure out where he went, but before I can spot him, Uncle Finn is wrapping me in a huge bear hug and lifting me off my feet. I hang on for dear life, letting the comforting scent of him—the same woodsy scent my dad used to have—wash over me.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t meet you at the airport. A couple of kids got hurt, and I had to take care of things here.”
“Don’t worry about it. Are they okay?”
“They’re fine.” He shakes his head. “Just a couple of idiots being idiots. You know how boys are.”
I start to tell him that I have no idea how boys are—my last encounter is proof of that—but some weird instinct I don’t understand warns me not to bring up the guy I was just talking to. So I don’t. Instead, I laugh and nod along.
“Enough about the duties of a headmaster,” he says, pulling me in for another, quicker hug before leaning back to study my face. “How was your trip? And more importantly, how are you?”
“It was long,” I tell him. “But it was fine. And I’m okay.” The phrase of the day.
“I’m pretty sure ‘okay’ is a bit of an overstatement.” He sighs. “I can only imagine how hard the last few weeks have been for you. I wish I could have stayed longer after the funeral.”
“It’s fine. The estate company you called took care of almost everything. And Heather and her mom took care of the rest. I swear.”
It’s obvious that he wants to say more but just as obvious that he doesn’t want to get into anything too deep in the middle of the hallway. So in the end, he just nods and says, “Okay, then. I’ll leave you to settle in with Macy. But come see me tomorrow morning, and we’ll talk about your schedule. Plus, I’ll introduce you to our counselor, Dr. Wainwright. I think you’ll like her.”
Right. Dr. Wainwright. The school counselor who is also a therapist, according to Heather’s mom. And not just any therapist. My therapist, apparently, since she and my uncle both think I need one. I would argue, but since I’ve had to work really hard not to cry in the shower every morning for the last month, I figure they might be on to something.
“Okay, sure.”
“Are you hungry? I’ll have dinner sent up, since you missed it. And there’s something we really need to discuss.” He narrows his eyes at me, looks me over. “Although…how are you doing with the altitude?”
“I’m okay. Not great, but okay.”
“Yeah.” He looks me up and down, then harrumphs sympathetically before turning to Macy. “Make sure she takes a couple of Advil when she gets to your room. And that she drinks plenty of water. I’ll send up some soup and ginger ale. Let’s keep things light tonight, see how you’re doing in the morning.”
“Light” sounds perfect, since even the thought of eating right now makes me want to throw up. “Okay, sure.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Grace. And I promise, things will get easier.”
I nod, because what else am I going to do? I’m not glad I’m here—Alaska feels like the moon right now—but I’m all for things getting easier. I just want to go one day without feeling like shit.
I was hoping tomorrow would be it, but since I met Tall, Dark, and Surly, all I can think about is the way he looked when he told me to leave Katmere. And the way he glowered when I refused. So…probably not.
Figuring we’re done here, I reach for the handle of one of my suitcases. But my uncle says, “Don’t worry about those. I’ll get one of the guys to—” He breaks off and calls down the hallway. “Hey, Flint! Come here and give me a hand, will you?”
Macy makes a sound halfway between a groan and a death rattle as her father starts down the corridor, presumably trying to catch up with this Flint person.
“Come on, let’s go before Dad chases him down.” She grabs two of my suitcases and practically runs for the st
airs.
“What’s wrong with Flint?” I ask as I grab my last remaining suitcase and try to keep up with her.
“Nothing! He’s great. Amazing. Also, superhot. He doesn’t need to see us like this.”
I can see how she could think he doesn’t need to see me like this, since I’m pretty sure I look half dead. But, “You look great.”
“Um, no. No, I don’t. Now, come on. Let’s get out of—”
“Hey, Mace. Don’t worry about those suitcases. I’ll get them for you.” A deep voice booms from several steps below us, and I turn around just in time to see a guy in ripped jeans and a white T-shirt charging toward me. He’s tall—like, nearly as tall as Tall, Dark, and Surly—and just as muscular. But that’s where the resemblance ends, because everywhere that other guy was dark and cold, this one is light and fire.
Bright-amber eyes that seem to burn from within.
Warm brown skin.
Black afro that looks amazing on him.
And perhaps most interesting of all, there’s a smile in his eyes that is as different from the other guy’s iciness as the stars just outside the windows are from the endless midnight blue of the sky.
“We’ve got them,” Macy says, but he ignores her, bounding up the stairs three at a time.
He stops next to me first, gently eases the handle of my suitcase from the near death grip I’ve got on it. “Hey there, New Girl. How are you?”
“I’m okay, just…”
“She’s sick, Flint,” my uncle calls from below. “The altitude is getting to her.”
“Oh, right.” His eyes blaze with sympathy. “That sucks.”
“A little bit, yeah.”
“Well, come on then, New Girl. Climb on my back. I’ll give you a ride up the stairs.”
Just the idea has my stomach revolting even more. “Uh, what? N-No, that’s okay.” I back away from him a little. “I can walk—”
“Come on.” He bends his knees to make it easier for me to grab on to his super-broad shoulders. “You’ve got a long three flights ahead of you.”
They are a long three flights, and still I would seriously rather die than climb on a random stranger’s back. “Pretty sure they’ll be longer for you if you’re carrying me.”
“Nah. You’re so little, I won’t even notice. Now, are you going to get on or am I going to pick you up and toss you over my shoulder?”
“You wouldn’t,” I tell him.
“Try me,” he says with an endearing grin that makes me laugh.
But I’m still not getting on his back. No way is one of the hottest guys at the school going to carry me up these stairs—on his back or over his shoulder. No. Freaking. Way. I don’t care how much the altitude is bothering me.
“Thanks for the offer. Really.” I give him the best smile I can manage right now. “But I think I’m just going to walk slowly. I’ll be fine.”
Flint shakes his head. “Stubborn much?” But he doesn’t push the issue the way I’m afraid he will. Instead, he asks, “Can I at least help you up the stairs? I’d hate to see you fall down a flight or two on your very first day.”
“Help how?” Suspicion has me narrowing my eyes at him.
“Like this.” He slides his arm around my waist.
I stiffen at the unexpected contact. “What are you—?”
“This way you can at least lean on me if the steps get to be too much. Deal?”
I start to say absolutely no deal, but the laughter in his bright-amber eyes as he looks down at me—expecting me to do just that—has me changing my mind. Well, that and the fact that Uncle Finn and Macy both seem totally fine with the whole thing.
“Okay, fine. Deal,” I say with a sigh as the room starts to spin around me. “I’m Grace, by the way.”
“Yeah, I know. Foster told us you were coming.” He heads toward the stairs, propelling me along with his right arm across my back. “And I’m Flint.”
He pauses at the foot of the stairs for a moment, reaching for my bags.
“Oh, don’t worry about the suitcases,” Macy says, her voice about three octaves higher than it normally is. “I can get them.”
“No doubt, Mace.” He winks at her. “But you might as well use me if I’m volunteering.” Then he grabs two of the bags in his left hand and heads up the stairs.
We start out going slowly, thankfully, as I’m struggling to breathe after only a few steps. But before long, we’re moving fast—not because I’ve gotten used to the altitude but because Flint has taken on most of my weight and is basically carrying me up the stairs with an arm around my waist.
I know he’s strong—all those muscles under his shirt definitely aren’t for show—but I can’t believe he’s this strong. I mean, he’s carrying two heavy bags and me up the stairs, and he isn’t even breathing hard.
We end up beating Macy, who is huffing and puffing her way up the final few steps with my last bag, to the top.
“You can let me down now,” I tell him as I start to squirm away. “Since you pretty much carried me anyway.”
“Just trying to help,” he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows that has me laughing despite my embarrassment.
He lets me down, and I expect him to pull away when my feet are finally back on the ground. Instead, he keeps his arm around my waist and moves me across the landing.
“You can let go,” I say again. “I’m fine now.” But my knees wobble as I say it, another wave of dizziness moving through me.
I try to hide it, but I must do a bad job because the look Flint is giving me goes from amused to concerned in the space of two seconds flat. Then he shakes his head. “Yeah, until you pass out and pitch over the railing. Nope, Headmaster Foster put me in charge of getting you to your room safely and that is what I’m going to do.”
I start to argue, but I’m feeling just unsteady enough that I decide accepting his help might actually be the better part of valor. So I just nod as he turns around and calls to my cousin, “You okay there, Mace?”
“Just great,” she gasps, all but dragging my suitcase across the landing.
“Told you I could have taken it,” Flint says to her.
“It’s not the weight of the suitcase,” she snipes back. “It’s how fast I had to carry it.”
“I’ve got longer legs.” He glances around. “So, which hallway am I taking her to?”
“We’re in the North wing,” Macy says, pointing to the hallway directly to our left. “Follow me.”
Despite all her huffing and puffing, she takes off at a near run, with Flint and me hot on her heels. As we race across the landing, I can’t help but be grateful for the supporting arm he’s still lending me. I’ve always thought I was in pretty good shape, but life in Alaska obviously takes fit to a whole new level.
There are four sets of double doors surrounding the landing—all heavy, carved wood—and Macy stops at the set marked North. But before she can reach for the handle, the door flies open so fast that she barely manages to jump back before it hits her.
“Hey, what was that ab—” She breaks off when four guys walk through the door like she’s not even there. All four are dark and brooding and sexy af, but I’ve only got eyes for one of them.
The one from downstairs.
He doesn’t have eyes for me, though. Instead, he walks right by—face blank and gaze glacier cold—like I’m not even here.
Like he doesn’t even see me, even though he has to skirt me to get by.
Like he didn’t just spend fifteen minutes talking to me earlier.
Except…except, as he passes, his shoulder brushes against the side of my arm. Even after everything we said to each other, heat sizzles through me at the contact. And though logic tells me the touch was accidental, I can’t shake the idea that he did it on purpose. Any more than I can stop myself from turning to watch hi
m walk away.
Just because I’m angry, I assure myself. Just because I want the chance to tell him off for having disappeared like that.
Macy doesn’t say anything to him, or the other guys, and neither does Flint. Instead, they wait for them to be out of the way and then head down the hallway like nothing happened. Like we didn’t just get blatantly snubbed.
Flint tightens his warm arm around my waist, and I can’t help but wonder why the guy with ice in his veins makes my skin tingle and the one literally lending me his warmth leaves me cold. Looks like my messed-up life is totally messing with my brain as well…
I want to ask who they are—want to ask who he is so I finally have a name to go with his insane body and even more insane face—but now doesn’t feel like the time. So I keep my mouth shut and concentrate on looking around instead of obsessing over some guy I don’t even like.
The North hallway is lined with heavy wooden doors on both sides, most with some kind of decoration hanging on them. Dried roses in the shape of an X on one, what looks to be an elaborate set of wind chimes on another, and a ton of bat stickers all over a third. I can’t decide if the person living there has dreams of being a chiropterologist or if they are simply a fan of Batman.
Either way, I’m absurdly fascinated by all the decorations—especially the wind chimes, as I can’t imagine there’s much wind in an indoor hallway—and not at all surprised when Macy stops at the most elaborately adorned door of them all. A garland of fresh flowers winds its way around the doorframe, and lines of threaded, multicolored crystals fall from the top of the door to the bottom in a fancy kind of beaded curtain.
“Here we are,” Macy says as she throws the door open with a flourish. “Home sweet home.”
Before I can take a step over the threshold, another hot guy dressed entirely in black passes by. And though he pays us no more attention than any of the others did at the North hallway door, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Because even though I’m sure I’m imagining things, it suddenly feels an awful lot like I’m being watched.
