Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 121534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Deadly to me.
Aric joins him on the dais, and Sigurd turns to shake his hand, then gestures for his grandson to take a seat in one of two empty chairs to the side of the podium.
Aric nods and, somehow, manages to fold his six-foot-six frame gracefully into the rickety chair, kicking his legs out and crossing his ankles. Crossing his arms next, he leans back, and our gazes collide.
My heart rate picks up, my breath catching in the back of my throat as neither of us looks away. Images flicker in my mind. Tongues. Lips. Bodies sliding against each other with hunger.
Heat stains my cheeks, the moment stretching between us, but I can’t look away. I’m drowning in his mahogany gaze and the memories of a moment we never should have shared. The corner of his mouth kicks up like he knows it, too, and something about it shatters the hold he has over me.
I shake my head, drag a heavy breath into my lungs, and stare at my knees like they’re the most important thing in the world.
“You okay?” Ziva asks, leaning over.
I don’t even bother to deny what she must have seen. “Getting there.”
“Just don’t fall for him,” Ziva says, her voice low and steady. “Or do, just don’t mistake obsession for intimacy. That’s how they win.”
The words land like an anchor in my chest—sinking, dragging. It’s almost like she’s talking from experience. I mentally file the observation away.
Up onstage, Sigurd is still talking, but I can’t hear a word of it.
Ziva’s gaze is fixed ahead, calm and unbothered. But I’m rattled.
Don’t mistake obsession for intimacy.
I grip the edge of my chair, heart tripping over itself. Because I think that’s exactly what I’m doing. And the worst part? I don’t want to stop.
He doesn’t just pull at me. He’s pulling me under bit by bit.
And the more I fight it, the more I realize—I was never meant to swim free.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rey
After an hour of hearing former Endir graduates and prestigious—their word, not mine—alumni make speeches, Sigurd’s at the mic again.
He’s beaming like a game-show host as he introduces the faculty like they’re the starting lineup of an NFL team. When will this end?
I clap when everyone else claps.
I’m here. I’m totally normal. Not a killer. Not from a notorious crime family. I’m participating. Go Endir!
As if sensing my inner sarcasm, Sigurd pauses. Hand to his brow, he gazes out across the Assembly Hall. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’re a part of Endir now. This school is your legacy! Your fellow students and alumni will become your friends, your family.”
Where is he going with this, and why does it feel all sorts of wrong?
Cue the psychopathic villain chuckle in three, two, one.
He laughs.
Bingo.
I’d take pride in my prediction, but it’s just too easy.
“Don’t be shy,” Sigurd says. “You’re all so spread out. That’s not the way to make lifelong friendships.”
Is he serious right now?
“Come on,” he cajoles. “Everyone to the front. No sleeping in the back. Fill in the gaps, introduce yourself to your fellow classmates. Celebrate your differences, your commonalities. Form alliances!”
Alliances, hmm? What an interesting word to use.
Ziva laughs a bit too loud, too forced. But she stands, so I do, too.
I follow her out of the row and toward the front, not because I want to but because disobeying Sigurd’s directions would draw too much attention, and again, I just want orientation to be done.
I file in behind her, and we settle into our new seats, maybe ten rows from the stage.
The students in front of and behind us lean in expectantly. Time to make friends. Wow. This is really happening.
“I’ll start!” Ziva smiles brightly. “I’m Ziva.” She rattles off a list of hobbies that sounds like a dating profile. Something about hot yoga, candle making, and, “I love long walks on the beach.”
Girl, please.
Her lips twitch. Okay, so she knows she’s being ridiculous. Our other classmates nod and clap like she just recited Shakespeare.
“Hi, Ziva,” the surrounding students chant.
One little push of my Aethercall and they’d all be too dazed to notice me. But no. I’m on my best behavior.
The dark-haired girl in the row in front of us turns around fully and raises her hand. “I’m Gaby Smith from Tacoma. Business major. I bake, but not cookies, too basic. Cupcakes only. I’m going to open a shop on the pier and marry a fisherman.” She shrugs at our blank stares. “So we can live off the land. Sustainably.”
Cute. Self-sufficiency via cupcakes and salmon. Why does she sound so damn cheerful about it?
By handshake number two, she yanks another student into her orbit. “I’m a hugger!”
Please don’t touch me. Please don’t touch—
She reaches for me, then jerks her hand back, shaking it. “Whoa! Shock. Your aura’s spicy!”
I force a laugh. “Static. Happens.”
All eyes fall to me. Oh shit, it’s my turn.