I’m more concerned about finding out why he felt the need to issue the warning than I am about what he did. Especially since I’m terrified that it has something to do with me and his fear that someone is trying to hurt me.
I don’t want to be responsible for Jaxon getting into trouble—and I definitely don’t want to be responsible for Jaxon hurting someone…or worse.
Not for the first time, my hand goes to the marks at my throat as I wonder what would have happened if Marise hadn’t stopped. If she had bitten me for a purpose other than to help heal me. Would I be as laissez-faire about Jaxon’s treatment of that shifter if I had nearly died the same way?
I don’t know. I just know that right now, I care more about Jaxon’s state of mind than I do some boy I don’t know. Some boy who, if Jaxon is right, wants me dead.
As for the rest? The telekinesis, the absolute control Jaxon exerted over everyone in that lounge, including me? The obscene amount of power he wielded with just a wave of his hand? I don’t know how I feel about all that, either. Except, like the violence, it doesn’t scare me the way it probably should.
He doesn’t scare me the way he probably should.
My injured ankle twinges a little as we round a corner—more than likely all the running I did on it earlier—but I bite down the cry of pain that wells in my throat. Jaxon’s moving fast, I assume because he’s trying to get us somewhere we can talk before the consequences of what just happened catch up to him.
I mean, yeah, this is a supernatural school and the rules are probably different than what I’m used to, but I have a hard time believing it’s okay for one of the paranormal species to start chowing down on another one in the middle of the student lounge.
No matter how much he might deserve it.
Which is why I don’t complain about the pace Jaxon sets as we quickly make our way down several hallways to the back stairs. It’s as we start climbing that I realize where he’s taking me. Not to my room, as I half expected, but to his. And judging from the look on his face—the blank eyes, the tight jaw, the lips pressed into a firm, straight line—he expects me to object.
I have no intention of arguing with him, though. Not until I know what we’re supposed to be arguing about. And on the plus side, I’m pretty sure no one will be crossing Jaxon again any time soon, which means maybe I can make it through a whole forty-eight hours without any near-death experiences. Not going to lie, that counts for something, too, even though I feel a little Machiavellian just thinking it.
The second we make it to the top of the tower steps, Jaxon lets go of my elbow and puts as much distance between the two of us as can be had in his little reading alcove. Which leaves me…adrift.
Nothing has changed since I was here a few hours ago. The window is still boarded up, the rug still missing, the book I tried to read while I was waiting for him still sitting in the exact same spot.
And yet it feels like everything has changed.
Maybe because it has. I don’t know, and I won’t know until Jaxon opens his mouth and actually talks to me instead of standing there next to the fireplace, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes everywhere but on mine.
I want to start the conversation, want to tell him…I don’t know what. But everything inside me warns that that’s the wrong approach to take. That if I have any hope of navigating what’s going on here, I need to know what Jaxon is thinking before I open my mouth and say something that ruins everything.
And so I wait, hands in the pockets of my hoodie and eyes nowhere but on him, until he finally, finally turns to look at me.
“I won’t hurt you,” he says, his voice low and rusty and so empty that it hurts to listen to it.
“I know.”
“You know?” He looks at me like I’ve grown another head…or three.
“I’ve never thought you were going to hurt me, Jaxon. I wouldn’t be here if I did.”
He looks shocked at my words. No, not shocked. Stunned, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he struggles for a decent response. When it eventually comes, it’s distinctly underwhelming.
“Is there something wrong with you?” he demands. “Or is it just that you have a death wish?”
It’s my turn to pull his favorite trick and lift a brow. “Dramatic much?”
“You’re impossible.” He nearly strangles on the words.
“Pretty sure I’m not the impossible one in this…” I break off because I have no idea what to call this thing between Jaxon and me. Relationship? Friendship? Disaster? I finally settle on “thing,” which is probably the worst description possible of whatever it is we have. “After all, you’re the one who keeps running away.” I’m trying to lighten up the funereal atmosphere, trying to make him smile a little. Or if not actually smile, then at least not frown so hard.