My heart jolts. I can almost taste his kiss, and gods, I want it.
“With my life,” I whisper.
“That’s all?” His mouth hovers above mine, all promise and no delivery.
“That’s all.” Trust is earned, and he isn’t even trying.
“Too bad,” he whispers, lifting his head. “But like I said, anticipation is a good thing.”
Common sense crashes through the fog of lust with embarrassing ease. For fuck’s sake, what did I almost do?
“No anticipation.” I outright glare, but my words lack bite. “We aren’t happening, remember? That’s your choice. I have every right to walk right back into the gathering hall and pick whomever I want to warm my bed. Someone a little more ordinary.” It’s a bluff. Maybe. Or alcohol. Or maybe I just want him to feel the same uncertainty I do.
“You absolutely have every right, but you won’t.” He gives me a slow smile.
“Because you’re impossible to replace?” It does not come out as a compliment. At least that’s what I tell myself.
“Because you still love me.” The certainty in his eyes pricks every inch of my temper.
“Fuck off and leave, Riorson.”
“I would, but you’ve got a death grip on me.” He glances between our bodies.
“Ugh!” I drop my hands from his waist and step back. “Go.”
“See you in seven days, Violence.” He backs away, moving toward the tunnel that leads to the flight field. “Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone.”
I glare in his general direction until I know he’s far beyond my sight. And then I stand there another couple minutes, breathing slowly until I’m certain I have my emotions under some semblance of control. What the hell is wrong with me? How can I want someone who refuses to tell me his whole truth? Who makes a game out of it with his ridiculous ask me anything act? Like I’d have the first clue what to ask?
“He’ll be back,” Rhi says, coming up behind me, holding a missive of her own, excitement shining in her eyes despite the somber tone of her words.
“I shouldn’t care.” Yet I’m still wrapping my arms around my midsection like I need to be held together. “What has you fighting a smile?”
“Did something happen between you two?” She moves the letter to her pocket.
“What’s the letter?” I counter. “Did you get orders?” Orders usually only mean one thing. I grab onto her shoulders and grin. “Did you?”
She grimaces. “I have good news and bad news.”
“Bad news first.” That’s my new motto.
“Aetos is our new wingleader.”
My face falls. “Should have expected that. What’s the good news?”
“Cianna, our executive officer, moved up to being executive officer of the section.” Her smile is brighter than any mage light. “And you’re looking at our new squad leader.”
“Yes!” I outright squeal in absolute delight and yank her into a hug. “Congratulations! You’re going to be amazing! You already are!”
“Are we celebrating?” Sawyer asks loudly from the edge of the courtyard.
“Abso-fucking-lutely!” Ridoc shouts, ale sloshing over the sides of his mug as he rushes toward us. “Squad Leader Matthias!”
“What’s your first order, squad leader?” Sawyer asks, Nadine racing to catch up to his long strides.
Rhi glances over each of us and nods as though coming to a decision. “Live.”
I smile and wish it was that simple.
All tome requests at the Archives of Basgiath must be recorded and filed. Any cadet who fails to do so will be reported for dereliction of duty, as well as punished for the loss of any text they failed to accurately track.
—COLONEL DAXTON’S GUIDE TO EXCELLING IN THE SCRIBE QUADRANT
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I’ve never seen this room before,” Ridoc says five days later, dropping into the seat next to me as the U-shaped amphitheater-style classroom on the third floor fills for Orientation. We’re grouped in our sections and squads within our wings, putting us in the second row on the right-hand side, staring across the recessed floor at First Wing.
The noise outside is growing to a steady hum as civilians arrive for Conscription Day tomorrow, but it’s still quiet within the walls of the quadrant. We’ve spent this week preparing for the first-years’ arrival, learning our roles at Parapet, and drinking entirely too much at night. It definitely makes walking the hallways in the early morning interesting.
“We’ve never been second-years before,” Rhiannon replies from my other side, her supplies perfectly aligned on her desk.
“Good point.” Ridoc nods.
“Made it!” Nadine slides in next to Ridoc, shoving errant strands of her purple hair out of her face with a braced and wrapped hand. “How have I never been in this room before?”
Rhiannon just shakes her head.
“We’ve never been second-years before,” I tell Nadine.
“Right. Makes sense.” She grabs her things out of her bag, then drops it at her feet. “I guess none of our classes were this far down the hallway last year.”
“What happened to your hand?” Rhiannon asks.
“It’s embarrassing.” She lifts the brace so we can see it. “I slipped and sprained it on the steps last night. Don’t worry, the healers think Nolon might have an opening for me tomorrow before Parapet. He’s been run ragged since War Games.”
“That man needs a break,” Rhiannon says, bobbing her head.
“I wish we had a break like the other quadrants.” Ridoc taps his pen on the desk. “Even five or six days to just get away.”
“I’m still recovering from the last six-day break I had away from here,” I try to joke.
Rhi’s face falls, and the rest of our squad quiets.
Shit. That was not the right thing to say, but I’m exhausted. There’s no point trying to sleep when I can’t quit dreaming about Resson.
“I’m around if you want to talk.” Rhi’s kind smile makes me feel like I’m two inches tall for not letting her in.
Do I want to talk? Absolutely. Am I able to? Not after Aetos made it clear not to share my war stories. He’s already targeting Mira—I’m not putting my best friend in that situation, too. Maybe Xaden is right. If I can’t lie, all my friends would be safer if I kept my distance.
“Good afternoon, second-years,” a tall rider says, his voice booming as he strides to the center of the floor, quieting the room. “I am Captain”—he winces, scratching the trim beard that’s a shade darker than his light golden skin— “Professor Grady. And, as you can tell, I’m new this year and getting used to the whole professor title, as well as being around twenty-one-year-old kids again. It’s been a while since I’ve been in the quadrant.”
He turns toward the end of the classroom—the one section where there are no seats—and crooks his fingers at the heavy wooden desk there. Lesser magic makes it screech across the floor until Professor Grady puts his palm out. Then it stops. He turns toward us and leans back against the edge of the desk. “That’s better. Congratulations on living through your first year.” He turns his head slowly, his gaze raking over each and every one of us. “There are eighty-nine of you in this room. From what the scribes tell me, you are the smallest class to walk this hall since the First Six.”