The courtyard was cold and quiet when Emory stepped into the light. Gray skies pressed low, and golden leaves crunched beneath her boots. Everything looked calm. But she knew better now. Calm was just the sound of silence before something breaks.
Nick was waiting near the fountain, tossing pebbles into the water like a kid trying to skip stones. He looked up when he saw her, smile already forming—but it froze halfway.
"You look like you didn't sleep," he said.
"Because I didn't," she replied, brushing wind from her hair. "Don't ask."
"I wasn't going to," he lied.
She sat beside him. Close, but not close enough.
"Remember sophomore year?" he said suddenly. "You showed up to midterms half-drunk and told the Dean you were 'spiritually allergic to Western ethics.'"
"That was barely wine," she said. "And the Dean forgave me."
"Because he was terrified of your mother."
They both laughed. Just for a second.
Then Nick looked down at his hands. "You haven't been honest with me lately."
Emory's smile vanished.
He went on. "I'm not stupid, Em. Something's happening. Something you're keeping locked behind that perfect, scary face."
"I'm handling it."
"Handling what?" he asked. "Skye?"
She flinched.
Nick stood now, pacing. "You think I haven't seen it? You disappear, he disappears. You come back looking like you got struck by lightning. You don't return texts. You stop showing up to class dinners. I know what that means."
"It's not what you think," she said quietly.
Nick stopped. Turned. "Then what is it?"
She hesitated. "It's... history."
"History doesn't text you from blocked numbers," he said, voice sharper. "History doesn't send you letters with no return address."
Her breath caught.
He was right.
He knew more than she thought.
"Nick," she said. "Please—"
"I'm not your lapdog, Emory," he interrupted, eyes hard now. "You don't get to keep me in the light while you run around kissing shadows."
She stepped back. "You don't understand—"
"I understand one thing," he said, stepping closer. "You're still in love with him."
The words landed like thunder between them.
Before she could respond, someone else did.
"You shouldn't speak for her."
They turned. Skye Thorne stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching like he'd been there the whole time.
Nick's jaw clenched. "Of course."
Skye tilted his head, all quiet confidence and that cold flame in his eyes. "This conversation looks crowded."
Emory moved fast, stepping between them. "Don't."
But neither of them heard her.
Nick stepped forward. "What do you want from her?"
Skye didn't blink. "What I've always wanted."
"And what's that?" Nick snapped.
Skye smiled, slow and dangerous. "Everything."
Nick shoved him.
Skye didn't stumble.
He just smiled wider.
"That the best you've got?" he said.
Emory stepped between them again. "Stop it. Both of you."
But Nick's voice shook now. "You think you're some kind of untouchable prince, don't you?"
Skye's voice dropped. "And you think standing next to her makes you worthy."
Nick lunged again.
This time Emory caught his arm. "Nick. Please."
He froze.
Looked at her.
And whatever he saw broke him more than any punch could.
He stepped back.
"I hope he's worth it," he said. "When the fire comes, I hope he burns for you."
Then he turned and walked away.
Emory didn't follow.
---
Later that afternoon, she sat in the back row of her seminar, half-listening, mind unraveling. The professor droned on about Greek morality and self-sacrifice. Emory stared at the edge of her notebook, where the corner of the second photo still peeked out. The names. Hers. Skye's. Nick's. And the fourth she hadn't recognized.
Until now.
The name returned in her mind like a whisper: Dr. Lucien Rowe.
New visiting professor.
Ethics department.
Too charming.
Too polished.
Too quiet.
The one her mother had insisted she meet next week for "professional guidance."
She stood abruptly and walked out of class.
---
Dr. Rowe's office was at the far end of the faculty wing. Gold nameplate. Clean desk. Candle burning. And a wall of books too curated to be accidental.
"Ms. Vale," he greeted smoothly, rising from his chair like he'd been expecting her. "What a pleasant surprise."
She stepped inside cautiously. "I had a few questions about the upcoming paper."
"Of course you did," he said, gesturing for her to sit.
She didn't.
He watched her with a curious glint. "You're not like your mother."
"I'm not trying to be."
"That's a good thing," he said. "Your mother hides her cruelty behind good taste. You, at least, wear your fire plainly."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why am I on your list?"
Dr. Rowe paused.
Then smiled.
The same smile he wore in the faculty lounge. Pleasant. Polite.
But this time, it didn't reach his eyes.
"I think you already know."
She stepped closer. "You sent the photo."
"I sent a photo," he said. "Not the first. But maybe the most important."
"What do you want?"
"I want you to remember."
He stood now, slowly.
The air in the office shifted. Not cold. Not warm. Just wrong.
"Braxton is full of buried things, Ms. Vale. And I like watching what happens when they rise."
"You're playing a game."
"I didn't start it."
"Then who did?"
He smiled again. "You did. The moment you let him kiss you in that chapel."
Her blood turned to ice.
"You were there?"
"I've always been here."
She turned to leave.
But his voice followed.
"Be careful, Selene," he called softly. "You don't know which wolf you're feeding anymore."
🖤 End of Chapter Eight