Page 52 of Shadowed Whispers

I can feel the frown on my forehead as I look behind me and gasp. The space we spilled out of is a small alcove, but the hallway appears never-ending. I blink a few times, trying to comprehend what I’m seeing. “That can’t be right.”

“Like I said, stay close,” he says in his cold, detached voice.

I whirl back around and nod, because I’m not even sure my shadows could help me get out of this place. “How do you have access? I didn’t know this place existed.”

He grunts and begins to walk all over again. “My family donates graciously to this school.”

“So you’re rich.” That explains his entire vibe.

“My family is rich, yes,” he answers, his voice flat, hinting at a distance he’s deliberately placed between himself and his wealth. Intriguing. I don’t want to find Dorian Gray interesting, and yet, somehow, I do.

He turns abruptly and faces me, extending one arm toward another alcove that looks like a hidden gem within this labyrinth of history.

As I approach the indicated spot, I see a small seating area arranged in a semicircle around a circular desk. Twinkle lights shimmer above us, casting a warm, inviting glow, and the shelves are crammed with more books. It’s unexpectedly quaint, resembling a cozy restaurant nook rather than a corner of a clandestine library.

I hear the gentle hum of a refrigerator hidden in a nook between a bookshelf and the table as I draw nearer.

“There is an assortment of drinks in there as well as premade sandwiches. It isn’t anything fancy, and it isn’t a hot meal, but it is food,” he says, his tone practical as he slides into a chair at the table. Various books are spread out before him, along with a notepad, where he immediately begins to scribble notes.

Feeling somewhat dismissed, I grab a soda, chips, and a sandwich and settle across from him. My book bag hits the floor with a thud, and I start to open my soda and unpack my food.

Because I’m naturally curious, and it’s only the second day of school which means I’m without homework, I venture a question. “What are you working on?”

I lift one edge of a textbook. It’s an ancient art book.

Dorian quickly slaps the book down, his fog-colored eyes darting from my hand back to my face. “Don’t touch.”

I raise my hands in mock surrender and lean back, tearing off a piece of my sandwich and popping it into my mouth. Dorian watches me chew for a few moments before returning his attention to his notes.

I study him quietly. Despite our rough start, something about him suggests he has layers far deeper and more complex than the cold exterior he presents. He’s often alone, only seen with Professor Blackwood, and I can’t recall ever seeing him with friends. He’s intriguing in a forbidden way—entirely off-limits, yet undeniably magnetic.

I pop another piece of sandwich into my mouth, enjoying the slight irritation it seems to cause him.

Setting his pencil down, Dorian looks up, his gaze lingering on my mouth. I fight the urge to smirk, finding perverse pleasure in annoying him.

“My thesis,” he finally says, leaning back and gripping the pencil tightly, the eraser rhythmically tapping against the paper. “You should work on yours.”

“Can’t,” I reply, my mouth full of food. “My thesis is on my computer in the lab.”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full.”

I chew louder.

He closes his eyes, taking a slow, deep breath. “Must you?”

“Yes, I must,” I respond, not because I need to, but because challenging him feels right. I have control here, unlike in the diner where things spiraled far beyond my comfort zone.

I don’t regret what happened. Hell, I’m young and supposed to experiment sexually, and it was exhilarating, but it’s how easily it all happened that gnaws at me. I don’t even know Matteo’s last name.

I know Dorian doesn’t like me, and he’s only here because our professor ordered it. If it were his choice, I wouldn’t be sitting here, and as twisted as it sounds, that feels safer.

“Do we have to do this daily?” I ask, part of me warming to the idea of hiding out here among these quiet, secret tomes. Another part of me is restless, though I know once assignments start piling up, I’ll appreciate this secluded space. Maybe I should play nice.

“For this week at least,” he replies. “I’ll speak to the professor.”

I nod, allowing the silence to stretch between us, almost nurturing the awkward tension. I thrive in discomfort—it’s in comfort that I begin to feel uneasy.

“So, your thesis,” I continue curiously. “You’re an art major?”

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