Page 66 of Shadowed Whispers

Chatter rises as people fill in, and I had almost forgotten that this is Bishop’s class—almost.

He looks good. He always looks good. Tall and dark and handsome. As he smiles at his students, I’m reminded of him becoming my first friend, my first enemy, and meeting here and him becoming my first real lover. Maybe that is why I chose to sit at the desk he roughly fucked me over only days ago.

His soft gaze remains the same as he looks at everyone in class, then at me. When he looks at me, his gaze shifts to indifference. Another pang of hurt jabs my heart.

You are a strong badass, I remind myself.

“Is this seat free?’ Matteo’s voice cuts through the classroom din, an unexpected yet not unwelcome interruption. As he settles into the seat beside me with a conspiratorial grin, he murmurs, “Consider it claimed.” His presence, so close and casual, sparks a rare warmth in me.

I stifle a smile, facing forward with a new thought. Perhaps I’m not as isolated as I felt this morning.

Chapter 22

Frankie

“That wraps up today’s discussion,” Bishop announces with a finality that seems almost gleeful, clapping his hands together then rubbing them as if he relishes the collective dismay his words provoke. “Next week, I want a three-page essay on one of the prompts at the end of chapter one. You have five to choose from. The assignment will need to be encrypted, so choose wisely.”

A chorus of groans and moans vibrates through the classroom, bouncing off the walls and gathering around me like a storm of discontent. I don’t mind essays. In fact, I prefer the quiet solitude of writing to the nerve-racking ticking of a multiple choice quiz any day of the week. Apparently, my peers don’t share the same sentiment.

As I tap my eraser rhythmically against my notebook, I’m pulled from my thoughts by Matteo leaning close enough for me to catch the distinct, smoky cinnamon scent of his cologne—a scent that conjures memories of autumn fires and spiced lattes.

“Do you have plans for lunch?” Matteo’s voice is low, and as he looks up at me, his eyes dark and intense beneath even darker lashes, a flutter rises in my stomach.

“What did you have in mind?” I say, steadying my voice despite how he makes me feel, which is almost too damn intense. I remain still, his proximity intoxicating. His scent, his closeness, and, damn me to hell, his attention are all overwhelmingly enticing.

His lips, full and slightly parted, curl into a smile that’s both innocent and loaded with suggestion. As his gaze briefly drops to my lips and then meets my eyes again, the air between us crackles with unspoken possibilities. “You,” he whispers softly.

Oh hell.

Heat floods through me, a molten wave that forces me to press my legs together discreetly under the desk. He’s unbearably close now, his allure almost sinful in its intensity.

Before I can respond, Bishop’s commanding voice slices through the thick atmosphere, calling me back to reality. “Francesca Vale.”

Startled, I glance up. Bishop stands at the front of the room, his arms crossed and his gaze piercing. Beside him, Tori’s steps falter as she descends the stairs, her eyes locked on mine with an expression of hurt and accusation. The fragile camaraderie that blossomed between us earlier today shatters under her cold stare.

“Want me to kill him?” Matteo’s voice, low and dangerously serious, pulls me back from the brink of confrontation.

“No,” I respond quickly, attempting to inject some lightness into the tension. “Besides, everyone would notice if their beloved Bishop suddenly vanished.”

Matteo nods, his expression unreadable, and reassures me, “I’ll wait for you right here.”

As I begin to gather my belongings, my thoughts are a whirlwind. Matteo’s protective stance is comforting, yet I’m unnerved by the complex web of relationships entangling me.

“Francesca,” Bishop calls again, more sharply this time.

“Go. I’ll wait here for you,” Matteo insists, his tone reassuring but tinged with an edge that suggests he isn’t just talking about waiting.

“Are you even in this class?” I quip, starting to pack my things, a futile attempt to break the tension.

“Nope.” He pops the P, a gleeful smile lighting up his features. He leans back, interlocking his hands behind his head, looking the epitome of relaxed defiance as he closes his eyes.

I hum in disbelief, gathering my belongings with shaking hands. At the front, Bishop and Tori exchange heated words, their body language taut with conflict. He looms over her, his hands on his hips, while her face is flushed with a mix of anger and embarrassment.

Sighing, I make my way to the front, my grip on my backpack tightening with each step, feeling like I’m walking toward a battlefield rather than an instructor’s desk.

“Sir,” I interrupt, my voice steadier than I feel.

Tori shoots me a glare that could curdle milk before stalking off, her face a mask of thwarted fury and tear-filled eyes.

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