Page 45 of Deafened By Silence
“You can’t demand my attention Rhys, but maybe you can earn it. Let’s see, shall we?” Removing herself from his vicinity, Harper hunts for me. A sweet smile and a small wave are passed between us before she leaves us alone. Two lions pitting over the same lioness.
I watch for the moment Rhys launches himself at me in a bid to purge himself of the strain causing his chest to rise and fall in quick succession, but it doesn’t come. His jaw ticks, his eyes flicking back and forth across the shelves behind me as if he’s deep in thought. Or possibly having a pre-life crisis. Then, they snap to me, sharp as daggers.
“She might think you can give her what she wants, but we both know she’s wrong. You’re not as surface level as you appear.” Rhys pushes off the table, pushing his hands into his sweatpants pockets.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I bite, narrowing my eyes.
“That you mightlooklike the kind of guy who can give her flowers, candlelit dinners, and gentle kisses. Make sweet, sweet love to her beneath the stars.” Rhys slowly prowls around me, clicking his tongue as he goes. “But you have your demons. I actually think yours run deeper than mine.” Appearing before me again, his smirk is back, that glint of his eyes that dances between amusement and insanity.
“In fact, I think you’re worse than I am. At least I don’t pretend to be anything except this,” Rhys unpockets his hands to hold his arms wide. The veins in his arms catch the light, the ink on his skin crawling with disjointed demons. “I admit that I want to bend and break her for my own entertainment. I want to see how many times I can make those beautiful eyes stream with tears, and still have her tremble with lust at the slightest touch. I want to ruin her so thoroughly, she won’t know pleasure if it’s not by me.”
By whatever divine power, I manage to hold my ground. I’ve fought Wavershit so many times lately, it’s losing its appeal. He’s still there the next day, ready to go again, stuck in this loop of unending hatred with me. He must feel similarly, because instead of swinging for me, he keeps fucking talking.
“You’ll never be enough to fulfill her needs. She’s quite the minx, you know?” His arrogant laughter echoes through the library, provoking me to act on the clenched fists at my sides. “Oh, you don’t know. Maybe next time I’ll record it for you. She begs so well.” Rhys ambles back towards the bookshelves he appeared from, leaving me with the uncertainties that threaten to creep back in.
Tilting my head back, I stare at the domed skylight overhead. Complete darkness clings to the glass, and I suck in a few harsh breaths. Rhys means to goad me. He didn’t get his way with Harper so he turned his fangs my way, striking where he thought would puncture the deepest. Perhaps a week ago, he might have done just that. But not now. Not when I’ve seen how Harper looks at me. How she shifts into my space, seeking my comfort. True, she may desire him, but she craves me.
Chapter Twenty Seven
A bus pulls up by the sidewalk at our designated meeting point in the neighboring town. After Rhys’ appearance last night, the only sleep I managed to catch was restless, filled with tossing and turning, wondering and worrying.
The moment I stepped out of the library door, I felt the urge to rush back and make sure they weren’t tearing each other limb from limb. Then I reminded myself that I’m not their mothers, and I can’t always decide the narrative between them. Sometimes removing the source of the issue is best for all involved.
Running on autopilot, I’d automatically gone to a lecture hall before remembering I was supposed to be heading to Grayson Laboratory today. I’m underprepared, underfed and now standing at the back of a line where everyone has already partnered up. The bags under my eyes have paid for extra luggage that not even my fourth coffee of the morning can shift.
Clay is up front with the red-headed boy talking to the side of his face. He peers back, evidently looking for me. Upon finding what he’s looking for, he attempts to shove past his companion. I wave him off, seriously lacking the energy to smile and not in themood for small talk. There’s no sign of Rhys amongst the groups chattering excitedly, which I’m extremely thankful for. I shuffle forward and find a quiet corner at the back of the bus, using my bag as a pillow and hoodie as a blanket. I’m asleep before we’ve even set off.
Amongst the rumbling, a disjointed dream filters to me. Clay and Rhys are seated either side of me at a ridiculously long dining table, like something out of a medieval banquet. Clay is slicing steak into perfect, uniform cubes and placing them neatly on my plate, while Rhys is pouring me an entire goblet of wine and smirking as if he plans on watching me down the whole thing. Their insults fly across me like arrows, but every time one of them lands too close, the other bats it away. At some point, Clay’s tie has loosened and Rhys’s shirt is missing altogether, though neither seem to notice as they bicker over who gets to peel the grapes for me.
My head jolts forward as the bus comes to a harsh stop, the pounding behind my eyes worsening into a full headache. It’s confirmed. I need a hobby and a new set of friends. Groaning, I stretch and sit upright to see what caused our driver to brake so hard. Rhys’ Porsche is sprawled across the road, hazard lights blinking on repeat. He strolls towards the Grayson Laboratory’s entrance as if the building belongs to him, tossing his keys to a confused lab assistant without breaking stride.
I toy with the idea of staying hidden at the back of the bus. But this is the kind of place I hope to work one day, the kind of building whose glass walls promise to give me everything I keep telling myself I want. This is about refocusing on my future. So I pull my hoodie over my‘Deaf-inatley Too Good For You’t-shirt and force myself out onto the sidewalk. Regret crashes over me instantly. The sun burns far too bright, bouncing off the glass tower and causing me to squint. The noise from the crowd of students swells like a hive, buzzing with excitement, andmy stomach twists with nausea. Or maybe that is just hunger gnawing through me.
Edging closer to the revolving chrome doors, I take in the reflection of a stranger in the glass. Hollow eyes, hoodie slouched, shadows under my cheekbones. I don’t linger long. Inside, the reception area stretches open and cold, the chemical tang clinging to every breath. To the right, a metal scanner looms with a guard in black stationed beside it. Straight ahead stands a woman in a fitted lab coat, clipboard tucked beneath manicured fingers, red glasses softening her sharp presence.
“Welcome everyone. I’m Vikki and I’ll be your guide today.”
Peterson sidles up beside her, looking strangely misplaced in a pressed suit. When I note the way he smiles giddily and stares at Vikki a beat too long, I understand his need to dress up. He hands out blue visitor lanyards and ushers us through the scanner. Hanging back, I rummage for my ID and hold it out.
“I have cochlear implants, I’ll set off your metal detector.”
The guard studies my card, nods, and sweeps a handheld sensor across my front instead. Satisfied, he waves me forward where Peterson is waiting with a hearing loop, no doubt connected to the mic already clipped to Vikki’s breast pocket. Resigned, I tug it over my head and follow the group into the elevator.
Being the last one in means I am the first one out, stepping into a pristinely white hallway. Vikki directs us into a lecture room lined with rows of seats before a large screen. I slip into the back, hoping for anonymity, but of course Rhys claims the chair right next to me. He drapes his arm around the back of my seat, and I bite the inside of my cheek.
I’m not going to let him distract me today, and I’m not going to give him the attention he’s so desperate for until he’s earned it. I have no idea how he might earn it, but that’s not a problemfor me to solve. I’m more interested in the solutions he comes up with all by himself.
“I thought we could start with a quick introduction to the lab and its history before you find out what it is we really do here,” Vikki begins. Her cheerful voice hums clearly through my implants as the lights dim. The projector flickers to life and casts long shadows over the room.
The quick introduction drags for nearly forty minutes, recounting the empire of Thomas Grayson and his prophetic visions for data analysis long before the world was ready. His grandchildren inherited not only his fortune but his ambition, polishing it into a future that pulses in the walls around us. By the time the presentation ends, my body has sagged into the chair, head tipped back against Rhys’ arm.
Just before I get too comfortable and nod back off, we’re ushered back out of the room like cattle and ride up to the second floor. “We offer two apprenticeships to Waversea graduates each year.” Vikki’s words ripple through the elevator as we step into a functioning laboratory. Finally, the anticipation begins to ripple in my being. This is where I envision myself one day, if I manage to survive Waversea that is.
The room spreads wide, every station manned with experiments I ache to get my hands on. Glass beakers bubble with chemical reactions, flasks glinting under strips of clinical light. Against the right wall, fume extraction hoods tower larger than anything I have seen, their windows glowing with shifting colors. Behind one glass pane, two scientists tug hazmat suits over their shoulders before disappearing into a chamber labeledauthorized access only.
I wander behind the group at a slower pace while they rush from table to table. They move like tourists desperate to collect snapshots while I want to stand still and drink in the details. Engineers move through the room with a quiet rhythm, theirhands confident on equipment I can only dream of using. For all their brilliance, they are ordinary people trying to change the world one calculation at a time. Once, they would have been students like me.
I have never been someone who looks too far into the future. Living in the present feels safer, knowing the ground can be pulled out from under me without warning. Tragedy does that to a person. Yet here, I can almost see it. A version of myself hidden away in this labyrinth of white walls, quietly shaping something that matters, not for recognition but for impact.
