Page 27 of Riot House
He can’t hear me growling under my breath. I trust that he can read my annoyance from the scowl on my face, though. “Open the door, Jacobi. I’m turning blue, for fuck’s sake.”
He seems pleased. It’s hard to tell with him, though. He could also look like he wants to murder me. I can’t really make up my mind. Twisting the knob, he shoves the door open, standing back and sweeping his arm in front of him, gesturing for me to go inside.
I eye him suspiciously as I sidle past him into the gazebo.
Grateful that I’m no longer being lashed at by rain, I lean against the wall, sighing with relief. The interior of the gazebo is surprising to say the least. I was expecting a couple of peeling wooden benches and some empty soda cans rolling around on the bare concrete, but I’m dead wrong. The décor—because the place actuallyhasa décor—is stunning. Polished parquet flooring around the edges of the room gives way to a plush, thick cream carpet. A sofa and two overstuffed armchairs have been arranged in front of an unlit open fireplace on the far side of the room. Around the curved wall opposite the door, a low three-shelved bookcase bows under the weight of countless thick, heavy tomes with leather spines and gilded edges. Potted plants sit on every flat surface: vines, and ferns, and rubber figs, all jostling for space and light at the windows, which are patinaed with grime on the outside but clean from within.
“What is this?” I whisper. This isn’t just some forgotten place. This is someone’s hideaway. A secret, well-loved sanctuary.
Wren kicks off his muddy boots, discarding them by the door. He isn’t wearing any socks, which makes me shiver for no good reason. The sight of his bare feet, as he pads across the thick rug toward the fireplace, makes me so unexpectedly uncomfortable that I don’t even have the decency to look away. He bends at the waist, grabbing a piece of chopped wood from a wicker basket next to the fire, and he looks down at it, turning it over in his hands. “It’s supposed to be for the faculty. We commandeered it when we first came here, though. Fitz is the only one who knows we come here, and he turns a blind eye.”
Nothing about this place feels like it belongs to Wren. It’s too…too grown up and simple, and too…I don’t even know how to explain it. I’ve never considered what Wren’s personal space might look like. Not even for a second.Knowinghe has a bedroom somewhere is very different to being able toimaginewhat it would look like. It’d make more sense if he crawled out of a coffin in the ground at night. Or if he materialized out of a cloud of black smoke.
He tosses the piece of wood into the grate in the fire, his mouth twitching; he wants to don that ruinous smirk of his, I know he does. For reasons known only to him, he decides to restrain it this time. “No need to look so uncomfortable, Stillwater. Take off the jacket. There’s a blanket on the back of the couch. You can wrap yourself in that while it dries.”
I remain motionless, hugging the wall. “Why am I here, Wren?” I ask in a cold voice.
He grabs more wood, crouching down to arrange the pieces to his satisfaction, before he tears pages off an old newspaper at his feet, balling up the sheets and poking them into the gaps at the base of his unlit pyre. He doesn’t say a word.
“Wren. I’m serious. The message. What was the point in sending it?Why the fuck am I here?”
“When I was a kid, my father used to send me messages in Morse code. He used to drum his fingers against the table at breakfast. Tap his pen on, well, anything… It was our secret thing. My step-mother used to hate it.”
“Thanks for the heartwarming story. Now answer the question.” It has to be three in the morning by now. I may be young, but I still require a lot of sleep. I like sleep, and Wren’s depriving me of my rest for no apparent reason.
He looks back at me over his shoulder, his lips parted, a strange look in his eyes. The brief moment of eye contact we share makes me want to hide behind the fucking bookcase. Turning away, he strikes a long match and holds the flickering flame against the paper until each one of the scrunched-up balls is alight. “Your father taught you Morse code, too, right?”
“Yes.” I don’t want to relinquish this or any other piece of information about myself, but it’s a simple enough question. I have no reason to withhold the truth.
“It wasn’t a game for him, was it? It was a punishment.”
A shockwave of panic detonates in my chest. It ripples out, sending adrenalin chasing through my veins, spreading through me like that lightning that fired across the sky before. He can’t know anything about my father. He can’t know shit about my past, or about me. Anything hethinkshe knows is wrong, so why do I feel like he’s just cracked me open and rifled through all of my ugly secrets? It makes me feel suddenly dirty. “My father’s irrelevant,” I say tightly.
“Our fathers shape us,” Wren says, standing up to his full height. Behind him, the fire he built roars to life, like the infernos of hell just leapt at his command and obeyed his summons. “I’ve read a lot about your old man. What else did he teach you? Muay Thai?”
“No.”
“Oh right. Israel. He probably taught you Krav Maga.”
I donotlike that he’s able to deduce so much about me. It’s unfair that he’s armed with information that I don’t know about him in kind. There are things…things that he can’t know. Things that have been buried so well and so deep that even he couldn’t have dug them up. “I don’t see how any of this is important,” I say.
He pouts. “Do you still practice? I know a little Krav Maga myself. We could spar.”
“No.”
“No, you don’t practice anymore, or no, you don’t want to spar with me?”
“No, I don’t practice here. Why would I when I don’t have to? And can we stop talking about my father, please? That stuff’s private.”
Wren shrugs off my cold tone. “Your wish is my command.”
Quiet and as leonine as a panther, he crosses the small room, coming to a stop in front of me. Flicks of his hair hang down into his face, creating a dripping curtain that shields his eyes. I still feel the intensity of them, though, burning into my skin. He licks his lips, his hand reaching up, making me flinch.
He pauses, an inch away from my face. He has pianist’s hands, with long, dexterous fingers. I’m riveted by the sight of them. By the thought of what he might do with them if left unchecked. His nails are still covered in that same chipped black nail polish I noticed on my first night at Wolf Hall. “You’re a flighty little thing,” he rumbles. I resent the way his voice makes my skin break out in goosebumps.
“Forgive me for being cautious, but I don’t know anything about you. We’re not friends,” I volley back at him. “I’m not accustomed to people thinking they can touch me uninvited.”
He drops his hand back to his side, a slow smile spreading across his damnable face. “I’ll be sure to wait until I’m invited, then. You have a rose petal in your hair. I was just gonna get it out for you.”
