“Spanish,” Malek replies, the grin that highlights his face bleeding into his sarcastic words, I whirl around to see the twitching of his lips.
I roll my eyes. “That was obvious from your accent. I meant what’s your Prod?” Is that a rude question to ask? Whatever, I’ve been haunted with that question left and right from everyone ever since I got arrested. At least he can give me an answer that doesn’t echo my own ‘I don’t know.’
Malek pushes himself away from the window and prowls towards me like some type of feline or predator, his dark eyes gleaming the color of molten honey in the light like I’m the prey he’s cornered. I have this urge to step away, but my choices are minimal here. Step away and fall onto a disease-infested mattress, or stand my ground and face a man I don’t know as he saunters dangerously close to me.
He seems nice enough, like someone I can be friends with, but I have to remember that every single person at this academy has a reckless Prod inside of them that has made them commit a crime. Just how dangerous are my new roommates?
And why the fuck do I feel a sliver of anticipation race down my spine instead of trepidation?
Maybe I’m just fucked in the head.
Probably. Possibly.
Another stalking step has another pulsing of my heartbeat thrumming between my thighs.
Definitely. Definitely fucked in the head.
Malek stops before me, far enough away to give me the illusion of space, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off of his golden kissed skin, see the very detailed ridge of muscle carved down his abdomen, see every droplet of sweat roll down his taut skin invitingly. Tattoos catch my eye. They trail up his arms in dark shadowy images I’m familiar with of Aztec warriors and conquistadors, sugar skulls, roman numerals, a moon, and a monster. Bits and pieces of his heritage are stamped on him like a badge of pride.
He has a body I itch to paint in smooth, even brush strokes.
Hell, he has a body I itch to lick in smooth, even strokes.
He bends a fraction so we’re face to face, and whispers, his voice dripping like a dangerous promise of forever until the one word he says slashes through my senses, making me jerk back.
“Licántropo.”
Lycanthrope.
They threw me into a tiny cell of a room with a werewolf. My gaze goes warily to the man on the top bunk on the other side of the room, looming above us and watching the show. He’s sprawled sideways lazily, his head propped on to his open palm as he takes in our interaction with mischief in his bright eyes.
I swallow, trying to appear the epitome of calm. They wouldn’t hurt me. They can’t. Not at the academy. Can they? I wonder just what type of restrictions the golden magical band around my ankle gives us all.
“And what are you?” I ask, relieved when my voice comes out steady. Confident. Fake.
In response, the man smiles and I’m gifted with the image of perfect white teeth, and the sliding points of incisors lengthening against his plump bottom lip.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
“No,” he smirks. “I’m his counterpart, actually.”
Fucking vampire.
Fucking school.
I’m an unknown Prod with no inkling or hint of power, trapped in a small raggedy dorm barely held together by fragile peeling walls and tape, with a werewolf, a vampire, and a fucking demon with a nub. Not to mention that asshole angel across the hall. Who knows what else lurks in this crumbling detention center of a place.
Werewolves, vampires, and everything in between thrown together. It all sounds like a deadly fight waiting to happen.
“We aren’t going to hurt you,” Malek promises softly. I can see his eyes soften into such tenderness, I’m already lost in the gentle depths of his gaze.
And then the vampire ruins it. “Much.”
Malek rolls his eyes and turns away from me, making his way to the rickety closet. One closet filled with white shirts, khakis and four small drawers.
Are we meant to share that thing?
Swiftly he lowers his jeans. He takes out khaki pants and unfolds them.
He does it ceremoniously, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to dress in front of a girl he barely knows. And I can’t help but stare as he bends over, his boxer briefs hugging his ass, as he steps one leg in and then the other. When he straightens, he reaches in again to pull out a collar shirt, a dark blue blazer, and a red tie.
My gaze is so mesmerized by those long fingers that I swear his mouth moves with what could be words.
Shit, he’s definitely talking.
To me.
Focus.
“Did they give you your schedule?” he asks conversationally, though there’s something suddenly stiff in his words, clipped and forced. The amiability is still there, but there’s something different in the tone now.
“Yeah.”
Fucking gym let’s not forget.
He turns, flipping his collar and smoothing out his tie. “Classes are about to start. You should change into your uniform and head over to building A, that’s where most first years take their courses.”
I blink stupidly at the perfect picture this werewolf makes in his uniform. With those glasses and that build, he looks like he’s meant for Harvard instead of Juvie. He’s definitely distracting, but not enough that I lose myself behind those words.
I’ve barely settled in, it’s my first fucking day and I’m expected to go to class? Where’s the justice? It’s like fucking military school.
“I don’t have a uniform,” I mutter. In fact, I don’t have anything with me. The moment they arrested me, I was hauled from one barred prison cell to this one. I have no clothes, no shoes, no panties, and no paints.
Shit, my paints. A year’s worth of money and pieces of art that I’ll never get back are left forgotten in an apartment I’ll surely lose by the end of the month.
“Here.” Malek digs through the closet again and emerges with a bundle of clothes that he tosses my way. I catch them and watch the folds of clothes unroll to reveal a uniform similar to his. Prestigious academy blazer in dark blue, a small collar shirt and tie, except where he has khaki pants, I have a skirt.
I hold the items at arm’s length. “It’s kind of creepy that you just happen to have this in there.” The uniform falls from my hands and onto the floor. While I was used to hand-me-downs, I’m not sure I trust the previous owner of this outfit to be disease free. Not with the way the students here obviously liked to hump in the hallways. Ugh, I have two years of this to look forward to.
My shift at Hog Dog’s has never looked so appealing.
“It’s new. The Academy delivered it the moment they brought you here.”
Right. Magic. That’s going to take some getting used to. While I’d been adopted by a warlock, he was excommunicated so magic had never been the norm in my youth. Even though I knew it existed, I never imagined I’d be sucked into all of this.
I thought I could live quietly just like my dad.
Academy of Six had other ideas.
My Prod had other ideas.
“Most of us never have time to pack our things,” Malek explains. “Anyway, I’d hurry if I were you. Professors here are strict.”
I can do nothing but watch helplessly as he grabs a backpack from the floor, hefting it over his strong shoulder. I feel suddenly empty, almost naked as he walks away. He’s leaving me alone with a vampire, and I’m suddenly acting like a codependent dipshit. I straighten my shoulders and force my voice to come out steadily.