Classes ended by 2 pm, and all I envisioned was soaking myself in a hot bath and washing away all the fatigue that had accumulated throughout the day.
Between every lecturer, being captivated by me and asking strange questions, I had to sit through every whisper about ’the new girl’ and try not to sink with every stare. Also, dealing with professors who, on more than one occasion, called me to test my knowledge.
And now I was mentally and physically drained.
The encounter with Darian at my locker had been the cherry on top of an already overwhelming day. His presumptuous demand to talk, the way he’d spoken about "arrangements" and "finalising" things as if I was still his promised bride—it had taken every ounce of self-control not to punch him in his perfect face right there in front of half the school.
As soon as my last class ended, I headed straight to the dormitory. I needed sanctuary, even if it meant sharing space with three boys whom I didn’t want to speak to.
When I arrived at room 207, I took a deep breath before unlocking the door with my copy of the keys. Please don’t be inside. Please.
I cracked it open slightly, bracing myself for awkward encounters, but to my amazement, the common area was empty. The boys weren’t back yet.
I spotted my belongings neatly stacked outside a door labelled with my name, my room key hanging from the handle. The porter had delivered everything while I was in class.
"Thank goodness," I whispered.
I dragged my suitcases and boxes into my bedroom and closed the door behind me, finally breathing.
My room was spacious with a large window overlooking the academy grounds, a comfortable bed with crisp white linens, and enough closet space for the extensive wardrobe Isolde had insisted on purchasing. It felt like a luxury hotel room compared to the cramped spaces I’d grown accustomed to during my time as Eamon. Thᴇ link to the origɪn of this information rᴇsts ɪn 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝✶𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖✶𝕟𝕖𝕥
I quickly showered, letting the hot water wash away the stress of the day, and dressed in comfortable clothes—soft cashmere leggings and an oversized sweater that made me feel more like myself and less like the perfectly polished image I’d projected all day.
When I came out of my bedroom, still delighted that the boys hadn’t returned, I went straight to the kitchen. My stomach was growling, and I realised I’d been too nervous to eat anything since breakfast.
I hadn’t even gone out during break because I was tired of the whispers and the side talks.
But when I opened the pantry and refrigerator, I found them bare. A few packages of instant noodles, some condiments, basic staples, but nothing that constituted an actual meal.
I rummaged through the cupboards with increasing desperation, pulling out boxes and jars, trying to find something—anything—that could be combined into proper food. I was so focused on my search that I didn’t hear the front door open.
"Looking for something?"
I spun around, nearly dropping the box of crackers I’d been examining. Kael stood in the kitchen doorway, carrying several bags of groceries. He looked tired, his uniform slightly rumpled, but his dark eyes were alert as they took in the chaos I’d created in the kitchen.
We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. I could see the internal war playing out behind his eyes. The mate bond hummed between us, but I ignored it, shoving Rhyme’s thirsty thoughts, which she was projecting into my mind.
Finally, Kael looked away and entered the kitchen, setting his grocery bags on the counter. He began removing items without saying anything further to me.
I hurriedly began replacing everything I’d scattered in my quest, embarrassed by the mess I’d made and the obvious evidence of my failure to find anything edible.
"I was just—" I started to explain.
"Sit down," Kael interrupted quietly, not looking at me as he arranged vegetables on the counter. "I’ll make you something."
The way he said it, gentle but firm, left no room for argument. There was something in his tone that reminded me of the boy I’d fallen in love with, the one who’d brought me soup when I was sick, as Eamon, who’d noticed when I wasn’t eating enough and made sure I had proper meals.
I retreated to the common room and perched on the edge of the couch, listening to the sounds of cooking coming from the kitchen. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the sizzle of garlic in oil, the bubbling of water coming to a boil—it was strangely comforting, domestic in a way that made my chest ache with nostalgia.
After what felt like an hour, Kael emerged carrying two bowls. He set one on the coffee table in front of me, and I nearly gasped when I saw what he’d made.
It was pasta made with spicy tomato sauce with olives, capers, and anchovies; the rich flavours wafted up to my nose as he set it down.
It had been my favourite dish as a child, something my mother had made for me on special occasions. I’d mentioned it once to the boys when I was Eamon during a casual conversation about comfort food, never thinking anyone would remember such an offhand comment.
But Kael had remembered. Despite everything that had happened between us, despite the hurt and betrayal and confusion, he’d remembered this small detail about what made me happy.
He brought his own plate and settled on the opposite end of the couch, as far from me as possible while still sharing the same space. We ate in complete silence, the only sounds the quiet clink of forks against ceramic and the distant hum of the building’s ventilation system.
The food was perfect—exactly as I remembered it, with just the right amount of heat and brine. Each bite reminded me of better times, of feeling safe and loved and cared for. I found myself blinking back tears that had nothing to do with the spicy sauce.
When I finished, I took my bowl to the sink and washed it carefully, along with the pots and utensils Kael had used. It was the least I could do after he’d fed me, and it gave me something to do with my hands while I tried to process the complicated emotions swirling in my chest.
When I returned to the living area to thank him, Kael was still sitting on the couch, his empty plate on the coffee table. He was staring out the window at the darkening sky, his expression unreadable.
"Thank you," I said softly. "The pasta was perfect. I can’t believe you remembered..."
He looked up at me then, and I saw so much pain in his dark eyes that it took my breath away.
"Can we talk?" he asked quietly.
The question hung in the air between us, loaded with months of unspoken words, unresolved hurt, and the weight of everything we’d lost and found and lost again. I could hear the vulnerability beneath his calm tone, the same vulnerability that had made me fall in love with him in the first place.
I sat back down on the couch, maintaining the distance between us, and nodded.
"Okay," I said. "Let’s talk."
But neither of us spoke immediately. We sat there in the gathering dusk, two people who had once shared everything now struggling to find words. The mate bond pulsed softly, a reminder of what we’d once been to each other, and what we might still be if we could find our way back to trust.
Outside, the academy grounds grew quiet as students settled into their evening routines. Inside our shared space, the silence stretched on, heavy with possibility and the fear of saying the wrong thing.
Finally, Kael spoke; his voice was a whisper.
"I need you to know that voting against you in that courtroom was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And I need you to understand why I did it."
I looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the boy who had marked me in the garden, who had promised to protect me, who had broken both our hearts trying to save me in the only way he knew how.
"I’m listening," I said.
And for the first time since I’d returned from the dead, I meant it completely.