open. Students are cheering, faculty are clapping, and even most of the Circle are looking at me like they might have underestimated me.
It’s a little strange considering how, less than an hour ago, it felt like everyone in this place was against me. Suspicious, angry, convinced that I didn’t belong here…and now they’re cheering for me like I’m actually one of their own.
And the only thing that’s changed is I actually won the Circle’s little Trial.
I’m still me, still Grace. Half-human, half-gargoyle girl. Only now they seem to think I belong.
Interesting, considering I’ve never wanted to belong less. Never wanted anything more than to simply walk away from this stadium and never look back.
There are only eight people in this entire place who I actually care about—everyone else can go straight to hell.
Ironic? Yes. Something I need to deal with right now? Not even close.
So I drop what I sincerely hope is my last entry into the “Shit I Don’t Have Time For Today” file, then rest my head on the ground and breathe. Just breathe.
I’m going to get up—I am—just as soon as I’m certain that my legs can support me. Turns out doing the entire test on my own and then following it up with some kind of mega power explosion takes a lot out of a girl…especially with the night I had.
But before I can so much as figure out what hurts—or more accurately, what doesn’t hurt, since that’s a much smaller list—Cyrus has lowered the magical force field protecting the playing area just enough to let himself in and is now moving quickly across the grass.
I don’t want to get up, but no way am I meeting this man facedown on the ground. Much less on my knees. So I dig into whatever last reserve of strength I have, and I push myself up and stand. I’m wobbly, but I’m on my feet.
As our gazes connect, I can’t help but pick up on a disturbing amount of rage in his eyes, so much so that I expect him to start screaming and running full tilt at me any second.
But he’s got too much restraint for that.
Instead, he walks slowly, deliberately up to me in his three-piece Tom Ford suit and tie, and he doesn’t stop until he’s only a couple of inches away.
The closer he gets, the more unsettling it becomes to be this close to him. Partly because he looks like a thirty-year-old version of Jaxon and Hudson—a little more scruff and a lot more sophistication, with an attitude that commands obedience—and partly because, when our gazes meet, there’s something in the depths of his that gives me the creeps on a whole new level.
I start to take a step back—several steps, actually—but that’s exactly what he’s going for. So I force myself to stand my ground, lift my chin, and keep my gaze locked on his despite my misgivings.
I expect my small rebellion to set him off, but instead it brings an ever-so-slight smile to his face as he looks me over. He never says a word, never makes a move toward me, and still I feel all kinds of gross by the time his gaze travels from my muddy shoes back up to my face.
Maybe I should have taken that step back after all—onto the next mountain, if possible. But it’s too late now. Any move on my part will look like retreat, and I’m not about to give him the satisfaction…or the power.
All of a sudden, the entire arena begins to shake, the ground rolling and jerking beneath my feet for a few seconds before settling back down again.
“So. You did it,” he says, eyebrow arched and index finger running along his lower lip in that way some men do when they think they’ve found a snack.
As if.
“I did,” I answer, lip curled in contempt even as every instinct I have is screaming at me to run, that a deadly predator has me in his sights. “And now I’m going to leave.”
I go to move past him, and he reaches out, grabs my elbow.
The arena starts to shake again, and I glance over at my friends, see Jaxon’s and Hudson’s frantic faces, and know instinctively that Jaxon is the cause of this. He’s fighting his father’s protection dome, trying desperately to break through it.
The ground shifts again, and Cyrus adjusts his stance—and his grip—on my arm. I brace myself for pain, for punishment, for something, but his touch remains light even as