lying for some reason, and that my phone wouldn’t be here. That hope is ground to dust when I see the familiar gold case sitting on top of an open book, right there in the center of Wren’s desk.
I flip the phone over, and low and behold the screen has been completely repaired. Tom must have worked so quick; I can’t believe I’d trusted him when he said it was going to take three full days to get this back to me. Asshole.
I hold my finger over the home button and the screen lights up, listing all of the calls and the texts that I’ve missed from Eden, Ayala and Levi. Tempted though I am, I resist the urge to unlock the phone. There’s no time for that.
“Elodie! I’m not kidding! Let’s go!”
I drop the phone into the pocket of my jacket, already plotting and scheming all of the ways I am going to hurt Wren Jacobi for this infraction, when my eyes catch on a phrase on the page of the open book that glues my feet to the bare floorboards.
…here, I opened wide the door;—darkness there, and nothing more…
I know that line.
I know it from somewhere, but I just can’t think where…
A soft creak disturbs the hush, the sudden, weighty silence of a presence at my back. My skin prickles, each small hair on my arms and down the back of my neck bristling under the force of another consciousness entering the room.
Ohhhhh fuck.
“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming…” a hushed voice murmurs. A voice of silk and honey and the rough edge of a blunt blade. It stabs into me with a tender sweetness that fills me with fear. “Dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before. But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token…and the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
Slowly, I straighten, taking a step back from the desk.
“Poe,” the voice states behind me. “A little over done these days, given his recent hipster rise to fame, but I’ve been a fan of ‘The Raven’ for a long time.”
With all the care in the world, I turn around, and there, standing at the foot of his bed, is Wren. After only seeing him in his tatty black tee and his jeans for so long, I’m staggered by the sight of him in a suit and tie. The cut of the blazer is exquisite. The pants are perfectly tailored, too. He looks nothing short of incredible, but it isn’t his clothes that have stolen my ability to form words. It’s just…it’s him. His jet hair, and the way it curls around the tops of his ears. The purse of his full lips, and the casual, amused upward tilt of his mouth. The faintest hint of stubble at his jaw, and the sharp, assessing eyes that bore into me like lasers from the other side of the room.
Oh, how I hate that I love to look at this boy.
He slips his hands into the pockets of his suit pants like he hasn’t got a care in the world. “Got a favorite, Stillwater?” he purrs.
“What?” My voice cracks on the word.
“Poet.” Wren smiles softly, then looks around the room, as if he’s suddenly remembered he came in here looking for something but can’t recall for the life of him what it was. He goes to the bookcase, running his fingers along the spines. “Good poets bleed their pain out in their words. They capture the desolation and the hopelessness of life and transcribe it to paper in a way that makes you feel like your throat’s just been cut. It’s visceral. All troubled souls have a favorite poet.”
What the fuck is happening right now? Why the hell is he going on about poets and not quizzing me over the fact that he’s just busted me in his room? I have to get out of here. Immediately. “Who says I’m a troubled soul?”
Wren glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “Like recognizes like, Elodie. You and I…we share many commonalities.”
“No, we do not.” I deny it with a little more passion than intended. “We’re nothing alike. I’d never hurt someone until they agreed to steal someone’s phone for me.”
Wren taps his finger along the shelf as he walks from one end slowly to the other. His eyes glint with amusement, a small flash of his teeth visible as he parts his lips.