LEXI
It takes me several minutes before I pull myself together enough to get up and actually go take my shower. Honestly, I probably would have stayed there melted into the carpet for a lot longer, replaying that kiss on a loop, but I really do feel kind of gross. Wind–battered. Slightly smoky. Definitely tangled. Flying is fun. Flying is also apparently a full–contact sport with the atmosphere. A nice braid and something covering my face would absolutely have been wise. Possibly goggles. Maybe a full helmet. I’ll workshop it. Good to know for next time. And there will be a next time. That thought alone makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with altitude. The shower is heavenly. Hot water cascades down my back and washes away the lingering heat from Blake’s scales. I use extra conditioner, working it through my hair carefully and methodically, untangling the knots that the wind so enthusiastically created. Thankfully, whatever brand of mysterious hair products the Academy provides? Unreal. This stuff is magical in a way that has nothing to do with spells. Ten out of ten. Would recommend. Whenever I graduate, I am absolutely asking the Academy for a lifetime supply as a parting gift. Or I’ll pay for it. I don’t care. This stuff is elite. By the time I step out of the shower, I feel at least a hundred times more human. I throw on my bathrobe, twist my hair into a towel, and collapse face–first onto my bed. I should probably get dressed. But I am not emotionally ready to commit to clothing yet. Besides, the Academy chooses my outfits anyway. It’s not like I need to deliberate over it. Apparently, making decisions was the longest part of my getting–ready routine before coming here. Who knew? 1 roll onto my back and reach toward my bedside table for my phone. After the whirlwind of my afternoon, flying, adrenaline… Blake, I could use a little mindless scrolling. Plus, the SCRI app is actually fun lately. I get to see what new petty revenge the Academy has unleashed on unsuspecting students this week. I reach. And grab nothing. I blink. I pat the surface of the bedside table more deliberately. Still nothing. I sit up. Maybe I knocked it off earlier? I check the floor beside the bed. Then the other side. Then under the blanket, as if my phone has developed sentience and burrowed itself into the mattress. Nothing. I force myself to stand and check the bathroom, just in case I somehow brought it in there without remembering. Nope. I wander back into my room slowly, a faint crease forming between my brows.
“Hey… Do you know where my phone is?” I ask lightly. The Academy is oddly silent. No helpful door creak. No helpful object shifting. No gentle nudge in the right direction. Weird. I frown and start opening drawers, which makes absolutely no logical sense, but logic is flexible in this building. Things move. They disappear. They reappear. I grab the handle of my bedside drawer. It doesn’t open. I tug again. Nothing.
“Why is this stuck?” I mutter. I pull harder. The drawer rattles slightly but refuses to slide.
“Seriously, is this you?” I ask, trying not to sound accusatory.
“Because if this is a prank, it’s not very funny.” I add. The drawer gives a small, almost offended shake. But it doesn’t open. My stomach drops.
“Okay… So I assume my phone is in here then. And for some reason you don’t want me to have it?” I say slowly.
“Is this another prank? Did I do something to upset you?” I ask, kind of concerned. The room goes completely still. No creaks. No rattles. Just… Silence. The drawer remains closed. A cold, creeping feeling begins to crawl up my spine.
“Are you angry with me? Did I miss something?” I ask more quietly now. The wood of my dresser lets out a long, low creak. Not sharp. Not violent. More like a groan. Then the drawer slides open slowly. My phone is sitting right there.
“So… Not angry then?” I confirm carefully, stepping forward and grabbing it quickly before the drawer can change its mind. It doesn’t. The room stays quiet. Too quiet. 1 perch on the edge of my bed, phone heavy in my hand. If the Academy isn’t angry… Then it wasn’t hiding my phone to punish me. It was hiding my phone to protect me My throat tightens. That means there’s something on here it didn’t want me to see. With a growing sense of dread pooling in my stomach, I unlock the screen and open the SCRI app.
It takes me all of five seconds to find what it was trying to hide from me, and it is truly awful. There’s a new round of posts about me on the SCRI app Dozens of photos. Photos of me from the last few weeks Stolen from hallways, from classes, from the cafeteria Candid shots I didn’t even know anyone had taken. Times when I had bruises, mostly from when other students kept accidentally bumping into me The images are zoomed in Annotated Arrows drawn in red. Circles around faint discolorations on my arms, my legs, my shoulder. Then the next slide shows photos of me a day or two later. Clear skin Markers highlighting that the bruises vanished. Captions under them.
Suspicious.
1/2
2:37 pm p p p p pppp
Chapter 83 83- Do Not Let Him Take Your Side, In An Argument
Convenient.
Interesting timing.
My stomach drops. Then there are posts confirming that I’ve been having extra tutoring with Professor Young. That part isn’t secret. Anyone could see it.
But the comments underneath… That’s where it turns vicious. I scroll. The first comment says I needed to learn to heal to hide the bruises. The next one says it’s so that no one will know what the DRAGON has been doing to me. My jaw drops. I scroll again. Post after post implying I’m weak. That I’m being abused. That I’m trapped. That the only reason I worked so hard to learn healing was to survive being close to him. That I’m covering it up. That I’m protecting him. That I’m too stupid or too desperate to leave. Each comment is worse than the last. Some are written like fake concern. Some are outright gleeful. Some are calling Blake a monster. Some are calling me pathetic. The words blur together but I can’t stop reading. And the worst part? It’s not that they’re attacking him. It’s not even that they’re attacking me. They’ve been doing both of those things since day one. It’s what they did to my healing. They took the one thing I am most proud of. The hours I spent studying. The headaches. The careful practice. The confidence I gained when I was finally able to heal the bruises on my own. They twisted it. Turned it into something shameful. Something dirty. Something desperate. I KNOW it isn’t true. I know why I learned to heal. I know how hard I worked. But now? Every time I think about it, I’m going to remember this. The arrows. The comments. The implications. The way they made it ugly. Hot tears start sliding down my cheeks. I don’t even register when I start crying. At first it’s quiet. Just tears spilling over while 1 stare at the screen. Then my vision blurs too much to read. Then I’m gasping. Then I’m sobbing. It builds and builds until it feels like my chest is splitting open. Heavy, painful sobs that wrench up from somewhere deep and leave my lungs aching. My throat burns. My head pounds. I drop the phone somewhere beside me and curl into myself. The blankets slide up and around me. Slowly, carefully. The Academy. It tucks the fabric over my shoulders, around my back, pressing gently like it’s trying to imitate a hug. I bury my face into the softness and cry harder. All the little things from the past few weeks crash into me at once. The bumping in the hallways. The nasty whispers. The looks. The posts. The way I kept brushing it off. Laughing it off. Pretending it didn’t matter. This matters. This one found the crack. It takes everything I had left and just… Pushes. I don’t know how long I cry. Time stretches and warps. Eventually the tears run out, but my chest still hurts. My head throbs. My eyes feel swollen and raw. I’m exhausted. Utterly drained. I probably need to meet Blake for dinner soon. But I can’t. I can’t let him see me like this. Broken down. Shaking. Red–faced and blotchy and gasping. He’ll blame himself. He’ll be furious. And I don’t have the strength to handle that right now. I reach blindly for my phone and squint at the screen. The lights in my room dim automatically, softening to a gentle glow that eases the pounding in my skull. Even the Academy knows I have a headache. I type slowly, fingers trembling.
Lexi: Hey, I’m not really feeling up to dinner tonight. I might stay in and take a nap. I’ll see you tomorrow.
I stare at the message for a second.
Then press send.
Comments
R Visitor
how cruel
7 days ago
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
