Eden

3

I don’t stay in his room.

It’s a childish thought, but I feel the overwhelming need to reassert my independence before he completely sucks me in and really makes me his possession.

Instead of returning to my dorm to get some rest, because again, Saint and his orders can suck a dick, I make my way to the library. I’m feeling more energized now that I have food in my stomach and irritation toward Hot Draco heating my blood. Going back to my room would only feel like being caged, so I decide to put myself to work doing some research on Nora and Alexandra, the mother formerly known as Je

Now that I know they weren’t students at Angelview, it should be easier to find information on them. I slide into a chair in front of one of the desktop computers that no one ever seems to use, even though they’re the latest high-tech models, and open one of the internet browsers on the desktop.

The first thing I Google is Eleanor Mallory Ravenwood, and as if I’ve discovered a magical password that I’ve been missing all this time, the results are a treasure trove of information. The first thing that pops up is a random PDF from the Ravenwood school website with her name listed among others for past student achievements. She was apparently a swimmer, and a good one at that. Having something in common with her feels strange.

Disappointing.

With a sigh, I exit out of the PDF and go down to the next link. It’s an article about the fire that supposedly killed Nora. When I click into it, the headline of the article reads RAVENWOOD ALUM KILLED IN HOUSE FIRE WITH ENTIRE FAMILY.

I scan the article, and everything I read lines up with what Nora told me—other than the part about it being the weekend of her wedding to Benjamin. All in the house were presumed dead, including her one-year-old daughter, Eden, and the real Je

That thought twists my stomach.

I return to the search bar and type in Alexandra Mallory Ravenwood. Then, I click on images and gape in wonder. The person I see in the photos is nothing like the woman I grew up knowing. She appears vibrant and happy and so pretty that my chest aches. There are pictures of her in a cheerleading outfit and sitting on a grassy hill with other girls.

How did she go from this healthy, whole person to the drug-addled shell she is now?

The Angelles, dumbass, the voice in the back of my head reminds me but it’s scary how much it suddenly sounds like Nora.

I keep up my search, uncovering everything I can about both women until I’m falling down an internet rabbit hole filled with clickbait and unrelated nonsense. The relevant stuff, though, is pretty amazing. In addition to being top athletes at Ravenwood, Nora and Alexandra were also near the top of their classes for academics. I find a whole slew of award a

She won a state honor for a chemistry experiment she conducted.

Fitting, considering she was the meth lab queen back in Rayfort.

My phone buzzes, startling me. I grab it and look to see that Saint’s texted me. Scowling, I look at the time and realize I’ve been sitting in the library for almost two hours.

Then I open his text and immediately puff out a deep exhale.

SAINT ANGELLE: Where did you go?

I don’t respond. Maybe if I simply ignore him, he’ll fuck off, too.

I almost laugh out loud at the thought, knowing how ridiculous that notion really is.

Sure enough, a minute later, my phone buzzes again, and he’s sent me another message.

SAINT ANGELLE: I told you to rest. Not leave.

“Well, motherfucker, you never said I couldn’t leave either,” I whisper, then I pinch the bridge of my noise, admonishing myself. It doesn’t matter if he said I could or couldn’t. No matter what he says, he doesn’t own me.

Another buzz. Another text.

SAINT ANGELLE: Get your ass back here. Now.

If he thinks I’m going to respond positively to that message, he’s out of his damn mind.

I switch my phone to silent and turn my attention back to the computer screen.

After a few more minutes of searching, I sit back in my chair and release a shallow breath. Everything I’ve found so far is interesting, but it’s all surface level. The available to the public type of stuff that doesn’t really tell you that much about a person’s real character. You don’t find out their secrets through Google.

I want to know more about Nora and Alexandra. I need to know more if I’m going to ever understand their strange dynamic, as well as figure out a way to beat Nora at her own game. There’s got to be more somewhere.

Like at Ravenwood.

The school probably has all sorts of records about the two from when they were students. More personal information or stories. Anything that might help me uncover more of the truth.

The real question, though, isn’t if the school has information. It’s how do I get it from them?

I chew on my thumbnail as I consider my options and let my eyes wander aimlessly around the library as I think. When my gaze lands on an abandoned copy of the school’s student-run newspaper, an idea strikes me like a bolt of lightning.

Sitting up, I pull up the Ravenwood website again and scroll through to find the page with their administration listed, along with contact information for each individual. My knee jogs under the desk as I find the headmaster’s email address and click on it. A box pops up for me to write a message, and I begin typing. I claim to be a student from one of the local public schools and ask if I could have access to the Ravenwood library in order to complete a paper I’m working on on the school’s founder. I throw in a little something about how depleted my own school’s library is of resources just to get a little more sympathy, then send the email before I can change my mind.

I wait until I’m sure the message has sent before I log out of the computer. That might’ve been a bad idea, but I don’t really care at this point. One way or another, I’m going to find what I’m looking for, even if I’m not one hundred percent sure I know what that is yet.

“Where the fuck did you go yesterday?”

I stiffen at the growled words, holding my empty plate against my chest as I slowly turn around. Saint is glaring down at me, anger rolling off him and straining his navy blazer against his shoulders.

I glance around. “We’re not doing this here.” I mean, I’m standing in the middle of the breakfast line, waiting to get my food. My appetite stuck around after yesterday, which is a relief, but I’ve been ravenous for the last twelve hours. “Actually, we’re not doing this at all. Do me a favor and go back to Rosalind or whoever’s next in line to suck your dick because I’m over the whiplash.”

“We’re doing it because you’ve given me little choice, Ellis.” He seethes, ignoring my jibe. “When you don’t return my texts or answer my calls, you don’t get to decide a location’s convenience when I eventually hunt you down.”

“That’s almost a fair point,” I snark back. “Except next time, I’d just advise you to leave me the fuck alone if I don’t respond to your messages and if I’m not in my room because clearly I don’t want to talk to you. We’re done, Saint.”