Thornhill Academy. Chapter 63

Cage drops into a chair at the study table, lounging back like he owns the air around him. He flips open his notebook, doesn’t even look at me when he asks, “Where’s your bodyguard today?”

I blink, unamused. “My—what?”

He looks up, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. “Drayke. You know, the fire-breathing golden boy who hasn’t let you out of his sight for a week.”

I roll my eyes and drop my bag onto the table. “He’s at football training, obviously.”

Cage hums, tapping his pen against the page. “Hmm. You two have been getting awfully close.”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” I say flatly, pulling out my textbook.

He shrugs, unbothered, eyes glinting with mischief. “Maybe not. But I’d like to know what’s so special about you to have captivated the academy’s star student.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, grin sharpening. “Do you have a magic pu—”

My glare hits him like a thrown dagger, and the words die in his throat.

“Finish that sentence,” I say softly, dangerously, “and I’ll show you exactly what kind of magic I have.”

For a second, something flickers behind his smug expression, something that almost looks like respect. Then he chuckles, low and mocking, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Touchy.”

“Bite me,” I mutter.

He grins wider. “Tempting, but I don't want stray stuck in my teeth.”

Gods, I hate him.

“Are you actually going to teach me anything today,” I ask, arms crossed, “or are we just going to sit here while you work on your villain origin story?”

Cage doesn’t even look up from where he’s doodling something entirely useless in his notebook. “Are you actually going to learn anything, or are we just pretending again?”

My jaw drops. “You’re insufferable.”

He smirks without missing a beat. “And yet, here you are.”

“I’d rather eat glass.”

“Bet you’d complain less.”

I’m halfway to throwing my pencil at his face when the click of heels breaks through our bickering. I don’t even need to look up to know who it is, that voice, that purr, it’s unmistakable.

“Caaaage,” Vannah croons, dragging out his name like a melody as she slinks over to the table. A siren, the worst kind of distraction in a short, glittering skirt and an ego twice as shiny. I’ve learned the hard way to steer clear of her.

She slides an arm across his chest, pressing close enough that I actually hear his breath hitch. “You promised you’d help me with my project,” she pouts, lips in a perfect little mock frown.

Cage doesn’t even hesitate. He stands, smirking, letting her hand trail down his arm. “Guess we’ll have to continue *our* session another time, Stray.”

And just like that, he’s gone, trailing after her like a lovesick puppy with a god complex.

“Good,” I mutter to myself, flipping my notebook shut. “Useless anyway.”

Except…he was supposed to help me with this damn question, and now I’m staring at it like it’s written in another language. After what feels like ten minutes of mental torture, I sigh, pushing my hair back. That’s when I notice movement near the back shelves where we have a smaller library. Professor Hill. He’s pacing down one side of the room, books in hand, his dark coat trailing just enough to make him look even more foreboding than usual. I hesitate; every student knows better than to bother Hill unless they want their soul examined under a microscope, but I need help.

“Sir?” I call softly, stepping closer.

He stops, slow and deliberate, and turns. The moment his storm-grey eyes land on me, I wish I could take the words back. They darken, sharp and unreadable, a silent weight pressing down on me until I actually take a step back. My throat goes dry.

“Miss Rivers,” he says in that deep, measured tone that feels like it can peel away your thoughts. “To what do I owe this…interruption?”

Oh, perfect. I’ve just volunteered myself for public execution.

I muster up every single ounce of courage I have and stutter out, "I... need help with a question, and my tutor just left me to go fuck some blonde bimbo."

For a second, I swear I see Professor Hill blink, not in shock, but in that slow, *did-she-just-say-that-to-me* kind of way that makes my stomach twist.

“I—” I start again, realising exactly what just came out of my mouth, “I mean, not literally fuck, probably, but maybe? I don’t know, he didn’t specify—”

His eyebrow arches, the faintest twitch of something like amusement flickering across his otherwise stoic face. “I see,” he says finally, voice smooth but edged like a blade. “So your… tutor has abandoned his post.”

I nod quickly, clutching my notebook like a shield. “Yeah. Apparently, academic responsibility comes second to sirens in tight skirts.”

He studies me for a moment that feels like an eternity. Those storm-grey eyes dissecting every word, every twitch of my mouth, until I’m sure he can see the nervous heartbeat pulsing in my throat.

“Sit,” he says at last, gesturing to the table. His tone isn’t unkind, but it’s the kind of command that doesn’t leave room for argument. “Let’s see what could possibly warrant such… colourful phrasing.”

I swallow hard and slide into the seat, flipping open my book, trying very hard not to think about how his presence feels like it fills the whole room. Cassian Hill. The mind-reader professor. The one who could rip thoughts straight from your skull if he wanted to. And now, he’s sitting beside me. Close enough that I can smell the faint trace of smoke and ink on his clothes.

“Show me the question,” he says.

My fingers fumble over the page before I finally flip it toward him, tapping the line I’ve been staring at for twenty minutes.

“It’s this one,” I say, trying not to sound as small as I feel. “The rune sequence. It’s supposed to amplify elemental output, but every time I try to channel it, the spell fizzles like it’s missing something.”

He leans over, scanning the question in a single glance. His presence feels heavy, deliberate, the kind of man who doesn’t just read a problem but dissects it.

“And what have you tried so far?” he asks, voice quiet but demanding.

“I—uh, I followed the structure,” I mutter, pointing to the half-finished diagram in my notes. “Runes for stability, containment, and ignition. I even tested the sigil flow, but…” I grimace. “Nothing. It’s like the energy refuses to stick.”

Professor Hill hums under his breath. “Energy doesn’t refuse, Miss Rivers. It obeys. The question is who it’s listening to.”

He takes my pen from my fingers without asking, his hand brushing mine just enough to make my stomach lurch. Then, in two effortless strokes, he alters one of my runes.

“You drew the containment symbol closed,” he says, glancing at me from under his lashes. “It should be open, to allow for exchange rather than suppression. Magic isn’t meant to be caged.”

“Oh,” I whisper, feeling my face warm as I realise the simplicity of it.