Chapter 2:

The morning sunlight creeps through the cracks in the blinds, dragging me reluctantly out of sleep. I groan and bury my face deeper into my pillow, but it’s no use.

There’s a loud knock on my door, followed by my roommate’s voice cutting through the silence.

“North! Get up! You’re gonna be late, and I’m not covering for you again!”

I groan louder, hoping she’ll take pity and leave me alone.

Instead, Ellie bursts into my room, a whirlwind of energy in her pajama shorts and oversized band tee.

She’s holding a steaming mug of coffee, which she promptly sets on my nightstand.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she says cheerfully. “Or should I say, good almost-afternoon?”

I peel an eye open to glare at her. “You’re way too chipper for this early.”

“It’s literally 9 a.m.,” she counters, yanking the covers off me. “What’s your excuse this time? Up late reading smutty romance novels again?”

“No,” I mumble, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. The events of last night flash through my mind—the graveyard, Valentine perched on my mother’s gravestone, the cold touch of his fingers on my neck. I shiver involuntarily.

She notices. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a

ghost.”

I hesitate. “Just a weird dream.”

At least I hope it is.

“Nightmares again?” Her face softens with concern as she sits on the edge of my bed. “You really should talk to someone about that.”

I shake my head quickly. “It wasn’t a nightmare. Just… weird.”

“Well, whatever it was, shake it off. You’ve got class in an hour, and you look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

She pauses, squinting at me. “Wait… did you scratch yourself?”

“Huh?”

She leans closer, pointing at my neck. “There’s this thin red line, right here.”

My heart skips a beat. I touch the spot instinctively, right where Valentine’s cold finger had traced my skin.

“Probably just, um… scratched myself in my sleep,” I say quickly, though my heart is beating faster than I can breathe. It wasn't a dream. It was real.

He is real.

Ellie raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press. “Well, cover it up if you don’t want Dorothy and her crew making it their new favorite topic. They'd say you're so lonely, you gave yourself a hickey." She laughs at her joke.

I nod, trying to act nonchalant as I sift through my closet. For the first time, I actually care about what I wear.

Screw Valentine for making me develop confidence issues over night!

I pull out a summery sundress, but Ellie whistles dramatically, making me second-guess myself.

“Cute,” she says, grinning. “But maybe tone it down if you’re trying to avoid attention.”

I groan and grab a green turtleneck instead, slipping it on and pairing it with jeans.

“Better?”

She shrugs. “Eh, you do you. Just don’t let them get to you, okay?”

Her words echo in my mind as I head out the door and into the chaos of campus life.

I wish it was that easy, really. But in a big place like college, being bullied doesn't feel like the typical highschool bullying...it's like...a higher grade.

More awful, if I fail terribly to paint the picture effectively.

When I arrive at school, the first person I run into is Dorothy. Of course.

She’s standing near the quad with her minions, Jesse and Bailey, looking like she owns the place. As soon as she sees me, her glossy lips curl into a smirk.

“Well, well,” she says loudly, drawing attention. “If it isn’t our resident charity case.”

Jesse and Bailey snicker. I grip the strap of my backpack tighter and keep walking, but she steps into my path.

“What’s the rush, turtle?” she coos, eyeing my outfit. “Got a hot date?”

The nickname stings, but I force myself to look her in the eye. “Do you actually think you look impressive?” I retort before I can stop myself.

The laughter dies instantly. Jesse and Bailey exchange shocked looks.

Dorothy blinks, then narrows her eyes. “What did you just say?”

I take a steadying breath. “You heard me.”

For a second, I think she’s going to slap me, but instead, she leans in close, her voice dripping with venom. “That’s the first time you’ve said anything back, and let me give you a piece of advice: don’t let it happen again. You won’t make it through college otherwise.”

I hold her gaze for a moment longer, then step around her and walk away. My hands are trembling, but there’s a small spark of satisfaction in my chest.

I stood up to her. Yes, she will make my life exponentially more difficult from now on, but at least it's in the record that I stood up to her.

By the time I sit down for my first class, my mind is miles away. No matter how hard I try to focus, it keeps drifting back to last night. To him.

Valentine.

I can still hear his mocking voice, see the way his golden eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. And the feel of his cold fingers on my neck—it lingers, no matter how many times I rub the spot to erase it.

I try to push him away from my thoughts all day but nothing works. My fingers keep coming back to my neck, and I keep reliving the feeling of his fingers tracing it down.

Later at night, I find myself back in the cemetery.

I try to convince myself that it's to talk to my mom as I always do, but something in me knows it's a lie.

I wander through the rows of gravestones, half hoping and half dreading that I’ll see him again. The air is cool, and the moon casts long shadows that make the place feel both eerie and beautiful.

And then I hear it.

The mournful sound of a violin.

I follow the music to one of the older sections of the cemetery, where the gravestones are weathered and crumbling. There he is, standing by one of them, playing a hauntingly beautiful tune.

I freeze, mesmerized. The way he holds the instrument, the way his fingers move so effortlessly—it’s hypnotic.

The melody ends abruptly with an off-key screech, and he turns to face me.

“You miss me?” he asks, smirking.

I scoff, trying to ignore the way my heart is racing.

“Hardly.”

So he's here.

I expect to feel the same dose of fear I felt last night, but I don't. I feel... oddly comfortable in his presence even though I'm still finding it hard to comprehend what he is.

I think the odd confidence is born from the fact that I know he wouldn't hurt me. I don't know what he is, but I'm certain he won't hurt me. It's something from the way he does...I can't put a finger on it.

I turn around and head over to the newer graves where my mother's is located.

I sit cross-legged in front of her gravestone, tracing the letters of her name with my fingers. The night air is cool, and the soft rustle of leaves fills the silence.

“Talking to her again?” he suddenly says from a few paces behind me.

“Do you mind?” I snap, turning my head wildly towards him.

“Not at all. In fact, I find it fascinating."

I ignore him, turning back to my mom's grave stone.

“Hey, Mom,” I begin, my voice quiet. “It’s been a day, let me tell you.”

“Oh, do tell. I’m riveted already," He replies in a mock female voice.

I grit my teeth but decide to ignore him.

“So, I actually did something today,” I continue, focusing on the grave. “I finally stood up to Dorothy.”

“Dorothy?” he interjects, his tone dripping with curiosity. “The Dorothy that called you a turtle in front of Ryker Heads? I also assume that she's a plastic smile kinda girl, tragic personality?”

I whirl around to glare at him, but he just leans casually against a nearby tombstone, smirking.

“Something like that,” I mutter, turning back to the grave. “She and her little crew said I looked like crap, so I told her she didn’t exactly look impressive either.”

There’s a loud, theatrical hoot behind me.

“Well, well!” Valentine exclaims, clapping his hands. “North finally grows a spine! Shame it’s made of Styrofoam.”

I snap my head around. “Excuse me?”

“Come on,” he says, grinning. “That’s the best you could come up with? ‘You don’t look impressive’? She’s probably crying herself to sleep right now.”

I roll my eyes and turn back to the grave. “Ignore him, Mom. He’s an idiot.”

“Hey,” he protests, feigning hurt. “Don’t bring me into this. Though, I must say, I'm proud of you. What’s next? A mildly passive-aggressive email?”

I sigh, shaking my head. “Anyway, Mom, I’ve also… met someone. Well...only last night."

“Oh, this should be good,” he mutters, and I can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

“He’s… well, he’s very infuriating,” I admit, ignoring him.

“He’s sarcastic and rude and—”

“Charming?” he offers, stepping closer.

I glare at him. “No.”

“Devastatingly handsome?” he adds, tilting his head.

“No.”

“An excellent violinist?”

“Stop interrupting!” I snap.

He chuckles and crosses his arms. “Go on, then. Tell dear old Mom all about the devil you’ve just met.”

I sigh, pressing my fingers to my temple. “Mom, I don’t know what to make of him. He’s…”

“Wonderful,” he supplies.

“Annoying,” I correct.

“Life-changing?”

“Infuriating.”

“Boy,” he tuts, his tone mockingly solemn, mimicking a

female voice. “Am I glad my daughter met the devil. He sounds like a real gem.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You know, if you’re going to be here, the least you could do is be helpful.”

“Oh, I am helpful,” he replies, grinning. “You just don’t appreciate my particular brand of wisdom.”

“Mom,” I say, turning back to the gravestone, “he’s not leaving, is he?”

“Nope,” he answers for her, popping the “p.” “You’re stuck with me, love.”

I groan and let my head fall into my hands. “Why me?”

“Because,” he says with a smirk, “you’re just so fun to torment.”

I groan, shaking my head. "So you're the night time male version of Dorothy then?"

"Except I look good."

"You think you do?"

"I actua–" he suddenly goes still, cutting his statement off.

“What—”

Before I can finish, he rises to his feet in one fluid motion, his expression unreadable. He looks around and closes his eyes as if trying to listen for something, then he turns back to me.

“Well, this has been fun,” he says, his voice unusually soft. “But I must take my leave.”

“Wait!” I call, but he’s already disappearing into the shadows, past the maze of decaying grave stones.

I try to follow, but he’s gone. Instead, I find myself standing in front of the grave where he’d been playing his violin.

The instrument is still there, resting on the gravestone. I trace my fingers over its surface, and out of curiosity, I bend down to read the inscription.

Most of it is covered in weed, but I'm still able to make out the words.

It says: Here lies Prince Valentine Draven IV. An angel in his day. 1578 – 1607.

My breath catches, and a shiver runs down my spine as my blood goes cold.

“A dead man,” I whisper, the words from last night echoing in my mind.