Haunted Rayne

22 | Memories of the Marked (part 2)

The administrative office was a mausoleum of anguish and tension. Emma Scott sat perched on the edge of a chair, elbows on her knees, hands clasped too tightly together. She could feel the tension in her muscles, the kind that ached from being coiled too tightly for far too long, ready to spring but never quite given the chance. Across from her, Dorian stood by the window, his silhouette stark against the afternoon light that fought its way through the bars. Long, dusky beams sliced through dust motes, hanging like suspended breaths. His expression was carefully neutral, but Emma knew that beneath his calm exterior, something darker was brewing. She could sense it, like the zizz of electricity in the air before a storm.

The secretary, Portia Maxwell, flipped through papers, the mundane motions of her work an awkward contrast to the crackling energy in the room. The floral gown falling over her figure was an affront to the gloom—a riot of pink and purple, a small rebellion against the suffocating sorrow that hung in the air. Her usual cheerfulness had become a faint glimmer of light, struggling against the shadows of grief.

"Alright, this is the last one," Portia said, her voice wavering slightly as she slid documents across her desk toward Dorian and Emma. "Standard procedure after an incident like this," she explained when Emma's lip twisted in confusion. "Confidentiality agreement. I'll need both of your signatures. We can't let the death of a student reach the press."

Dorian took the papers with a distracted nod. "Of course, Porsh. We'll sign right now."

"Get it over with," agreed Emma. Her gaze drifted to the half-open door of the headteacher's office. The only sound was the muffled urgency of Miss Wilson's voice cracking into a telephone, a thread of desperation weaving through the fabric of her words. She was undoubtedly discussing the student's death, her words seeping into the quiet like poison, tainting the very air they breathed. Emma felt the chill of it, an icy hand closing around her throat.

Emma's eyes snapped back to Dorian. She watched him read over the agreement, his dark hair falling in a messy curtain across his forehead. Those pale blue eyes, cool and penetrating, seemed to cut through the room, holding a depth that could either pull someone in or freeze them out. He had changed into a black dress shirt for the memorial, the collar casually undone and the sleeves rolled up, revealing lean, muscled forearms that feathered with every movement, a strength tempered by control. There was an effortless, rugged allure to him, a paradox of refinement and raw edge. The square lines of his jaw, the slight shadow of stubble along his chin, the way his tailored shirt stretched over his broad shoulders. She could not ignore the duality he embodied—a gentle protectiveness layered with a quiet intensity, a steely brooding aura that both repelled and fascinated her. But there were lines Emma could not cross, the shadow of a ring that should have been around her finger.

Right now, she just needed answers.

The silence stretched thin between them, taut as a wire. She finally broke it. "Dorian," she began, her voice low and steady, "why did you lie for that man?"

His face flickered with a hint of confusion before settling into a guarded neutrality. He frowned. "What man?"

Emma tightened her grip on her pen. She was not in the mood for games. Not today. The edge in her voice sharpened as she replied, "Don't play dumb."

At her tone, Portia's movements across the room slowed, her attention subtly shifting toward the exchange. She glanced up from her desk, her usual expression slipping into something more curious. Dorian sighed. For a moment, Emma thought he might not answer at all. His eyes flicked to Portia who quickly averted her own. He seemed to be weighing his thoughts, hesitation speaking louder than words as his gaze flickered between the two women in the room. Then, with reluctant breath, whispered, "He threatened me."