Page 138 of Glutton for Punishment

“I think that’d be the case for most people.” He tilts his head slightly. “But you’ve been living with trauma your entire life. You had exile hanging over your head the entire year, and it pushed you forward. You didn’t get caught under the weight of it.”

Silence falls as I consider it. His words make sense. I’ve said from the beginning it doesn’t feel like I’m holding back emotionally. It feels blocked. Like a physical barrier.

“Who was there?”

The question lands strangely. “What?”

“The last time your power worked correctly.” His gaze sharpens. “Who was with you?”

My stomach twists. Because suddenly my mind is replaying every moment where my power came to me easily.

The bed.

The columns in the grand hall.

The fight at the docks.

Maddox.

He was there every single time. But that’s unheard of? A power relying on someone else?

No, because that would mean—

Alexi watches the realization move across my face in real time. And the bastard immediately notices.

“You figured something out,” he breathes.

“Maddox.” My pulse stutters.

I hate my face betrays me. This is not good. If people found out, they’d know I’m a sitting duck. Without Maddox, I’m vulnerable. Unable to defend myself with power.

Alexi goes still as his gaze darkens. “If your power depends on Maddox West…” he says slowly. “That’s a much bigger problem than embarrassment, sweetheart.”

Alexi moves to walk away. Hands back in his pockets. Expression unreadable again.

Panic hits me. What is he going to do with this information?

“Relax,” he says over his shoulder. “I’m not going to expose you. But you should inform your bonded.”

With that, he disappears down the corridor, leaving me standing there alone with the horrible realization unraveling inside my chest.

Chapter 41

Brix

The paper trembles between my fingers before I crumple it into my fist hard enough to wrinkle the red ink slashed across the top.

72%.

Not technically failing according to Professor Vale’s generous grading scale, but close enough that the comments underneath the score still feel like a punch to the throat.

‘You can do better.’

Around me, students scrape chairs across the stone floor and shove books into bags as the lecture hall empties. Their conversations blend into a dull roar that makes my headache worse. I flatten the paper and stare at the grade again, feeling like a huge disappointment.

I haven’t scored below 90% in over a year.

“Okay,” Sly says beside me, leaning back in his chair as he watches me shove the exam into my bag, “either you’re secretly sneaking out of our room every night to play a vigilante or you finally got hit in the head hard enough during magic frisbee to cause permanent brain damage.”