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1.
There are three things Violet Sorrengail knows.
One: She’s got the best siblings in the world, which somewhat—somewhat—makes up for her dead father and less-than-perfect mother. Even if Mira being away most months with the military and Brennan being a scientist on some government project means she doesn’t see them often.
Two: She will not, under any circumstances, fail her chemistry course this semester. Why a sociology major has to take high-ish level chemistry she will never know, but at least she’s got Brennan’s old notes and a best friend (thank you Rhiannon) in bioengineering.
And three: She absolutely, 100%, without a doubt, hates Xaden Riorson.
He’s two years older than her, a senior to her sophomore, and he acts as if four years is enough to make him own the place. Basgiath College is older than Violet’s ancestors—and she knows her history—but fucking Xaden Riorson struts around like he had a hand in its creation.
Hence her balefully staring at him from a corner of the library.
As usual, Xaden’s flanked by his friends. Moving around him is a man she suspects to be his cousin and another guy with an ever-smiling mouth. They haven’t noticed her yet, thank Zihnal. They’re too engrossed in pouring over books they’ve haphazardly stolen from the shelves.
Not my problem, thinks Violet. She returns to her own book—A Study on Valence Electrons and the Quantum Number—trying to blink away the sight of Xaden in front of her.
Because that’s Thing Number Four that Violet knows:
Xaden Riorson is unabashedly, unflinchingly, annoyingly, hot.
It’s a shame, she often thinks, that someone so attractive could be so annoying. And so spiteful. She’s only talked to him twice, but she’s sure his cool, unflinching mask means he hates her. He’s certainly never said anything to the contrary.
Focus, Violet. Electrons configurations swirl in Violet’s head as she tries to focus on her textbook, but now that her brain has latched onto Xaden, it refuses to let go.
Because of course Xaden Riorson has to stumble into the stupid library where Violet studies. Of course he has to sit in a table angled in a way so that bookshelves block his view of her, but not her eyeline to him. He has to ruin everything. It’s what he does.
The way he folds his arms and sends muscle rippling down…well, everywhere. The way he arches a scarred brow or clenches his cut-glass jaw. Every motion, every movement is perfectly tailored to drive her crazy.
That’s it. I’m done.
Snapping her textbook closed, Violet resolves herself to poor Rhiannon giving yet another hour-long lecture on chemistry. She hates science. She’d rather rattle off history facts.
Her colored pens go into her backpack, her scrawled notes into a binder, and she makes sure to carry the textbook—otherwise the bag gets too heavy for her and she’s left with a sore back and uncomfortable sleep.
Violet makes sure to avoid Xaden’s group on her way out. She does.
Which is why it’s so surprising that she hears the call of, “Violet! Wait!”
She has half a mind not to wait, but Violet has always been curious. Even to her detriment, such as when she comes face to face with the curved corners of Xaden’s mouth.
“I didn’t think you’d stop,” he says.
Violet tries to match his composure. “I can leave.”
Though Xaden’s lifts his hands in a gesture of peace, it still comes off as mocking. “We don’t want to resort to drastic measures now, do we?”
The urge to roll her eyes is strong. “What do you want, Xaden?”
Something flickers in his face when she says his name. “Help, Violet. I’m asking for your help.”
Violet is momentarily stunned into silence. “Help. What? You”—and here she gestures at Xaden, all perfect six foot something of him—“need my help? What could I possibly do for you? And for that matter, what would I want to do for you?”
“You’re supposed to be a history whiz, aren’t you? I’m currently failing my history class and you’re going to help me pass.”
“Going to? You can’t make me do anything.”
“What if I paid you?”
“I assumed that was implied.”
“It was. Does that mean you’ll do it?”
They’ve slowly inched closer to each other, until Violet realizes she can make out flecks of gold in his impossibly dark eyes. She flinches back, which causes Xaden to flinch back, which means both of them are now awkwardly staring at each other.
Violet casts her eyes to the ground. “Sure. Thirty-five per session.”
This elicits a reaction from Xaden; he lifts a brow. “I feel like you’re overcharging. What are your normal rates?”
Suddenly emboldened, Violet shrugs. “You’re my first.” Her face flushes. “Student, I mean. I can charge whatever I want—the only question is if you’re willing to keep me.”
Xaden runs a hand over his face. “Fine, Violet. I’ll pay you whatever it takes.”
“Good.” Violet lifts her shoulders and stands to her full height, still shorter than Xaden, the bitch. “Glad to have that settled, then. When do you want to meet?”
“I have an exam over Babylonian culture next Tuesday; how does Saturday sound for you?”
Violet shrugs. “I hardly care.”
“You should. I’m paying you.”
“To keep me. I can leave anytime I want.”
Xaden’s nostrils flare, ever so slightly, and Violet feels a spark of triumph. She’s gotten more out of Xaden Riorson in ten minutes than she has in two years.
“It’s a date, then?” she says.
Behind her, one of Xaden’s friends chokes.
2.
Xaden is…surprisingly smart.
Not that Violet had doubted his intellect or anything—though she admitted to herself that she would have loved for Xaden to have a fluff brain—but for a guy who was failing a class he seemed to have a rather sophisticated grasp on the material.
Timelines, charts, maps, essays on the Silk Road—Xaden mastered every task and every assignment they sat down to do.
Yet every time he had an exam, he’d return bearing news of grades that made Violet’s heart panic. And she was currently enrolled in Chemistry Two. Her scores in that class weren’t spectacular.
“How are you this idiotic?” Violet asks. She lifts her head from where’s she’s marking his graded paper on a hypothetical trade scenario, her red pen having taken over most of the margins. “You do fine when you’re with me, but you seem to lose all your brain cells when you step foot in that classroom.”
“Maybe you should transfer classes,” Xaden drawls. “See what the fuss is about.”
“I finished my social studies in high school, thank you very much,” retorts Violet. “And they don’t have any specific history classes like I’d want to specialize in.”
She’d wanted to go to another university just across town, one with a more focused history program, but her mother had shut that down quick. I went to Basgiath, she’d said, and so did your siblings. If you follow in their footsteps, you might achieve something great.
So far, the only greatness Violet had achieved was a misunderstanding of element blocks.
Well. And making bank off tutoring someone she hates.
She casts a sideways glance at Xaden, who is typing away on his phone like he didn’t get pity points on an essay. Her heart jumps at the sight of him doing something so domestic. Before she’d started tutoring him, she’d always envisioned him writing coded letters, sealed in a stamp of blood. Evil, sinister things, to match the overdramatic and cruel man he seemed to be.
Her red pen runs out of ink.
Violet stares at it. “My pen ran out of ink.”
“Good for you.” Xaden doesn’t look up from his phone.
“Would you mind grabbing another from my backpack?”
“Aren’t you here to help me?”
Violet glares daggers at Xaden, but she knows her harshest stare is his kindest. “Please, Xaden, we only have twenty minutes left and I have a coffee hangout to attend.”
Dark eyes narrow. “Coffee with who? A boyfriend?”
Sighing—perhaps a little too dramatically, but who can blame her?—Violet reaches over to take another red pen from her bag. “With multiple people. Besides, why do you care? We’re not friends. I hardly even know you.”
“I want to know if my money is going to pay for your date.”
“It’s not a date, Xaden. Gods, you’re insufferable.” Violet shakes the pen, then begins making notes on his commentary on the impact of trade routes. “And my roommate will pay. It’s her turn anyway.”
Xaden kicks his feet onto the library table, leaning back into his chair. “We should go for coffee one day.”
“You asking me out, Riorson? Because unlike every other girl in this school, I’m not interested.”
Something undecipherable creeps into Xaden’s tone. “Not as a couple, Violet. Just for one session. See if we can recreate the stereotype.”
“No thanks. I like the library.”
“What if I don’t? Aren’t you obligated to meet my needs, as my tutor?”
Now it’s Violet’s turn to narrow her eyes. “Fine. We’ll meet on Friday, one week from now, at the little coffee shop by Samara Street. And if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work.”
Xaden doesn’t smile. But it’s close.
3.
Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work.
The coffee shop is too busy for Violet to concentrate, and if Xaden makes one more snide comment about the happy couples going on dates, she’s going to take a knife and stick it between his ribs.
Not that he’d notice. With his build, he’d probably think it no more than a mosquito bite.
It’s one thing Violet thinks she’s gotten pretty good at over the two months she’s been tutoring Xaden—getting over her nerves and her attraction. It’s still there—she can’t ignore how beautiful he is—but she no longer finds herself lingering on a stretch of skin exposed by low waisted jeans or the sharp angle of his collarbone.
It’s made it a lot easier to figure out how to get Xaden to pass his fucking history class. Because even though he’s doing great with her, he’s still failing.
(Violet now knows how Rhiannon feels when it comes to chemistry.)
“Two black coffees for table four.” The voice of their server snaps Violet out of her loathing for the shop, and she watches as the man puts down two steaming mugs on the table. He vanishes as quickly as he appears.
Xaden tilts his head at her. “I would have thought you more a Frappuccino person.”
Violet sips her coffee. “Nope.”
“You never cease to surprise me.” Shaking his head, Xaden grabs his own mug. “So, you’ve figured out a way to teach me about the Opioid Wars?”
“That’s the thing.” Violet leans back in her chair. “I don’t need to teach you.”
She half expects Xaden to ask why am I paying you, then, but he stays silent. Only blows on his coffee to lessen the heat.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asks.
“You’re clever,” Xaden says. “You’ll figure something out. Whether that means going up to Professor Markham yourself to ask him for a copy of his next test or performing brain surgery on me, so I absorb the information.”
Violet laughs, just a touch. “I can barely pass chemistry. You don’t want me digging around in your brain.”
Someone bumps into Violet’s chair, and she lurches, almost spilling coffee into her lap. Some of it ripples over the sides, scalding her fingers. It’s all she can do to hold back the hiss of pain.
Xaden, on the other hand, doesn’t hold back anything.
He shoots to his feet, the atmosphere around him turning menacing. He narrows his eyes at the person who bumped into Violet, hatred seeping from him.
“Apologize to her,” he says softly. Somehow, it’s more dangerous than if he had yelled.
And somehow, heat is crawling up Violet’s spine.
The guy has blond hair and icy blue eyes, which he directs at Xaden. They have a staring contest for what seems like eternity before the guy finally relents.
He turns to Violet. “Sorry.”
He doesn’t sound sorry.
“It’s alright.”
She doesn’t sound forgiving.
Xaden is still radiating protectiveness and a twisted sort of malice by the time the guy vanishes into the crowd, the encounter over as quickly as it began. He sinks into his seat, and all of the negative emotions seem to just…slide off.
“You didn’t have to do that for me.” But I liked that you did.
Xaden shrugs, a movement almost too casual. “He was a jerk.”
Violet glances in the direction of where he vanished. “You know him?”
“Only in passing.” Xaden drinks his coffee. “He’s in my dorm. Same floor and everything. Too insignificant for me to know his name, though.”
Xaden’s dorm. Somehow, in all the months they’ve worked together, the topic of their living arrangements has never come up. And why would it? The library worked just fine. But now, with Xaden’s protectiveness still cocooned around Violet, it brings a strange shiver to her.
He catches it, as always. “Are you okay.”
Violet sets her mug down. “Fine. Hey—how do you feel about holding our next tutoring session at my dorm? I can kick my roommate out and you can take a look at my history books.”
She looks up to see, for once, perfect, emotionless, stone-cold Xaden Riorson in shock. He’s gripping the mug loosely, and though his face seems impenetrable, she’s known him long enough now to sense his tells. He’s surprised. The thought is strangely warm
“Your…your dorm? Are you okay with that?” Xaden puts his mug down now, all his attention fixated on Violet. “It’s your space.”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t okay with you being there,” Violet says. “Who knows? It could be be fun. And maybe it’s the change you need to finally do better in class.”
4.
Four months have passed since August. Four months since Violet started her sophomore year; four months since Xaden started his senior. Four months since she started tutoring him and four months for her to learn his quirks and his emotions and his habits.
Four months for her to wonder when Xaden Riorson became her friend.
Because that’s what he is, now. A friend.
They’re draped over the couch in Xaden’s dorm, a blanket spread out between them. They’ve scoured Netflix to put on Friends—history books lying forgotten on the table—and a bowl of popcorn is cradled between them.
“I’ve always found sitcoms so stupid,” says Xaden.
“Really?” Violet snags a handful of popcorn. It’s not a new opinion to her—Mira hates most dramas and Brennan claims to not have the time—but she personally finds them entertaining. “Why?”
Xaden’s shrug jostles Violet. “They’re so…idyllic. Everyone gets a happy ending. Everyone perseveres through their struggles. Real life hardly works that way.”
“That’s why they’re so good,” argues Violet. “Because they’re escapism.”
For a brief moment, Violet thinks Xaden is going to put his arm around her. But then the sensation passes, and Xaden only sighs. “Violet, I think I know why you love history.”
It’s not a new sentiment. Violet knows why she loves history, knows that it’s a desperate way to cling to her dead father and travel ages away from her disappointed mother and physically distant siblings. She knows that Xaden’s right. Yet it still stings to be so easily read.
“I don’t think you’re that much of an open book,” murmurs Xaden.
Violet startles; she didn’t realize she had spoken aloud. “What?”
Their eyes lock. “I mean, I don’t think anyone could walk up to you and know why you love history. When I first saw you that’s what I thought—that you were just interested in the subject. It was only after knowing you for so long that I’m able to guess.”
“You’re good at guessing.”
Xaden considers. “I suppose I am.”
The Friends episode ends. Violet clicks the next episode button, though it’s more background noise than actual entertainment at this point. “When did you guess?”
“The day you told me about your family.” Xaden stares at the ceiling. “You sounded so sad, speaking about how you had no one here. It made sense to me that you’d turn to people whose stories were finished. People who had happy endings, who did persevere—and succeeded because of it.”
Violet hums. She doesn’t know what to say. She hasn’t even told Rhiannon about why she is so invested in history—and here Xaden is, able to take it out of her thoughts.
“We should see a movie,” she says, almost absentmindedly.
There’s a sharp intake of breath. “What?”
“If we’re getting this introspective while a sitcom plays, who knows what kind of philosophy we’ll uncover while watching a movie.” Violet smiles at him.
Xaden stares back. “Sometimes I wonder how your brain works.”
Violet shrugs. “So do I.”
5.
The dormitories are usually mess, but even more so when there’s a day until winter break. Most midterms have concluded by now—for Violet, all of hers have—and so there’s a rush of college students who are trying to pack essentials to make the trip back home.
Violet drags it out. She’s lied to her mother about the end of the semester, so she can spend a day with Rhiannon’s family, but eventually she will have to go home.
Mira won’t be home for Christmas—she was vague about why—and Brennan was much the same. And without her siblings, Violet found home wasn’t as homey with only Lillith Sorrengail for company.
She’s just packed the last of her toiletries when her phone, sitting on her bed buzzes.
One new message from: Xaden.
She swipes up.
Violet, I bet you’ll never guess what just happened.
please don’t drag this out
I got a perfect score on my World History midterm.
The shock Violet feels is incomparable. After all these months and all these hours, her tutoring has finally, finally paid off—and on the most important day of the semester no less.
that’s amazing oh my god
we should get drinks
There’s a long pause, where Xaden’s little text bubble pops up and down and vanishes. Violet watches it, her patience starting to grow thin.
Sure. Do you know any bars?
i rarely drink, xaden
If you’re going to make me pick, then we’ll go to that busy one on Scribe Street.
god i hate you
But I got a perfect score on my midterm.
Violet rolls her eyes.
meet me in an hour?
Sounds good.
All thoughts of home and loneliness forgotten, Violet tosses her phone on her bedspread and goes to her closet. Rhiannon doesn’t drink and Violet doesn’t like to go out with Ridoc—mostly because the past two times she ended up getting vomited on—so her selection of fancy nightwear is woeful.
She doesn’t want to ask Rhiannon for anything. It’ll just lead to some unsubtle teasing about Violet and Xaden.
After spending a chunk of her hour debating clothes, Violet settles on a black dress with a plunging neckline. A little too revealing for her tastes, but she likes the way the rest of the dress hugs her figure. She pairs it with platform heels and dark eyeliner.
She hopes she isn’t overdressed.
By the time Violet is ready to make the short trek to Scribe Street, the clock has already ticked past eight. She’s going to be late—but Xaden is going to have to put up with it.
She grabs her keys from her nightstand and makes her way to the common area of her room, where, to Violet’s luck, Rhiannon is lounging. Her eyes widen at the sight of Violet’s clothing, a playful spark beginning to ignite.
“Going somewhere?” she asks.
Violet grabs a bag for her essentials. “Perhaps.”
“With Xaden Riorson?” Rhiannon’s voice drips with drama and panache.
Violet smiles. “Perhaps.”
Though Rhiannon’s eyebrows rise, she makes no more mention of Xaden. “Well, whoever it is, they’re in for a good night. You look fucking amazing.”
Warmth creeps through Violet. “Thanks, Rhiannon. You should celebrate too.”
Rhiannon’s smile takes on a mischievous edge. “Who says I wasn’t? Tara’s coming over before she heads on her vacation. It’s not quite your glamorous night out.” She smiles coyly. “But we’ll have fun.”
Violet catches the innuendo. She fakes a groan, opening the door to step out into the cold hallway. “Spare me the details, will you?”
Rhiannon’s laugh is still ringing in Violet’s ears when she makes her way past Samara St. and onto Scribe St. The blinking lights of the Vale bar beckon her closer, the sounds of merriment and drunken college kids a beacon.
When she opens the door, the little bell tinkles. It’s quickly swallowed up by the raucous sounds of a busy bar on a Saturday night.
Most of the patrons are Basgiath students, which makes it difficult to pinpoint Xaden in the throng. Combined with his tendency to draw shadows around him, it takes Violet a good six minutes to spot him, dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. He sitting at the counter, nursing a drink that Violet can’t recognize.
Fuck. I did overdress.
Xaden voices the thought as soon as Violet slides in next to him. “I didn’t think we were going to be fancy tonight. It’s a bar, not a club.”
Violet tosses her hair back—and for some strange reason, Xaden’s eyes follow it. “I rarely go out. Give me some grace.”
Laughing, Xaden lifts his half-finished drink. “You look good, though. I’ll give you that.”
Violet waves the bartender over. “We’re not here to celebrate me. Tell me all about your midterm. For once in your life you’ve managed to pass a test in that stupid class.”
The drinks go by, the hours tick on, the voices grow louder and more rambunctious. Xaden details how everything clicked. He makes sure to credit her for everything he did right on that midterm, as if she was the reason for his success.
Violet has swapped out her beer for cold water when she asks the question that will change her life.
It’s an innocent question, all things considered, and she knows she would have asked it if she were not drunk. What followed, however, she knows is all owed to the alcohol.
She takes a sip of the water. “So, how badly did it tank your GPA?”
Xaden studies her for a moment. He’s had far less drinks than she has but there’s no way he’s not properly buzzed. Whatever he’s assessing her for, he seems to find. “It didn’t.”
The glass thuds into the counter. “You got no higher than a 70 on any of your tests and you’re telling me your other grades are good enough to make up for it?” She stares at him over the rim of her glass. “I thought your ego was smaller.”
More narrowed eyes. More calculating expressions. “I lied.”
“You what?”
“I lied, Violet, because I wanted to get to know you.”
Violet is so taken aback she flails for words. She sits straight up, like a puppet yanked on a string, her arms twisting in anger, nerves, surprise. “Okay, let’s get back to where you fucking lied?”
“It was a white lie.”
Violet hits Xaden’s arm. She tries not to think about the muscle her hand encounters.
“Stop being so violent!” he cries, yanking his arm away from her. Gods. Why is he being so dramatic? It probably hurt Violet more than Xaden. “It was sweet, wasn’t it?”
Violet taps him—gentler. “That’s sweet. Lying to me is not.”
“Violent,” Xaden mutters. Then, like rain on a window, his drunken emotion wipes away. “Violet—Violence. That suits you.”
“No.” Violet hits him again. Somewhere in her brain she knows she’s being petty and that she really should direct the conversation back to Xaden’s lies, but she’s too addled to care.
“Violence,” says Xaden, and something akin to a smile creeps across his face.
“I’m going to be more violent if you don’t explain yourself,” growls Violet.
Xaden takes her hands, gently enclosing her tiny ones in his large ones. “Look. You’re beautiful, smart, witty, and fucking fantastic. Love at first sight—if I believed in that. I knew I had to talk to you somehow. Liam Mairi told me you were a history buff, so I thought—hey, might as well get her to tutor me in a class I find ridiculously easy.” He gives her a small smirk. “Easy enough for me to write terrible essays and complete terrible assignments for you to grade.”
Violet’s 99% sure her jaw is on the floor.
“Believe me, I wanted to tell you. But you seemed to be there just for the money…and I like hanging out with you. I liked you trying to teach me.”
Swallowing, Violet tries to find the right words. “Xaden…somewhere between then and now, it stopped being about the money. Xaden, I like hanging out with you too.”
He watches her, like she’s his whole world. “You’re not going to address the love confession?”
Violet shrugs. “You’re not going to kiss me?”
And he does.
+1
One slightly awkward winter break later, Violet finds herself back in her dorm, ready to start the second semester of what has been a wild year.
She’s not upset to be back. Her mother was as disapproving and as distant as always. And though Mira showed up halfway through the break, Brennan and his partner Naolin in tow, Violet was happy to return to Basgiath.
Her boyfriend—boyfriend!—of less than a month was overjoyed as well. He’d practically made a scene when he’d seen her return. If Violet wasn’t so enamored by him, she’d have clubbed him over the head for using Violence in front of her peers—though, as she’s thought before, she’d probably break the club.
Her phone buzzes. It’s from Xaden—as Violet knows before she’s even picked it up.
How do you feel about a bookstore date?
ooh sounds fun. coffee after?
Of course.
Typing. Retyping. Violet watches the three dots as the text comes in.
Oh, and Violet—I have a feeling I’m going to be failing World Literature next semester 😉