Chapter 34: DARCY’S QUESTIONS

Georgia

He asked too many questions for someone who claimed not to care about the answers.

Darcy finds me in the dining hall a few days after my strange, unfinished conversation with Bella. He slides into the seat across from me with his usual confidence, a tray in one hand, that same effortless charm settling over the table the second he sits down. My fingers tighten around my fork. I haven’t fully stopped thinking about Bella’s warning, turning it over at odd moments during class, during meals, lying awake at night wondering who she meant and whether Darcy belongs somewhere on that list. It seems almost absurd, sitting across from him now, sunlight catching in his dark hair, his whole demeanor so easy and unthreatening. Bella’s words feel like they belong to some other version of this school, not the one currently unwrapping a sandwich across the table from me.

"You’ve been quiet lately," he says, voice gentle, testing. "Everything okay?"

"Just a lot on my mind." I keep my eyes on my tray.

"Anything I can help with?" he asks, tone soft with concern.

"Not really." I offer a small smile, mostly out of habit, and he accepts it easily, letting the subject drop without pushing. It’s one of the things I’ve come to appreciate about him. He never forces a door open once I’ve shown him it’s closed.

We talk for a while about nothing important, the dining hall settling into its usual midday hum around us, trays clattering, someone laughing too loud a few tables over. He asks about my classes, my training schedule, whether I’ve settled in yet. Then, so smoothly I barely notice the shift happening, the conversation drifts toward Puck.

"How did you two even meet?" Darcy asks, tone light and curious. "You and Hale. I’ve been wondering."

"My first day here, actually." I turn my water glass in a slow circle. "I tripped on the cobblestones outside admissions and he caught my arm."

"That’s oddly poetic," he says, head tilting, something attentive sharpening his gaze. "What was that like? Meeting him for the first time?"

"Strange." The word slips out before I’ve fully thought it through, the memory surfacing easily now that he’s asked. "His hand was burning hot. I remember thinking that was weird, but I didn’t really question it at the time. I was too busy being embarrassed about falling on my face in front of a total stranger."

"That warm?" Darcy asks, voice slow and deliberate, like he’s tasting the shape of the words. "Interesting. Has that happened again?"

"A few times." I shrug, comfortable in the easy rhythm of the conversation, the way his attention makes me feel like an interesting person instead of a puzzle everyone else is too careful to actually ask about. "Every time we’ve touched, actually. It’s always warm. Sometimes more than warm."

"What else have you noticed?" he asks, tone still light, conversational. "About him, I mean. You strike me as observant."

I find myself answering more than I probably should, flattered despite myself by how genuinely interested he seems, how easy it is to talk to him compared to the careful, guarded way I have to navigate every conversation with Puck, weighing each question before I ask it, bracing for a deflection before it even arrives. With Darcy there’s none of that friction. I tell him about the reflexes, the hit at the hockey game that should have shattered a shoulder and didn’t even slow him down. I mention the way his eyes have flashed gold more than once, quick enough that I’ve doubted myself every time except the storm walk, when it was undeniable, clear as anything.

I open my mouth to mention the notebook, the dates, the pattern I’ve been tracking, and something catches in my throat. Bella’s voice surfaces unbidden, low and urgent, warning me to be careful about who I trust. My gaze flicks up to Darcy’s face, searching for I don’t know what, some proof that this is safe, that he’s different, that I’m not making a mistake I won’t be able to take back.

"You okay?" he asks, softening immediately, leaning in just slightly, nothing about his posture pressing or eager. "You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with."

The gentleness in his voice loosens whatever had tightened in my chest. Bella was probably talking about the twins anyway, or Puck, or some threat I haven’t even identified yet. Darcy has done nothing but listen.

"No, it’s fine." I shake my head, the hesitation already dissolving. "I’ve just never said this out loud before."

"Take your time," he says, and something in the patience of it makes the words come easier.

I tell him about the pattern I’ve started tracking, the way certain nights line up too neatly with the full moon. I tell him about the notebook, the dates and correlations I’ve never said out loud to anyone before this exact moment.

"That’s a very specific thing to notice," Darcy says, tone careful, precise, though his expression stays warm enough that the words don’t quite register as strange.

"I guess I’ve been paying closer attention than I realized." I laugh under my breath, embarrassed.

"Clearly." He smiles, warm and easy, nothing about it obviously calculated. "What about the twins? Have you noticed anything strange there too?"

I tell him about that as well, the fluid, unnatural grace, the way Bianca’s voice carried too far and too low that day at registration, the strange, brittle vulnerability I saw from Bella just days ago, sitting alone on the stone wall outside the library like she was carrying something too heavy for one person. He listens to all of it with the same careful, attentive interest, occasionally asking a small follow-up question that draws out even more detail than I’d originally offered, nudging the conversation gently forward whenever it threatens to stall.

"Did Bella say anything specific?" he asks, tone still perfectly light. "When you talked to her?"

"Not really. Just that I should be careful who I trust here." I laugh a little, self-conscious, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Cryptic, right?"

"Very cryptic," he says, something flickering behind his eyes, gone before I can name it. He moves the conversation smoothly onward before I think to ask him what he makes of it.

By the time the talk shifts naturally toward something else, some easy joke about our shared insufferable professor, I’ve told him more in twenty minutes than I’ve told anyone else at this school in weeks combined. It doesn’t feel like an interrogation while it’s happening. It feels like being listened to, actually listened to, in a way that’s rare enough at Rosethorne that I don’t think to question why it feels so easy to hand over.

I don’t notice, in the moment, the small, precise stillness that crosses his face right before he changes the subject, something settling behind his eyes like a piece clicking neatly into place, deliberate and satisfied in a way that has nothing to do with idle curiosity. It’s there for less than a second, gone before I could have possibly registered it even if I’d been looking directly at him.

I’m not looking directly at him. My gaze stays on my tray, on the last bites of lunch, my thoughts already drifting toward whatever easy, charming thing he says next.