The night air tasted like rebellion.
Silver pulled her wool coat tighter around her shoulders as she followed Carroway down Chapel Street, the Gothic spires of Yale rising like ancient sentinels against the star-scattered January sky. The towers watched their progress with the silent judgment of centuries, stone gargoyles perched on corners that had witnessed generations of students making questionable decisions in the name of youth and freedom.
Carroway didn't seem to notice the weight of all that history pressing down around them. His stride was confident, casual, like the city bent itself around his presence rather than the other way around. Streetlights painted his dark blonde hair with edges of gold, and every few steps he glanced back at her with that practiced smile—the kind that suggested he'd already calculated the evening's outcome and found it satisfactory.
