Page 6 of The King's Pawn
I blink, reread it, and reread it again.
It could be a prank. A wrong number. A glitch from the phone company sending out mass spam texts on accident and will later send out an apology for. Or maybe it’s one of my distant cousins messing with me because they always find things like this endlessly entertaining.
Before I can think, a second message appears.
Now, Printsessa.
My breath catches.
No one in or outside my father’s inner circle calls me by that nickname. No one except…
No. Impossible.
I spin, scanning the rows behind me, but everyone is hunched over their tablets or laptops. There are no strange faces watching to see my reaction. No one out of place who looks seconds away from pulling out a weapon and threatening the entire lecture hall.
My pulse thunders in my ears as I turn back to my phone and type back with trembling fingers.
Who is this?
The reply is instant.
Last warning. Move. Now.
A chill snakes down my spine so sharply, it’s almost a physical blow. I shove my notebook and pens back into my bag and stand up abruptly, zipping it up with one sweep of my hand.
Arin looks up instantly, his brows knitting together when I shove my arm through one of the loops and pull the strap over my shoulder. “Where are you…?”
I don’t answer. My throat is too tight with fear to speak.
I head down the aisle as quietly as possible, but a few students notice and watch me go. Professor Ivanov clears his throat to question me, but I’m already out the door by the time the first syllable leaves his mouth.
I shove through the lecture hall doors into the corridor, my pulse roaring. The hallway is too bright, too quiet, too empty. None of it fits with the panic crawling up my throat, threatening to spill out as I turn and head back toward the entrance of the building. My shoes slap the tile floor as I run toward the exit stairwell.
My phone buzzes again. I lift it, the text thread still pulled up on the screen.
Wrong direction. Left stairwell. Out the back entrance.
My shoes squeak against the flooring as I come to an abrupt halt. How does this person know where I am?
My lungs seize.
But I trust the voice because something in me recognizes it even if my mind hasn’t caught up yet.
I pivot sharply, veering left.
When I reach the stairwell, I throw myself through the door and race down the steps two at a time. A strangled whimper leaves my throat as I hit the ground floor and shove through the exit. Students outside are laughing and chatting, unaware of the countdown ticking toward whatever oblivion is inevitably about to hit.
Right as I turn to head back to Gate C, the world explodes.
There’s no warning, no flicker of lights or strange sounds that warn me of the atmospheric shift. It’s just a violent eruption of force that slams into my spine like the hand of God shoving me forward.
A deafening, concussive blast punches into my back. The shockwave flings me off my feet and onto the pavement, my palms scraping against the cold concrete as my body skids a few feet.
The breath leaves me in a tortured gasp.
The ground heaves beneath me as if something alive is trying to tear itself free beneath the campus courtyard. The impact reverberates through my ribs hard enough to rattle my bones. Behind me, windows shatter in a chorus of violent cracks one after another like artillery fire.
Glass rains down in glittering, lethal shards.
