CHAPTER 221: DREAMS

Chapter 221

Nima

"Wow, I don’t see that predator anywhere. Guess your kissing treatment is working," Poppy says.

I gasp, nearly choking on air as I whip around to look at her, then around the hall to see if anyone else heard.

A couple of students pass us and quickly avert their eyes, but I swear I catch the flicker of a smirk.

"Poppy," I whisper-yell, ears twitching furiously.

"What?" she says with a shrug, completely unbothered. "It’s not like it’s a secret anymore."

My stomach plummets. "What do you mean?" I hiss, gripping my tray like it’s going to shield me from the incoming disaster.

She looks at me like I’m slow. "Apparently you were seen making out with her under that tree you love. By several people." She pauses for effect, watching me crumble.

"I’m afraid the whole school knows."

I freeze, dumbfounded. My ears go flat. My throat is dry. The whole school? Like the entire Felaris?

I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve shoved her away, run, something. But no. Every time Daphne leans in, every time her lips touch mine, it’s like all the fight drains out of me. My brain stops working, my body just... obeys.

I can’t help it, really.

"Surely, it can’t be the whole school," I say, clinging to denial like a lifeline.

"It is." Poppy’s tone is maddeningly casual, almost amused. "I heard the TAs talking about it too. And I quote—’the bunny that tamed the panther.’"

My ears shoot up. "I didn’t tame her."

"Oh, really?" she counters smoothly.

"Yeah," I insist, though it sounds weak even to me.

"Tell me one thing," she says, pausing just long enough to twist the knife. "One thing you could ask her to do, that she wouldn’t do for you."

My mouth opens automatically—ready to argue, ready to throw out something. But the words don’t come.

I freeze.

Poppy’s smirk says it all.

I feel shy, ears twitching as I hug my books closer to my chest.

"You’re lucky, you know," she says suddenly, her tone softer than before.

I turn to face her, blinking. "Lucky?"

"To have her sole attention. Her affection. Some of us... well..." She trails off.

I follow her line of sight. My stomach twists.

Felix Leonhart, walking beside Lumiya Snowfrost, the snow leopard heiress. His golden hair gleams under the lantern light, hers catches in silver-blue shimmer, their steps matched too perfectly.

Around us, a couple of students whisper what a perfect couple they make. I see the way Poppy’s fingers tighten around the strap of her satchel, the flick of her tail, the faint strain in her smile.

"Come, let’s go," I say quickly, tugging her arm before the whispers dig in any deeper.

She nods, but her eyes linger a heartbeat too long on Felix’s back before she follows me into the cafeteria.

*

I’ve never had a friend before. Not really. And I don’t know how to comfort one. Watching Poppy push her food around, tail twitching with agitation, makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t quite understand.

I feel like I should say something—anything. That’s what friends do, right? They say something.

I open my mouth.

"Don’t." She cuts me off without even looking at me.

I snap my mouth shut.

"Anything you say," she continues, voice flat, "would literally just piss me off."

"...Understood," I murmur.

And I wisely keep quiet, spooning another bite of rice into my mouth. The grains stick a little, bland, but it’s better than sticking my foot in my mouth and getting mauled by Poppy’s glare.

The silence stretches between us. Not entirely comfortable, but not unbearable either. Maybe this is what friendship looks like—knowing when to talk, and when not to.

**

I’m exhausted by the time I climb the stairs to the art department’s building. My legs ache, my tail drags, and all I want is to curl up in my bed—but Daphne had told me to find her after class. And one thing I’ve learned is this: you do not disobey Daphne Nyxclaw.

Apparently, she has a private room here. Of course she does. Why wouldn’t she? A duchess predator gets privileges that don’t even exist for the rest of us.

Still, I’m... surprised. Art doesn’t seem like her at all. She doesn’t look like the type to hold a brush or fuss over paints. And yet... sometimes, when she’s close enough, I catch that faint scent clinging to her—oil, acrylic, something sharp and chemical hidden beneath her perfume. Maybe it makes sense after all.

I reach the landing, trying to figure out where exactly her room is, when a voice cuts through the hallway.

"And who are you?"

I startle, ears shooting upright. A tall student stands in my way, blocking the corridor with casual authority.

"Uh—uhm, I’m here for Daphne Nyxclaw," I manage, voice too small, too quick.

Silence stretches.

Heat crawls up my neck. I fidget. "I’m... Nima. Nima Longear."

Recognition flickers across their face. "Ahhh. My apologies. You’re that Longear." Their tone shifts—curious, maybe even a touch amused.

They step aside, gesturing toward the end of the hall. "Take the stairs to the very top. Last room is hers."

After what feels like an eternity of spiraling stairs, I finally reach the top. My legs ache, and my lungs burn, but there it is—the door.

I push it open and stop dead.

It’s... beautiful.

The room is flooded with soft light, the walls lined with canvases of every size. Landscapes, vast and sweeping, some so detailed it feels like I could step right inside them. The faint smell of oil paint and turpentine clings to the air, sharp but strangely comforting.

I step inside, closing the door quietly behind me, like I might shatter something if I’m too loud. My eyes roam, my breath caught somewhere in my chest.

These... these are hers?

Of course they are. She’s talented at everything else—why not this too? Still, I can’t help it—my fingers lift, hovering just above a canvas, tracing the ghost of a brushstroke. The texture, the movement—it’s alive.

And then—

I freeze.

One painting in particular stops me cold.

It’s... familiar. Too familiar. My stomach twists.

I fumble for my notebook, tugging it out of my bag with trembling hands. Flipping frantically through pages, past sketches of plants, faces, half-finished shapes—until—

There.

I hold it up beside the painting.

My rough sketch is clumsy, childish compared to the masterpiece before me—but it’s the same. The exact same. The crooked tree leaning toward the hill, the tiny shrub off to the left, even the angle of the sky.

My heart pounds.

This is impossible.

My dreams...

How could she have painted my dreams?

The door creaks open behind me.

I jolt, shoving the notebook back into my bag like it’s incriminating evidence, pulse racing.