LUCIEN

  Polo Club closed until further notice.

  No way.

  The notification came early that morning. No explanation. Lucien didn't question it until he stepped into the dining hall. Rows of long oak tables packed with Billard-blue uniforms fell still, and dozens of sharp eyes snagged on him.

  Right. The bruises.

  The blotchy mess and the split lip that passed for his face now.

  Students and faculty looked up from plates of maple-glazed ham and truffled scrambled eggs, from warm brioche and rosemary potatoes, from bowls of ripe berries—momentarily forgetting breakfast to whisper among themselves.

  He ignored everyone, his usual response to unwarranted attention.

  But eyes were traitorous when they caught something they almost liked and hated.

  They drifted to the prominent table where Corin and the top boys ruled the room, eating smoked salmon, buttered crumpets, and caviar-dotted blinis—the standard Thursday spread for them. She was there, pristinely indifferent. Rothwell beside her. Alistair flipping through a notebook.

  Lucien stuck with his normal commoner breakfast of pancakes, bacon, and eggs. Not that he couldn't indulge like the rest of them. His sponsor was paying for everything he needed at the academy, from tuition down to their fancy berries, but the expensive stuff upset his stomach.

  He chewed slowly, waiting for the missing top boy to show up, thinking he was just late, then the first-class bell rang.

  But no Victor Vandercourt.

  Maybe a coincidence... until second class passed. Then third. Mocks are approaching and missing lessons was a careless move, even for Victor.

  With polo scratched off his schedule, free time meant he could practice elsewhere—at the English Sporting Club—without interference.

  Corin barely spoke all day. A few casual nods and a short announcement about the club schedule. Her eyes never strayed to him once. Not even when others whispered questions about the state of his face. He tried not to let it bother him.

  But it did.

  Ever since she had called him a coward, a switch flipped, and whatever fleeting fascination she had for him simply... died. No more gibes. No more interest at all. And somehow that felt worse than being insulted.

  He was pathetic for noticing.

  Lucien headed to the library after practice. He had to make his way to the newer wing instead of the older, quieter section he much preferred. The records said the taxation section here was better, so fine, he would endure the foot traffic.

  Stepping inside, he was struck by the soaring vaulted ceiling, patterned with delicate geometric panels and gilded star motifs that caught the pale afternoon light. Tall arched windows lined the walls, spilling sunlight across polished wooden floors. Dark mahogany bookshelves stretched endlessly down the hall, stacked neatly with rows of books, while long reading tables, each lit by green-shaded lamps, offered quiet refuge.

  The air did not smell of old parchment here but a clean scent, far from the stale and dusty old wing. He started browsing the taxation section when he heard two boys whispering, snickering. Lower forms. One held his Billard-issued phone up, filming someone.

  Lucien leaned in. He didn't mean to pry, but he caught sight of the screen and stopped cold.

  Corin.

  She sat alone, immersed in study, oblivious to them. The admiration in their voices was obvious, but then it curdled into something obscene. They were talking about what they would do with the video at night, what they imagined she looked like beneath her uniform.

  Lucien snatched the phone out of their hands.

  They cursed under their breath. "Give it here," the snotty one demanded.

  He scrolled through the device. More videos and photos. Nothing truly indecent, but stolen shots. Stalking.

  The delete option was pressed without second thought. Every single file, gone.

  "This is a crime," Lucien said quietly. "Do it again and I'll make you regret it."

  The boys blanched but didn't argue.

  Lucien turned away and headed for her table. He glanced back once—the boys were still staring at her.

  He sat opposite her, deliberately blocking their line of sight.

  "What an arse." He heard them say as they slunk away.

  Corin remained unaware of him. She was too absorbed in her work, pen gliding across the page in neat, confident strokes. Earphones in. Posture perfect. The green lamp light spilled over her skin, softening its warmth into a pale, almost ethereal glow.

  He shook his head and turned his eyes away.

  Lucien had every intention of actually studying. He wasn't here for her. He wasn't here to be stupid.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Exams are close, and I need to brush up my knowledge of taxation, he told himself.

  Lucien forced his attention onto the text. For the first fifteen minutes, he genuinely focused—flipping pages, absorbing every line. Every now and then he found himself rereading the same paragraph, but he told himself that was because taxation was dry as hell, not because of the girl sitting in front of him.

  Twenty minutes in, and the world around him blurred a little while her presence sharpened. He found himself slowing down, eyes drifting up over the edge of his book.

  Corin was still completely absorbed in her work.

  Calculus, from the looks of it.

  She worked through each equation one at a time, solving every problem with such ease that she didn't even break a sweat over multivariable limits. She's so—

  Lucien looked down again with haste, slightly embarrassed for catching himself staring longer than was decent. He turned another page and tried to read the paragraph. He really did.

  His eyes skimmed the words, but none of it stuck. It was useless.

  Before he even realized it, he wasn't studying anymore. He was... watching her.

  Not the way those boys had with their sick hunger. But with a sort of wary, reluctant fascination.

  He noticed things he had never seen before—little things that made his chest feel oddly tight.

  The tiny mole at the edge of her jaw, so small he'd never caught it when she was spitting insults at him. How her fringe brushed her lashes when she bent over her book. The way her fingers curled around the pen, steady and graceful. The shape of her mouth...Goddammit, he cursed.

  Then something else.

  She hummed.

  A single breath of melody. It slipped out before she seemed to catch herself, and it was absurdly sweet, something that didn't belong to the Corin Clarendon he knew.

  He had no idea what to do with it. So, he just... kept it. Tucked it away somewhere within the attic of his mind.

  Lucien leaned back a little, book forgotten. It was strange sitting in the same space as Corin without her wanting to strangle him. Strange that he didn't hate it.

  He had no idea how long he was staring until she felt it.

  She stilled, pen pausing mid-stroke. Then she lifted her eyes—slow, direct, catching him before he could pretend he hadn't been looking.

  Lucien shut his book, matching her gaze. "Hi," he whispered.

  "You look awful," Corin said, taking in his bruised face.

  "And you're..." He searched for an insult. Something sharp. Something that would keep distance.

  Nothing surfaced. She was always bloody perfect.

  "...a vision," he muttered in defeat, barely audible.

  Her expression softened. Just enough to betray that she heard, and worse—that it mattered.

  "Do you need anything, Lucien?" she asked.

  His name suddenly sounded melodious when she said it. He blushed.

  He held her gaze, pulse hammering against his throat as he tried to grasp the thing he needed. There was something... he was sure of it.

  "Where's Victor?" he said finally.

  Corin ignored the momentary hesitation but gave no useful response either.

  "Now why would you ask me that?" She said. A question for a question.

  "He's the current holder," Lucien said. "Your current fiancé, isn't he?"

  "What makes you think that's enough for me to care where he is?"

  She was so good at this—distancing herself with a single line, plausible deniability at its finest.

  But Lucien wasn't stupid.

  After she had seen him outside the club yesterday, practice had been mysteriously cancelled—and Victor had vanished.

  And if Sinclair was right that bullying wasn't allowed, then there must have been someone responsible for enforcing the rule. Someone whose authority no one questioned.

  Someone like Corin.

  "If... you did anything—"

  "I didn't." Her reply was immediate, and sharp as always.

  "But if you did," he said, refusing to stop, "I want you to never do it again."

  His fingers tightened around his book, eyes stayed on her to let her know he meant it.

  "I don't need anyone taking a hit for me."

  Corin said nothing. She started gathering her things with quiet efficiency, the conversation dismissed with every precise movement. Then she stood, already turning to leave.

  "Corin—"

  "I do not take hits, Lucien," she said without facing him. "I make them."

  Something inside him snapped.

  Lucien pushed up from his seat and chased after her, stepping into her path. His hand closed around her wrist before he could think.

  Students made an effort not to gawk, but their eyes flickered toward the two of them, wide and prying.

  "Don't—" he started, but the words jammed in his throat. He couldn't force out the rest.

  I don't want to owe you anything. Not now when I don't deserve it. So, stop giving me reasons to doubt myself.

  He stared into her eyes, the urge to tell her he would bring her down simmering beneath his skin.

  But no words spilled. Only the heavy, furious silence between them.

  Corin did not look away. And then, with a calmness that made his stomach twist, she began to remove his hand. Slowly, one finger at a time. It was cruel.

  Disgust crossed her features first. Not because he had touched her—no, this was the same look she had worn that night. Then came disappointment, quieter and far deeper.

  She let his hand fall away and walked past him.

  Are you a coward?

  Her accusation rang inside his head.

  What are you scared of Lucien? That she'll hate you. The time for being friends has passed. At least have the courage to face her wrath. Show her she was wrong.

  "Wait." Lucien grabbed her again, more forcefully this time. Her books fell as she stumbled into his chest, and he steadied her.

  "What are you doing?" she hissed through clenched teeth, her eyes darting toward the students watching them.

  "Listen to me for a second," he demanded.

  "I already gave you—"

  "Then grant it again," he cut in, ignoring the shock that painted her face.

  Corin stilled, unbelievably. She was close enough to hear the next words he whispered.

  "I will take it, Corin," Lucien murmured. "Your precious rank. In the coming Mocks. Maybe then you'll understand what taking a beating feels like."

  Corin let out a shaky, irritated laugh. "You? Lucien Green? Now you listen to me."

  Her free hand pressed flat against his coat's lapel. Lucien's pulse spiked at the sudden contact.

  "If by some miracle you manage that—"

  She leaned closer. Slowly. His breath caught as her cheek brushed his, her lips hovering impossibly near. "—I'll let you do anything you want with me. Anything."

  Lucien turned his head slowly, their noses nearly brushing.

  "Anything... I want?" he asked, making sure he heard her right.

  His throat suddenly went dry, and the air felt scarce at the very suggestion. Corin was not the generous kind, but when she bargained to relinquish even an inch of control like this, it gave Lucien thoughts he did not want to have, especially while she was close enough to make him lose his head.

  "But if I—"

  “You won't,” he interrupted.

  Corin smiled in response. One of those smiles that should make anyone frightened. "It'll be anything I want... if I win."

  Footsteps approached then, brisk and purposeful, followed by a familiar, infuriating voice.

  "Is he bothering you, Clarendon?"

  He looked up to see Faust Rothwell glaring at him, fists already balled tight.

  Lucien glanced around at the students watching, and only then did he register what he and Corin must've looked like in the middle of a crowded library.

  His hold on her slipped away, though he didn't step back.

  "We're just having a friendly wager," Corin said, taking the first step away. "And... I can't wait."

  Rothwell glanced at Lucien then back at her.

  "Let me get your books." He moved between them, creating distance as he crouched to gather her things. "Why don't you get back to your reading, Green?"

  Lucien ran a hand through his hair and scoffed before snatching his book from the table and leaving them.