LUCIEN

  There was no glitch.

  His name was still above hers.

  1 — Lucien Green

  2 — Corin Clarendon

  3 — Victor Vandercourt

  4 — Alistair Ascor

  5 — Faust Rothwell

  The ranking sat at the top of his screen, unchanged, like it was hours ago. His thumb hovered over the tablet, then locked it.

  “Take her down.”

  The note surfaced, unbidden. He had succeeded on the second task. He should have felt triumph. Vindication. Something sharp and victorious.

  Instead—

  That call.

  Patrice appearing out of nowhere. Pale. Breathless.

  Miss. The Chairman.

  He told himself it meant nothing.

  This was Corin Clarendon.

  She was not fragile. Not human in the ways the rest of them were. Nothing broke her. Nothing even bent her.

  If anything, the world broke around her.

  He wasn't worried.

  He wasn't.

  “You're not worried.” He heard himself repeat one more time. “This is recon. Not checking up on her, just the... situation.”

  He put on a cap. Dark navy. Lights-out had already passed. Cameras along the quad would flag loitering near the girls' dormitory. Lucien didn't need questions. It was a futile attempt to somehow stay low.

  He kept to the shadows, hands in his pockets, telling himself he was only checking whether she'd returned.

  Just that.

  Then headlights swept across the stone and a familiar town car rolled through the gates. He knew that plate. The Clarendon car did not carry a number, only the family crest.

  The car stopped.

  Patrice stepped out first.

  Then—

  Someone in a hoodie. A casual sight, walking slower than regular. For a second he didn't recognize her.

  Corin was always pristine, pressed to perfection. She would never wear something that would make her—

  Just a girl.

  The moon was too bright tonight. It revealed things it shouldn't. It caught her face when she turned.

  Red.

  On her lip, dark and wrong.

  Not lipstick.

  His brain supplied a dozen explanations at once. None of them sane or good. His feet moved on their own, crossing the distance. His hands were faster. They went on her cheeks before he could stop himself.

  Her face was cold beneath his palms.

  And...

  God.

  She was shaking.

  Not visibly, but he could feel it. A fine tremor under his fingertips, like a wire pulled too tight.

  Lie, he thought.

  Please.

  Just lie.

  Corin didn't.

  She caught Lucien's wrists and peeled his hands away from her cheeks, and somehow that silence was more terrible.

  Something in his chest snapped.

  Before she could step back, he pulled her forward. Arms around her.

  The realization hit Lucien a second too late.

  What the hell am I doing?

  He had never touched her like this. Never dared. Corin Clarendon wasn't someone you grabbed.

  People lost fingers for less.

  But it was still there. Small, controlled quakes against his ribs. Whatever she was made of was cold, and he felt as if she might splinter if he let go.

  “Do you want to die?” she muttered, voice muffled against his shoulder.

  Even now. Threats.

  “Can you not be you for two damn seconds?” he snapped back, his voice thick with a strange, aching frustration.

  One hand slid into her hair.

  The other pressed flat against her back.

  He waited. Counted her breaths.

  Slow...

  Slow.

  Slower.

  You're just helping. He told himself. You'll let go. Swear.

  When it finally subsided, Lucien loosened his grip, though he didn't let go entirely.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I did not—I'm sorry.”

  He had wanted her rank; he had never wanted her blood. Not like this.

  “Why?” Corin asked, her voice steadying as she remained in the circle of his arms. “Did you cheat?”

  “No,” he answered firmly.

  “Then stop whinging.”

  Corin pulled away. It was a subtle movement, but Lucien saw the sharp wince that cut through her mask. The split on her lip looked angry and deep in the moonlight. He felt the eyes of Patrice and the driver boring into his back, gawking at the impossible sight of the two of them, but he ignored them completely.

  He reached out and took her hand, his fingers locking around hers as he began to drag her away from the drive.

  “Lu—”

  “Shut up,” he said. It wasn't harsh, but it was absolute.

  He led her through the shadows of the stone corridors until they reached the infirmary. He rattled the handle, but of course, it was locked tight for the night. Lucien didn't hesitate. He scanned the ground, his eyes landing on a loose masonry brick near the flowerbeds.

  Corin scoffed, leaning back against the wall with a tired kind of grace. “You're going to break in?”

  “What are they going to do, Corin? Expel me?”

  A soft, genuine laugh escaped her. “Not even a day as the Holder and the taste of power has already gone to your head.”

  He didn't answer. He shed his heavy navy coat and wrapped it thick around his forearm. With a single, blunt swing, he smashed the glass pane of the door. The sound of it shattering felt like a starting gun. He reached through the jagged hole, minding the shards, and flicked the lock from the inside.

  The door swung open into the sterilized, quiet dark of the clinic.

  “After you,” he said, stepping aside as if breaking into school property was simply part of the things they do together.

  “Sit.”

  The word came out sharper than he meant.

  He pushed her down onto the cot before he even realized he'd ordered her around. Or maybe he did realize. Maybe he was just lucky she hadn't snapped his wrist yet.

  He turned away quickly and went for the cabinet.

  First aid kit. Top shelf. Left side.

  He knew where everything was. Too many afternoons here with Dr. Peterson.

  The metal box clinked softly in his hands.

  When he turned back, Corin was staring at the wall. Not sulking, or angry, she was just... distant.

  Something about that unsettled him more than if she'd yelled.

  He sat on the stool in front of her.

  Too close.

  He didn't know how to make her look at him. He had no idea how to ask. So he did the stupidest thing possible and slid two fingers under her chin, gently turning her face toward his.

  His pulse jumped.

  He was grateful for the brim of his cap. It felt like a shield against her judgment. He could feel his face heating up.

  “This is going to sting,” he muttered, uncapping the bottle. “Just stay st—”

  Corin's hand flicked upward, knocking his cap off. It tumbled to the granite floor.

  “You're not afraid to get expelled, so why are you still hiding?” she snapped.

  Lucien tightened his jaw, reminding himself that she had a bad day. He soaked a cotton ball and started dabbing at the split skin of her lip.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked.

  “Tell you what?”

  He stopped, the cotton ball hovering between them. “It must hurt.”

  “No,” she answered instantly.

  “Why did he hit you?”

  “Who said it was him?” she countered, her eyes narrowing.

  Even now, with a literal crack in her mask, the walls were still ten feet thick. Lucien realized he couldn't negotiate with her. He had to use the only leverage he had.

  “You promised me anything,” he reminded her. “Our wager.”

  He saw her jaw clench, but her gaze remained ice-cold.

  “What happened, Corin?”

  She let out a dry, mirthless sound. “Just ask me to sleep with you like a normal guy.”

  “What?” The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it.

  “Are you really going to waste your prize on something this stupid?”

  “It's not stupid,” he insisted. He leaned in, planting his arms on either side of her on the cot, caging her in so she couldn't retreat. “I'm asking because you're hurt.”

  “Did you really think I got hurt over this?” Corin's hand rose, her fingers ghosting over her bruised cheek. “The Chairman can't even stand to stay in a room with me. But he did today... he even held me.”

  Corin tipped his face up with a finger then, “You're not a Clarendon, Lucien. You wouldn't understand.”

  “That... wasn't affection, Corin,” Lucien said, his voice dropping into a low, harsh register.

  “Well, there's no difference.”

  Something ugly burned in Lucien's chest. It was a pure, visceral rejection of her reality. He didn't want to understand how a slap could be confused for a hug. He gripped the edges of the bedsheets until his knuckles turned white.

  Before he could talk himself out of it, his hands moved—not as a “Holder,” but as a person who couldn't stand to see her so twisted. He held her face in his palms.

  His thumbs moved slowly, tracing the line of her cheekbones, trying to overwrite the memory of her father's blow. Corin closed her eyes for a heartbeat, her head tilting slightly into his warmth.

  Lucien leaned closer before he realized he was moving.

  Her breath touched his mouth.

  Warm and sweet.

  I'm going to hell, he thought. And he kept inching closer.

  Her eyes opened.

  “Is this it?” Corin asked quietly. “What you call... affection?”

  Her eyes weren't soft. They were distant, and her lips pulled back into a cruel, grin.

  “I—”

  He dropped his hands as if he'd been burned. The spell didn't just break, it shattered.

  “We should go back. It's late.” He stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over his stool. He rummaged through the kit, grabbed a tube of ointment, and shoved it into her hand. “Put some on before you sleep.”

  Safe.

  Anything else would've killed him.

  Lucien picked his cap up from the infirmary floor and shoved it back on. The brim sat low over his eyes again.

  He shrugged into his coat, then, without thinking, reached for her.

  “Hold still,” he said and miraculously, she did.

  He pulled her hood up and over her hair, tugged it forward so it shadowed her face. His knuckles brushed her temple.

  Too gentle. God in Heaven.

  The fabric and cotton could never hide them from the dozen cameras bolted into every corner of Billard. It couldn't even hide them from each other. But he still did it.

  And Corin just let him.

  They stepped outside. Cold air rushed in.

  The night was painfully clear. Moonlight washed the courtyard silver, bright enough to expose everything. The broken infirmary glass glittered behind them like evidence.

  They walked.

  No talking.

  Just gravel crunching under their shoes.

  Lucien slowed his stride without meaning to, matching hers. He didn't dare walk ahead. If he passed her, it would feel like leaving. If he dragged, she'd get irritated.

  So he stayed exactly at her shoulder like some poorly trained guard dog.

  Corin didn't comment, her eyes didn’t stray to him. Not once.

  By the time they reached the girls' dormitory steps, the lights inside were mostly dead. A few windows glowed like tired eyes.

  She moved to go in, without so much as a good bye. Lucien's hand caught her wrist.

  Instinct.

  She looked back at him.

  “What?” she asked.

  He swallowed. There had been something he meant to say this whole walk. Something that had been clawing at his throat.

  “What did you want?” he asked quietly, kicking imaginary stones on the pavement. “Had you won?”

  Corin turned to face him, the moonlight catching the sharp, cruel edge in her eyes. “I told you already, Lucien. I would have made you sleep with me.”

  Lucien yanked the brim of his cap even lower, but it did nothing to hide the flush creeping up his neck. She really was something else—even half-broken and bleeding, she knew exactly how to knock him off balance.

  She stepped closer, peering into the shadow of his hat. “Don't look so horrified. You would have enjoyed it.”

  Good God.

  He took a step back immediately, putting space between them like it might save his life.

  “Stop,” he muttered.

  She almost smiled seeing his reaction.

  Almost.

  Instead, he stuck his hand out between them. Awkward and firm. A tad too formal.

  “In the finals,” he said, “let's do this again.”

  Corin looked at his hand, then back at his face. “You got lucky one time.”

  “Oh yeah?” He countered. “Then shake on it. Unless you're scared.”

  A small taunt.

  He didn't know where the courage came from. Maybe because he'd already broken too many rules tonight.

  “Same stakes. Anything I want.” He offered.

  “Anything I want.” Corin placed her hand in his, her voice a faint echo of his own. “Will it be my bed or yours, I wonder? I heard you moved upstairs.”

  “That's not going to happen,” he answered, his grip tightening around her hand for a brief, firm second.

  “Goodnight, Corin.”

  She slipped her hand free.

  “Lucien.”

  Just his name.

  Then she turned and disappeared inside. The door shut softly behind her.

  Lucien stood there longer than he should have, staring at the empty steps, his palm still cold where her hand had been. It nearly felt like she took all his warmth with her.

  “You're going to be fine.” He heard himself say. Not certain if he meant it for himself or for someone else.

  A camera above the arch gave a faint mechanical whir then, and Lucien finally moved.