“I… friends,” I stammer, swallowing hard, hating how tentative it sounds. My chest feels tight, every muscle wound up with resistance and… something else.
Ryker’s grin widens, slow and victorious. “That’s all I’m asking. A friend date. No pressure, no theatrics, just us. We’ll survive the academy one sarcastic comment at a time.”
I bite my lip, nodding, because part of me already wants it. Part of me is tired of constantly guarding, calculating, measuring every glance, every word. I need a moment that’s mine.
Ryker’s eyes gleam like he’s just won something monumental. “Good,” he says, voice low and smug. “Friends. We’ll start planning it—don’t worry, princess. I’ll make sure it’s memorable.”
And just like that, my chest unclenches a little, though my bond still buzzes like a storm beneath my skin. I’ve agreed. But agreeing doesn’t mean I’m weak. It just means… maybe I can trust him. For now.
He walks out, and I turn to see some lingering eyes.
Walking back to my table, I feel Atticus’s bond like an involuntary brush over my skin. Anger and possession. I could not care less. This coldhearted bastard just verbally destroyed what little shell I was building against most of these monsters.
I sit back at my table with all of my friends’ eyes on me.
“Well, that didn’t go as planned, did it?” and bite into my burnt toast.
19
Thou Shalt Not Let Desire Break Discipline
Atticus
Ileave the academy behind for the sparing grounds before the morning bell rings. Classes can wait.
The chatter, the hierarchy, the endless parade of expectations—I need silence, or at least something controlled. Remembering the way his perverted fingers brushed against the soft skin of her hand has my control on a leash of dental floss.
I cut toward the sparring fields, slipping between clusters of students still half-asleep and clutching breakfast trays. A few heads turn as I pass, quick glances, whispered breaths, but I keep moving, shoulders tight, strides sharp. Let them look. Let them invent whatever story their bored little brains want.
My focus is a blade, and I hold it right in front of me. No faltering. No flinching.
Somewhere out there, my father’s people are watching—his ghosts tucked into corners, behind screens, under orders. Fine. They can report that I’m walking fast with murder in my pulse and purpose in every step. Let him try to decipher that.
A trade of words with our enemy faction. I did nothing to dishonor myself.
The fencing area is empty, just as I expected it to be. The sense of familiarity comes over me just like it always does: cold steel, taut lines, smelling polished wood and sweat. It’s a sanctuary. Every thrust, parry, and riposte is exact, calculated, like a dance I’ve done a thousand times.
I strap on my gear and stalk toward an empty dummy, blades already itching in my hands. Muscle memory kicks in before my brain can catch up.
Step. Pivot. Lunge.
The thud of impact shudders up my arm, shaking something loose in my chest. I shift back, boots scuffing the mat, and swing again—cleaner, harder.
Another strike. Another breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
My thoughts claw for space, but the rhythm drowns them out.Advance. Feint. Parry.The world narrows to the hiss of air and the crack of my blade against padded armor.
For a few precious seconds, the storm inside me quiets. Here at least my hands obey. Here, the only thing I have to fight is the target in front of me, not my father’s shadow, not the faction politics closing in, not the impossible mess I’ve made of my life.
Just this. And I can win this.
And yet, even here, she intrudes.
My form is flawless; it always is. Blade, breath, balance. The predictable cadence of steel striking wood should clear the mind, sharpen focus, restore order.
But order evades me.
I lunge. The strike lands clean. Still, she lingers.
