“Now.”
It’s not a shout. I never shout. But my voice does something to the room, slicing through the dull, bass-heavy music and scaring her enough into movement. She shudders. And then, in a sudden flurry of motion, she snatches up her purse and totters out, clutching the remains of her dignity around her like a cocktail napkin.
Silence again. The second kind. The kind I prefer.
I stand and walk to the window. The campus outside is a gothic fever dream—spires, gargoyles, ancient oaks shivering in the wind. The sky is black and moody, my favorite kind of weather. Westpoint never looks better than on the edge of a storm.
I roll the glass in my hand, watching the ice bob up and down.
They think pairing me with Amara is a leash. An arranged marriage in all but name, designed to yoke two dynasties andharvest the resulting offspring for future Boards. They think I’ll fall in line, because I always have.
But they’ve underestimated two things. First, I never do what I’m told. Second, I never want what I’m given.
I don’t want her because they want to pair us.
I want her because I like to break pretty things, just because I can.
The door opens. I don’t turn, but I feel the presence behind me.
“Dinner’s up, if you wanna come. Colt and Rhett are there with the girls.” Bam says and I turn to nod.
“Yep, give me a minute to change. You guys coming to chill after?”
He shrugs, “Dahlia wants to watch some chick flick, but I might be able to twist her arm. She had a rough day in Agriculture. Her orchids died.”
I don’t care so I just wave him off. “Be there soon.”
He leaves, shutting the door behind him as I head to my room and pick tonight’s attire.
My shirt is bone white and starched within an inch of its life. I leave the top two buttons undone—a calculated breach ofprotocol. The trousers are black, the shoes Italian, the cufflinks have an R carved into them, my family crest. The suit jacket hangs from my shoulders with the grace of a death shroud.
In the mirror, I am a work of deliberate violence.
I comb my hair back, exposing the sharp lines of my jaw, and touch the bruised bite on my neck. The dancer’s last gift. My lips curve in a sneer. I want them to see it tonight. I want them to ask.
There’s a psychology to dominance at Westpoint. Most students enforce it with volume, laughter, threats, the casual brutality of the privileged. I prefer a quieter method. Stillness. A refusal to look away. Silence is a lever; pull hard enough, and you can move whole empires.
I step into the hallway, the soles of my shoes echoing in the corridor. Westpoint after dark is a mausoleum. After the rebuild, they decided to up the ante, making this place even more gloomy than it was before. Suits of armor, real ones, flank the entry to the main staircase. The banner above the landing reads: TRADITIO · ORDO · POTESTAS.
Tradition. Order. Power.
I descend, unhurried, savoring the scent of old books and cold air. At the bottom, two juniors in navy blazers freeze at my approach. One drops his eyes; the other tries to hold my gaze, then flinches and looks away. They split to let me pass, like peasants parting before a king. I don’t acknowledge them.
In the lobby, a cluster of girls huddles near the entrance, necks craned, voices pitched low and conspiratorial. One stares at me, biting her bottom lip, in a piss poor attempt at seduction.
She just looks stupid.
The dining hall is at the heart of the building, a cathedral of cut stone and stained glass. Tables are arranged in order of importance, with the poors at the back and the royalty on a platform at the front. Just the way it should be. The ceiling soars above, lost in shadow, candlelight crawling up the walls.
I’m about to enter and join the Boys, and that’s when I see her.
She stands alone beneath the marble arch, backlit by the chandeliers. Amara Marcus.
She’s not what I expected. Her skin is too pale for health, and her hair, blonde, gleams with the soft shine of privilege, not dye. The uniform fits perfectly: pleated skirt to mid-thigh, blazer crisp, no loose threads, not a single wrinkle. She stands with her hands folded at her waist, posture so rigid she seems carved from wax.
Her eyes are cast down, but I sense she’s tracking every movement in the room. Like an animal waiting for the trap to close.
I slow my walk. I don’t want to approach yet. I want to study her.
