The dormitory. Where almost every student here lives.
Almost.
The heirs of the founding families don’t. Me, my sister, Piper, Eleanor, and the cartel stronza—Adelaide.
Our residence is set apart, hidden from view, which is why we drive rather than walk, though it’s possible to do both if you’re willing to spend fifteen, maybe thirty minutes depending on your pace.
As soon as we step out, whispers ripple through the courtyard, heads are turning, fingers pointing at us.
I keep my eyes forward and my jaw tight, doing my best not to snap and let one of my blades meet someone’s skin.
We reach the assembly hall and step inside. At least half the seats are already taken.
Seating is assigned by dorm building, so we head straight for the front left section.
That’s where the seats for the two private dorm buildings are.
Our building holds five dorms in total, and the girls and I share it. Normally, it’s ideal—no outsiders in our business, no unnecessary scrutiny.
Right now, less so, considering it also means enduring the sight of Adelaide’s stupid face.
There’s another private dorm beside ours, usually reserved for the heirs who sit just below us in the hierarchy.
Five seats. This year, they’re empty, and I find myself wondering who will take that building next. It changes every time.
I shake my head and push the thought away.
Piper is already there, her head bent over a book. My sister takes her seat, and I sit beside her.
The murmur of the room settles as the headmistress steps onto the stage, tapping the microphone and launching into her usual speech.
I’m only partly listening when the doors at the back of the hall open.
I turn my head just in time to see Adelaide walk in.
She holds her head high, her expression unreadable, and doesn’t spare us a glance as she moves down the aisle and takes the empty seat beside Piper.
The doors open again.
I look back, and this time my stomach flips unpleasantly.
Three men step inside.
For a moment, I don’t believe what I’m seeing. They move with purpose, straight down the aisle towards us, and the room feels as though it’s holding its breath.
Hestops directly in front of me.
I grind my teeth and lift my gaze to meet his.
Icy blue eyes.
His stare burns into mine, possessive and unhinged, like he wants to devour me alive, that familiar smirk firmly in place.
Milo Markev stands before me, wearing nothing but a hoodie and jeans, his hair a mess, looking like sin.
The thought barely forms before I loathe myself for it.
He’s a Markev.
