I roll my eyes and lock the screen. The phone leaves my hand with a touch more force than I intended, I aim for the mattress, but it ricochets off the edge and lands on the floor with a thump.
“Brilliant,” I mutter.
I pull myself out of bed.
Pushing to my feet, I cross the room and sweep the curtains open.
The view is unchanged, dense, dark woodland stretching out from the edge of the dormitory, the trees packed so tightly together they appear almost impenetrable.
Morning light barely makes it through the canopy, leaving everything muted.
This is my final year at St. Monarche´.
An academy built for the heirs of powerful families, those with names that carry weight in both legitimate circles and the darker ones that prefer not to be acknowledged.
Mafia bloodlines, old money dynasties, corporations with respectable fronts hiding more than they admit.
This place exists to mould us into whatever futures our parents have already decided we will inherit.
St. Monarche´ stands on Elaris Isle, a private stretch of land wedged between Scotland and Norway, accessible only to those with enough influence to force their way in. You do not arrive here by accident, and you certainly do not stay unless you belong.
The academy was founded by four families, mine among them.
Over time, a system was put in place to maintain order, or at least the version of it our parents find most efficient.
The Thirteenth Circle.
It exists to handle what our families prefer not to deal with directly. Disputes, punishment, reminders of loyalty. The heirs enforce it, because nothing delivers a lesson quite like consequence administered through someone’s children.
Velmark Academy serves the opposite side of that divide.
It sits firmly on British soil and houses the heirs of families who do not stand with us, the rivals, the enemies, the bloodlines that history has placed on the other side of an unspoken line.
Like St. Monarche´, it was built by five founding families, and as with us, one holds far more influence than the others.
No one seems willing to say where the feud between the Thirteenth Circle and the Ferrum Syndicate truly began, only that it has existed for generations, passed down quietly and deepened with time.
If a family is sworn against mine, they don’t send their children here. They send them to Velmark instead. The arrangement works both ways.
Which is why crossing into their territory two nights ago was a mistake from the moment we stepped through their gates.
I move away from the window, forcing the thoughts aside, and head for the bathroom.
I have no plans today beyond keeping myself from exploding and disappearing into my own head, but first I need a shower.
I head into my bathroom and turn on the water, steam beginning to gather against the glass.
I pull off my shirt, step out of my panties, and move under the spray. The heat hits my skin immediately.
I close my eyes and let the water travel over my face, down my neck, loosening the tension sitting heavy across my shoulders.
Vanilla rises through the warm air as I squeeze shower gel into my palm, smoothing it over my skin.
I wash my hair, working in shampoo and then conditioner.
Once I’m done, I step out, dry off briskly, and reach for my robe.
It’s a soft blush silk with feathered cuffs at the wrists. I slide it on, tie the belt tight around my waist, and feel marginally more human.
