“And if you ever want to know,” he murmurs, “exactly what she’s begging for… all you have to do is ask.”
My breath catches violently. The humiliation burns. The lure burns more.
I turn sharply toward him, eyes blazing. There is no smugness in his face now, only a calculated hunger, the cruel kind that demands a response.
“What's wrong with you?” I snarl, summoning every ounce of fury I possess as I shove him in the chest.
He stumbles, not far, but enough to draw a short, surprised grunt from him. It is the smallest victory, yet it sends a fierce surge of satisfaction through me, a crack of lightning splitting through the storm he’s stirred.
I do not wait for the aftershock.
I turn, robe swirling sharply around my legs as I march from the common room. My feet carry me out into the hall with a speed that borders on running, heat roaring across my face, breath unsteady, pulse hammering.
I don’t stop until I reach the sanctuary of my quarters, door shut, back pressed hard against the wood, and only then do I realize the truth:
I have never in my life been spoken to like that by any man of his station.
And God help me, some dark, hidden part of me did not hate it.
5
HARPER
At this hour, the Vespera wing is quiet enough to feel almost abandoned.
The stretch of early morning typically draws students toward breakfast or last-minute preparations, leaving the corridors hushed and the dormitory rooms steeped in comforting stillness. It is a rare and precious solitude, one I need far more than I admit.
My wooden chest sits at the foot of my bed, just as Locke promised, filled with everything he salvaged or replicated from our old life. Robes, uniforms, blankets that once belonged to the sanctuary we called home, they are all folded neatly, untouched by the violence of our arrival. I press my hand to the top layer, inhaling the faint scent of cedar and travel. For a moment, it brings a flicker of calm.
The illusion breaks as soon as I roll my shoulders. The ache of last night’s unrest coils down my spine. Sleep never truly came, just flashes of memory, the lingering echo of Sebastian’s voice, the vulgarity I should have disliked yet somehow didn’t, and the warmth of his breath along my cheek. I tried to banish him from my thoughts. I failed.
Shaking loose the remnants of his shadow, I pull a uniform set from the chest. Relief eases through me when I uncover the women’s long black skirt tucked beneath the robe, far preferable to the humiliatingly short ones Vireldan insists on issuing. Beside it rests a fitted blouse and, atop everything, a deep black robe trimmed in Vespera’s crimson thread.
Gathering the garments with both hands, I slip into the large bathroom and lock the heavy door behind me. My toiletries clatter softly onto the counter as I splash cold water over my face, scrubbing until my skin tingles. I undo my braid next, letting my hair tumble free down my back in soft, damp waves. The faint coconut scent from last night’s shampoo fades as the warm steam from the bath fogs the mirror.
With a flick of my wand, I warm the tub until curls of vapor unfurl into the air. Sliding out of my old uniform, I turn toward the bath, the mirror catching a glimpse of my back.
And I stop.
The scars always take me by surprise, no matter how many years have passed. Under the soft morning light, they appear starker: pale ridges cutting across my skin in abrupt, jagged patterns. Some thin like wiry threads. Others wide and raised, the kind that never fully healed. They cascade over my back in grim, violent strokes, reminders of things I refuse to speak aloud.
But woven between them, ink.
The serpent.
Its black coils climb the length of my spine, each scale etched with painstaking detail. Its tail begins low, near the dip of my back, winding around the scars as though guarding them. Its body curves upward in elegant, deliberate strokes, matching the lines of the wounds it was made to conceal. Its head rests at the base of my neck, mouth open, fangs poised, eyes narrowed in eternal vigilance.
Some part of me always thought the tattoo made the scars easier to bear. Another part believes it simply made them impossible to ignore.
Liam once told me I would learn to love them in time. I knew even then he was speaking more forhimself than for me. His trauma mirrors mine too closely. We share wounds the world cannot see, but the ones carved along my back are harder to forget.
He never asked why I chose the serpent. He only helped me endure the healing.
Steam pools around me as I step into the bath. The heat seeps into my muscles, unwinding knots that have lived beneath my ribs for too long. I wash my hair with the shampoos Locke placed in the chest, scrubbing until the last remnants of yesterday’s fear and grime swirl down the drain. For a moment, I allow myself to imagine the water carrying away the weight of the last few days, the attack, the travel, the fountain, the stares, Sebastian’s vile whisper curling itself around my thoughts like a hook.
But weight like this never dissolves fully.
When I finally step from the tub, wrapping my hair into a knot atop my head, the cold air lashes against my damp skin, forcing a shiver from me. It motivates me to move quickly. I slip the long black skirt up my legs, feeling the fabric settle comfortably at my waist. It drapes gracefully, pooling around my ankles with a reassuring heaviness. The blouse pulls snug over my ribcage, fitted enough to shape my silhouette while remaining modest. It lifts my chest slightly, far more generously than I feel I deserve, but not enough to bother me.
