Some daysat Blackstone almost feel normal, whatever normal means for people like me.
I sit under the archway courtyard with Nora, Conor, and the others, our people, our families, the ones bound to us by blood or loyalty.
The sun sits warm on my skin. Someone tells a story about a Russian boy tripping over his own knife. Laughter breaks across the group. Even Conor grins, the sharp edge of him dulling for once.
For a breath, we’re students. Friends. Not heirs to empires carved from blood and smoke.
I lean back on my elbows. “You’re terrible,” I manage between laughs.
“Terribly committed,” he shoots back.
“Don’t forget the Heir’s Ball,” I say, turning to Nora. “Ready to stand in a room full of families who’d kill each other if the champagne ran out?”
I grin. “At least the suits will be worth it.”
Cillian laughs. “Right, the whole point’s so you can drool over us in suits.”
I ignore him. That world, glamour, power, charm, isn’t mine. Never will be.
Conor rolls his eyes, a flicker of a smile. He’s relaxed, so I let myself be too.
Then the prickle hits the back of my neck.
That stare.
Matteo.
Across the courtyard, half in shadow, cigarette between his fingers, head tilted. Watching.
That unreadable look steals the air from my chest.
I shift, pretending I don’t feel it, but my skin remembers his touch.
Conor throws a piece of bread at me. “You spaced.”
“Sorry,” I lie. “Didn’t sleep.”
“Then rest up,” he says. “Training tonight’s going to be a bitch.”
My gaze slips back across the courtyard.
He’s still there, gaze on me even while he talks to his family.
I nod along to the chatter, mind already moving pieces, how to play mine before they play me.
Conor scrolls through messages, and before I can stop myself, I speak.
“I think I want to go home this weekend.”
Conor looks up. “Yeah?”
He sounds surprised, and I don’t blame him. Home is the last place I ever want to be.
“Yeah. Thought I’d spend time with the family, before you get rid of me,” I say.
He studies me, silent.
We both know home is where the ghosts still live.
