“See me after class, Mr. Rorvik. And put that out,” she commands, grumbling under her breath when I give her a mock salute, taking another drag before stubbing it out on the sole of my shoe. I feel her glowering as she resumes whatever lesson I just interrupted and I find my seat in the back row, leaning back as the drugs work their magic and the world fades away.
Time loses meaning in the haze as I float in the space between breaths. Muffled sounds are distorted by the veil of smoke that lingers. Sooner than I’d hoped, reality obliterates my peace as class ends.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Rorvik,” Professor McCall says without bothering to hide her disappointment. My demon doesn’t care for her implicit challenge as it peeks through my one blue eye, reminding her of who holds the power in this conversation. She can’t bear to hold my gaze and lowers her eyes in deference with a sigh.
“Thane, I’m concerned about your academic performance in my course. And I’m not the only one of your professors who’ve brought this to the Headmaster’s attention. He’s requested your presence this morning—you’ve already been excused from your next class.” I quietly seethe. I don’t want to fucking talk about this shit. No one gives a shit about History anyways. Or Modern Politics. Or any of the other classes I’m currently failing.
“Fine,” I say, pulling the half-smoked blunt out of my pocket and re-lighting it. She grimaces at the plume of white smoke but remains silent.
I should probably care about my grades, but I’m an Heir. We’re above things like consequences for our actions. It’s not like anyone’s going to fail an Heir for bombing a test or three. I update our group chat as the drugs work overtime to calm my demon and make my way to the Admin building across campus. Students and faculty alike give me a wide berth. They fear Roth, lust over Killian, and stay far, far away from Luther. But they have no idea what to do with me.
The Leviathan.
The World Snake.
The one with such precarious control over his demon that inebriation is the only thing standing between them, and utter decimation.
So I’ve got that going for me. Which is nice.
Lyra and her gaggle of Legacies and lemmings are walking out the door just was I round the path, so I quickly detour to the back entrance. It’s one of the lesser known smoke spots I’ve found, given that most everyone uses the main entrance. Which is why I’m annoyed moments later when footsteps descend the marble staircase, disturbing my peace. With a tense inhale, I prepare to square up against whoever might be stupid enough to tell me off for smoking—when dark red-brown eyes meet mine, and I exhale sharply.
When the smoke clears, she’s closer than I expected, startling us both, but then she backs up and shakes her head, trying to clear away the white haze.
“Should you be doing that here?” she asks with a hint of reproach. I can’t help but crook my eyebrow defiantly as I inhale again. Some freshmen still haven’t quite figured out the hierarchy, and this would be the perfect opportunity to let my demon play, but something about her piques my interest.
“Who’s going to stop me?” I rasp, my deep voice raw from smoke. Her cheeks flush and something in my chest stutters.
“What is that?” she asks, nodding to the blunt hanging out of my mouth.
I like the way she’s looking at me.
So does my dick. “Want a hit?” I offer instead, ignoring her question.
“I shouldn’t…” she trails off, and my lip twitches at the longing in her voice.
“Here,” I say, inhaling deeply before sliding my hand around her throat, and my fingers tingle with the thrum of her pulse. I lower my mouth to hers, stopping just before our lips brush and exhale into her mouth. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it’s certainly not the coughing fit that brings tears to her eyes as she wrenches my hand away, nor the glare she turns on me.
“Ugh, what the fuck is wrong with you people?” she growls out between hacking coughs, holding her throat.
“What?” I ask, but she’s already crashing through the exit door, taking the haze of my high with her.
My demon tracks her retreat through my eye as the door closes with a heavy click, and the faintest trace of her scent lingers. The fucker always chooses the most inconvenient times to wake up. Like now, when I have to meet with the Headmaster, and he wants to slither after whoever the fuck that was.
Get a grip for Fate’s sake.
Scales brush across the back of my mind as he slinks back into the deep recesses of my subconscious, a warning. If I don’t let him out soon, he’ll force the issue. Unable to delay any longer, I march to the Headmaster’s door and knock.
“Enter,” his muffled voice calls out. The Headmaster motions from his imposting desk for me to take a seat in one of the armchairs facing him, and I bristle at the lower position it puts me in. Being an Heir demands a level of reverence, even from a Grandmaster.
Even if my family’s fallen from grace and I’m the last of my kind.
“Mr. Rorvik, thank you for joining me.”
“Church.” His eyes narrow at my informal, dismissive tone, and he clasps his hands on the desk before him.
“I wanted to speak to you about your academic performance. You’re failing every class aside from physical sciences. However much I doubt any professor would risk career suicide by failing you, my integrity as an educator demands that we have this conversation.” His brow wrinkles when he frowns in disappointment. “I cannot allow this apathy to continue without consequences.” It’s my turn to frown as I process what he’s saying. No one here would dare enforce any—“Mr. Rorvik,” he hesitates, which doesn’t bode well for the knot of anxiety inmy stomach, “don’t force my hand and make me contact your father.” I clench my jaw. I haven’t seen my father in months. Not since his latest fiancée insisted on meeting her future step-son, when she should have been concerned about surviving my father instead.
“Careful how you speak to me, Church,” I grit out, fiddling with the lighter in my pocket to quell the urge to lash out at his threat.
