“You won’t be choosing Seraphina,” he says with deadly calm. “I won’t allow it.”
“You won’t allow it?” I repeat, letting a dangerous edge creep into my voice. “Last I checked, the choice belongs to the heir, not the father. It’s written in the fucking bylaws.”
“Choose another,” he says, his voice hardening. “Or else.”
I stand up slowly, setting my glass down with deliberate control. “Careful, Father. That sounds like a threat, and a Devereux never responds well to threats.”
The look on his face is fucking priceless—rage warring with shock that I’d dare speak to him this way. I straighten my cuffs, enjoying the moment.
“I’ll see you next week at the ceremony,” I say, turning toward the door. “Wear your best suit. It’s going to be a night to remember.”
Chapter 7
Seraphina
Asharp scraping sound jolts me awake, my heart launching into my throat before my brain even registers what the fuck is happening.
I lie frozen in my bed, my eyes adjusting to the darkness as another sound—softer this time, like metal against metal—comes from my door. It’s not the normal drunk giggling of wasted sorority girls trying the wrong room.
“Fuck this,” I whisper, sliding out from under my sheets.
It’s three AM according to my phone’s glowing display. Who the fuck is at my door at this hour? The memory of Lucien sitting on my bed uninvited flashes through my mind, sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
I slip my feet into my slippers and grab my silk robe from my chair, wrapping it around my camisole and boyshorts. The knife I keep in my bedside drawer slides into my palm with familiar weight—a gift from my father on my sixteenth birthday. “Just in case,” he’d said with that cryptic smile of his. Turns out “just in case” happens more often than you’d think.
The sound comes again. Okay, definitely someone messing with my lock.
I move silently toward the door, knife gripped tight in my right hand. If it’s some drunk bitch who can’t tell her room from mine, I’ll have her ass removed from campus so fast her trust fund won’t know what hit it. And if it’s someone else…well, that’s what the knife is for.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I reach the door. I press my eye to the peephole, but the hallway is too dark to make out anything more than a shadowy figure. Male, tall—that much I can tell.
“Who the fuck is it?” I call out, making my voice hard and steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me.
No answer. Just another subtle scrape of metal.
“I’ve called campus security,” I lie, loud enough to be heard through the door. “They’re on their way, so you might want to fuck off right about now.”
Still nothing. But the sounds stop.
I stand frozen, knife ready, listening to the silence stretch. Then footsteps are moving away from my door and down the hallway. The relief that floods through me is short-lived when I hear the stairwell door open and close.
Anger replaces fear in an instant. Some creep just tried to break into my room, and I’m supposed to what—go back to bed like nothing happened? Fuck that.
I throw the deadbolt, yank open the door, and peer down the empty hallway. The stairwell door is still swinging shut.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter.
I’m about to chase after the creep when something catches my eye—a black rectangle attached to the center of my door. I freeze, my breath hitching as I recognize what it is.
A black envelope.
Not just any envelope—one with gold filigree around the edges, the Black Crown Society logo embossed in the center likea fucking brand. My stomach drops to my feet as I stare at it, the knife in my hand suddenly feeling pathetically inadequate.
The envelope is pinned to my door with a small, ornate dagger—one I recognize instantly as BCS craftsmanship with its distinctive curved blade and jeweled hilt.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.”
A cold shiver runs down my spine as I glance down the empty hallway. This isn’t good. It’s never good. My fingers start to tremble as I reach for it. Black Crown doesn’t send official messages to just anyone, and they sure as hell don’t send them to someone like me, whose family is barely clinging to the fringes of The Society.
