I straighten my tie with deliberate slowness, then smooth down my top and skirt. When I push open the stall door, I don't hurry or hide. I fucking strut to the mirror like I own this place. Like I never left.
The girls—two blondes and a brunette, all wearing those stupid pearl earrings they’ve worn since middle school. I recognize them now—Serena Blake, Vanessa Bosworth, and Taylor Whitney. The three stooges of St. Augustine gossip.
I pull out a tube of my favorite lipstick—Read My Lips, a dark matte red that looks like fresh blood against my skin and apply it with practiced precision.
“Wow, eavesdrop much. Do you know how weird and creepy it is that you were just sitting on the toilet listening to us? God, they just let anyone into this school. We really need to stop having scholarships.”
I cap my lipstick slowly, deliberately, before turning to face them. I smile, all teeth and no warmth, the kind of smile that says I could rip your throat out and sleep like a baby afterward.
“Maybe you don't know who I am,” I say, my voice dangerously soft, “or maybe you don't remember me. But the next time you open your fucking mouth to talk to me, I'll have you gutted like a fish.” I take a step closer, watching her flinch. “I might not be a Devereux, but Carvelli still holds some fucking weight around here.”
I breeze past them, shoulder checking the blonde hard enough to make her stumble. As the door swings shut behind me, I catch a glimpse of their shocked faces in the mirror—mouths hanging open like fish gasping for air.
The hallway feels ten degrees cooler than the bathroom. I exhale slowly, trying to steady my racing heart. The rush of putting those bitches in their place fades but I roll my shoulders back because I refuse to cower or be intimidated by a single person here.
My family name is a legacy in its own right and I’m going to need every ounce of strength I can muster to survive this last year of school.
To survive being in the same place as Lucien.
To survive being back under Black Crown’s thumb.
Chapter 3
Lucien
I'm in her fucking room, and it smells like her.
Not exactly how I planned to spend my Friday night, but the second I found out which dorm they assigned her, I knew I'd end up here. The keys to every building on campus have been in my possession since freshman year—perks of having the Devereux name.
I lock the door behind me and stand in the darkness for a moment, letting my eyes adjust. The moon casts enough light through the window to illuminate the small space. Single room. Of course she got a single. Daddy Carvelli might be a second-rate power player compared to my father, but he still has enough pull to secure his daughter some privacy. I wonder if Elliott Carvelli knows his princess doesn’t share his blood but my own.
“Seraphina,” I whisper her name into the empty room, testing how it feels in my mouth as I infect her place with my presence. Three years of not saying it aloud, and now it's all I want to say for the last few days.
I know I shouldn't be here. This is the kind of shit that gets restraining orders slapped on normal people. But I've never been normal, and the rules that apply to everyone else have never applied to me.
Moving to her desk first, I run my fingers over her textbooks. Advanced Economics, Constitutional Law, Ethics in Business—heavy reading for someone who used to tell me she wanted to study art history. I flip through her planner, memorizing her schedule. Monday through Thursday are packed with classes, study groups in the library on Tuesdays and Fridays.
Her laptop sits closed on the desk. Password protected, I'm sure, but that's easy enough to get around if I really wanted to.
The bathroom door is ajar, and I push it open. Her toothbrush stands in a cup next to the sink—lavender, manual, not electric. Same as before. Some things haven't changed. I open the medicine cabinet, scanning the contents: birth control pills, Advil, allergy medication, face wash that smells better than it should.
I return to the main room and move toward her dresser. This is where it gets really fucking pathetic, but I don't care. I need to know everything about her now. What she wears, what she sleeps in, what touches her skin.
The top drawer slides open silently. Socks, tights, and some scarves. Boring. I move to the second drawer and hit the jackpot.
Underwear. Lots of it, and not the cotton shit she used to wear when I would have her pushed up in every hidden alcove at St. Catherine’s.
I pick up a black lace thong, rubbing the delicate fabric between my fingers. It's so small, barely anything to it. I hold it to my nose and inhale deeply, groaning at the faint scent of her laundry soap.
Stuffing the thong into my pocket, my cock getting even harder at the thought of carrying a piece of her with me.
Moving to her closet, I push the door open, running my fingers along the row of identical uniforms. Countless white dress shirts, black sweater vests with the large white Aembroidered on the breast, black pleated skirts all hanging in perfect order. So fucking proper, so perfectly St. Augustine.
I finger one of the black sweater vests, rubbing the soft material between my thumb and forefinger. In my mind, I see it marked with a black A instead. The sweater a blood red, marked by a Sinner, not a Saint. No pink for her. Marked by me. She should be wearing my colors, no one else’s.
She looks so much better in red, to go with that fiery ass attitude and hair the color of flames.
Behind the uniforms, I find her regular clothes—designer labels I can recognize from anywhere. Valentino, Gucci, Prada. Expensive shit that she can't wear on campus with their dress code policies. The elite playing dress-up as proper students, as if wearing a college uniform somehow sets them up for success in the real world.
