Page 13

T he soft caress of sunlight filtering through the curtains rouses me from a dreamless slumber, lashes fluttering open to take in the unfamiliar richly appointed dorm room. Disorientation clouds my senses for a disquieting moment before the dull throb of a headache lodges behind my eyes. What the fuck happened last night?

Groaning, I roll onto my side, burrowing my face into the plush pillow to blot out the harsh rays stabbing through my skull. The sheets rustle in a whispery caress as I shift, cocooning my bare skin in their silken embrace. The scent of sandalwood and musk clings to the fine cotton, only compounding the sense of dislocation swirling through my addled brain.

Sudden jolts of fiery pain rocket up my nerves, searing across my hips while another blazes from my inner thigh. Hissing a sharp breath through my teeth, I carefully peel back the sheets and peer down my body.

My breath catches as the reality of my nude state registers, every inch of exposed skin flushing crimson. But that’s not the most alarming discovery greeting me in the harsh morning light. No—my gaze zeros in on the angry, inflamed brand seared into the tender flesh of my thigh with a nauseating lurch.

What the everloving fuck?

Lurching upright sends fresh agony crashing through me, the tortured skin along my hips screaming in raw protest as I crane my head around in a frantic sweep. Sure enough, a matching sigil in the shape of some stylized bull glares up at me from my opposite hip, blistered flesh weeping angry tears.

Wait… is this some kind of fucked-up hazing ritual the upperclassmen subject all the freshmen to? No, that can’t be right. This seems far too twisted and extreme, even for a university that seems to ooze the Dark Ages from its very foundation.

The jarring impact of my foot catching on something solid derails that disconcerting thought. Tearing my bewildered stare from scrutinising my mutilated body, I whip my head to the other side of the queen mattress.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

Paralysed with dawning horror, my chest constricts with each rasping breath as I drink in the sight of a tattooed, toned physique on full display—the only strip of sheet bunched around his narrow hips doing fuck all to conceal the prominent curve of one muscular arse cheek. The daggers inked into his shoulder blades and spine seem to move with an almost ethereal ripple, as if the ink itself is alive. It’s unnerving in a way that causes me to have to blink a few times just to make it stop.

Oh sweet fucking Christ.

It’s Jace.

Jace Caldwell, campus royalty and one of Arius’ cronies who—according to Sid—run this bloody Academy like some twisted kingdom, is currently nude and dead to the world only a few centimetres from me. A strangled whimper clogs my throat as my brain frantically tries to piece together how I ended up in this position.

The memories from last night are a muddled blur beyond the hazy recollection of arriving fashionably late to that stupid welcome party with Sid. So whatever the fuck that conniving wanker Hayes slipped into our drinks did a number on my memory, it seems. Swallowing hard against the nausea churning in my gut, I clutch the sheet tighter to my chest and rapidly scan the room for my clothes or any sort of weapon in case this goes fully pear-shaped.

My eyes linger a fraction too long on the rumpled tangle of expensive fabric spilled across the floor, and that’s when Jace decides to stir from his languid repose. Years of ingrained self-preservation instincts have me freezing in place, barely daring to draw breath as that tattooed back flexes and ripples beneath tanned skin.

“There are better ways to wake someone up than kicking them, kitten,” Jace’s sleep-roughened voice suddenly rumbles, so low and thick it sounds more like thunder than coherent speech.

Every muscle in my body locks up as he stretches those powerful arms overhead before shifting onto his side, green eyes glittering with far too much amusement in that chiselled face. A rakish smirk tugs at one corner of those beautifully sculpted lips while he leisurely drinks in the sight of me bundled up in the sheets like a scandalised Victorian maiden. Which, given my current state of undress and the circumstances, isn’t too far off the mark.

“This is probably the most disappointing morning-after wake up I’ve ever had,” I blurt out without thinking, the words tumbling forth in a rush as heat floods my cheeks.

Jace’s smirk only deepens at my flustered retort, those emerald eyes glinting with open amusement as he props himself up on his elbows. The subtle shift causes the sheets to drape lower across those lean hips, exposing more of his inner thighs in an indecent manner.

“That’s because I was told to behave like a gentleman,” he rumbles, tongue darting out to trace the seam of his full lips. “And apparently that means keeping my dick to myself for once.”

An incredulous frown tugs at my brows as I clutch the sheet tighter against my chest, acutely aware of every inch Jace casually unveils before my gaze. “So we… we didn’t…?” My voice trails off in an embarrassed mumble, unable to fully voice the question aloud.

Jace lets out a low chuckle, the vibrant sound seeming to reverberate through the luxurious bedroom. His free hand slides beneath the pillow cradling his tousled head, leveraging himself up a few inches to better study my flustered expression.

“Fuck last night? Nah, gorgeous. If I’d gotten my cock inside that tight little cunt of yours, trust me—you wouldn’t be sitting up all indignant and firing off judgy looks. Your hips would be out of commission for a few days after I was through with you.”

An indignant sputter lodges in my throat at his crude phrasing, heat suffusing my cheeks with a furious crimson stain. What an utterly repugnant way to describe… to insinuate…

Shaking my head to dispel the graphic imagery now seared into my brain, I meet Jace’s hooded stare through my lashes and demand in a tone far more composed than I feel, “Whatever. Just… give me my fucking clothes so I can get out of your room.”

To my mortification, Jace’s full lips curve into an exaggerated pout as he extends one arm towards me, fingertips ghosting feather-light caresses up the sensitive skin of my outer thigh. I instantly recoil with a warning growl, swatting his roving touch away before it can trail any higher up my hip.

Huffing out a dramatic sigh, Jace flops back into the pillows and turns away, putting his back on full display. “Fine, be that way. My wardrobe’s open to you, though. Take whatever you need.”

The words are delivered with an indolent shrug, as though he couldn’t care less about my modesty concerns or utter bewilderment over the situation. Bracing myself up on my elbows, I can’t resist shooting Jace’s muscular, inked back a dark scowl.

My gaze lingers a shade too long, tracing the intricate patterns swirling from between his shoulder blades in bold strokes. Angular scripted lines curl and converge in an abstract design of interlocking daggers flowing over the contours of his lats and dipping below the rumpled sheet to—

Sucking in a sharp breath, I blink rapidly and forcibly tear my attention from Jace’s prone form. There’s no use pondering the artistic merits of his body art, not when it seems the entire campus has gone utterly mad overnight.

Growling low in my throat, I snatch up as much of the sheet as I can clutch against my chest, bundling the luxurious fabric around my nude body. In one jerky, petulant motion I rip the covers completely off Jace, allowing the crisp morning breeze to ghost over every toned inch of his long limbs.

Jace lets out a rumbling laugh at my juvenile antics, rolling onto his back with his bronzed arms pillowed behind his head. The adjustment leaves his thick, flaccid cock now resting heavily in the crease of one thigh, giving my heated stare an utterly unobstructed vantage point.

Holy shite, is that…? No… Is his sac pierced? Fucking Christ, who are these people?

Tearing my gaze away, I try to shake off the image searing itself into my mind’s eye. With an indignant huff, I whirl on my heel to stalk away, determined to locate my missing clothes and put this baffling scenario behind me. My gaze sweeps the lavish suite, quickly honing in on the set of double doors tucked discreetly into the far corner.

Of course the campus elite have their own bloody walk-in wardrobes…

Tugging the excess sheet behind me like a churlish child’s blanket cape, I duck through the ornate doors with my chin pointed stubbornly upwards. I need to find my things and get the fuck out before my sense of reality completely unravels. Though judging by the throbbing ache still radiating from my branded hip and thigh, I fear that thread may have already snapped sometime last night.

The walk-in closet’s interior gradually comes into focus as my eyes adjust to the bright overhead lighting. Rows upon meticulous rows of finely tailored suits, school uniforms, and neatly pressed slacks line the built-in shelving along the walls, each garment precisely arranged by style and colour palette.

A derisive snort escapes my lips at the pristine order on display. Talk about a far cry from the sloppy, careless image Jace tries so hard to cultivate with his tousled hair and roguish demeanour—seems the tosser has a deep-seated streak of OCD hidden behind closed doors. Or perhaps this immaculate organisation simply stems from the sheer breadth of wardrobe options afforded to the elite sect running this academy.

Pivoting on my heel to better scan the layout, I spot the glass-topped centre island holding what appears to be an entire drawer system dedicated solely to neckties, pocket squares, and ornate cufflinks winking up at me from their velvet-lined compartments. Brilliant. Just what every functional human needs—dozens upon dozens of overpriced silk nooses to dangle around one’s neck like some demented status symbol.

Huffing out an aggravated sigh, my fingers tighten around the sheet still cocooned protectively across my chest. There has to be something basic and serviceable tucked away in here, some gym shorts or worn t-shirt Jace won’t miss. But a quick scan swiftly dashes any hopes of locating casual loungewear, only yielding row after pristine row of designer labels and ostentatious ensembles clearly meant to exude an air of understated wealth and privilege.

Of course. Why did I expect anything less from bloody Caldwell and his ilk?

With an indelicate growl, I yank the silken sheet free from my body, letting the fabric pool at my feet. Reaching for the nearest pressed button-up, I jerk it off the hanger with a petulant huff. Screw dignity at this point—since my only other option seems to be streaking my way across campus completely starkers.

A full-length mirror mounted to the back of the closet instantly snares my undivided attention. With a few clipped strides, I come to stand directly in front of the polished glass, gripping the shirt in my fists with white-knuckled urgency as I twist and crane my body to better examine the myriad mysterious brands now adorning my skin.

The spider branded across my left hip mocks me, its garnet streaks and inflamed lines webbing out around an ominous chalice emblem above my ass. Shite, sitting down is going to be a bitch for the next few days.

Twisting to examine the rest of me, fresh pain lances through my other hip, drawing my attention to the glyph emblazoned there—unmistakably the head of a bull, horns sweeping up from its skull. What the fuck is going on? How did I end up branded like some ritualistic game piece overnight?

Craning my neck, I scrutinise the lion-like emblem seared into my inner thigh. This one boasts intricate sweeping curves of the mane and a snake coiled in a halo.

“Three down… one to go?” I rasp around the lump in my throat, dread tracing up my spine. Four of them in Jace’s infernal clique. Which means…

Fingertips skim my nape, prodding where the last one must be. Hissing, I yank my hand back as pain erupts under the touch. Definitely another brand there, just out of sight.

Jaw clenched, I gather my tangled curls up, straining to glimpse the final desecration in the mirror. But no matter how I twist and turn, it remains elusive, concealed where my vision can’t reach.

So intent on ferreting out that elusive brand, the sudden slam of the closet door behind me jolts every muscle taut. A yelp punches up my throat, emerging more as a disgruntled growl as my gaze collides with Arius’ towering form filling the threshold.