Page 39

D awn’s first feeble rays spill through arched windows as I enter Hansley’s office. The cavernous space exudes a timeless, oppressive ambiance weighed down by centuries upon centuries of the Academy’s antiquated traditions.

Aged hardwood panels line the walls, their lacquered surfaces hosting shadows like lurking spectres. An ornate chandelier drips crystal teardrops, casting flickering candlelight over the space. Shelves groan beneath the weight of dusty tomes detailing the Order’s arcane rites and bloodlines dating back aeons.

And there, sprawled on one of the wingback chairs like a dissolute prince, is Arius. He oozes the effortless arrogance and disdain for anything beyond his own pleasure one expects from the most promising Whitlocke heir. His languid posture is all studied nonchalance as he lounges, feet propped on an antique coffee table already marred by previous rebellious scuffs.

I snort, a half-smirk tugging my lips as I sink into the adjacent loveseat. “Nice of you to grace us commoners with your presence,” I drawl, pitching my voice lower to mock his aristocratic tones.

Arius’ eyes slit open, that glacial stare finding me. He arches one dark brow in a silent challenge before lazily palming his crotch, miming a long, lascivious stroke over the bulge tenting his trousers.

“Figured you lot could use the visual inspiration.” His gaze drags hot over my frame as I flop into one of the settees across from him. “To remind you what a real cock looks like before you choke on whatever fucked up Trial Hansley dangles next for her own amusement.”

“Oh fuck off,” comes Jace’s rejoinder as he flops down beside me, jostling the cushions. He juts his chin toward Arius. “You’re the one obsessed with pussy before we’ve even got our hands on it.”

Chuckling, I lean in, knocking Jace’s shoulder. “Hey now, not like you were complaining when Lydia had you wrapped around her pretty little finger last year.”

“Maybe that’s the problem—Jace is so desperate for a taste he’s drooling at even a crumb.”

Rhys strides into view then, his long legs carrying him with a panther’s grace as he settles into the adjacent chair. There’s a book clutched in one hand, its weathered cover creased from endless openings. He toes off his Oxfords, propping stockinged feet on the table, not caring about protocol. Typical bloody Rhys.

“Besides, you’re one to talk,” he rumbles, not glancing up as he cracks open the tome’s yellowed pages. “I seem to recall you staking out the showers last year for a glimpse of Desmond’s naked—”

“For fuck’s sake, Rhys, we’re in Hansley’s study.” I grouse, interjecting to quickly change the topic. “Do you really need to bust out one of your encyclopaedias to ruin the mood?”

His head lifts then, sharp hunter’s eyes finding mine. There’s a predatory promise in their depths belying the amusement curving his lips. “If it leads to eating pussy, then yes. Since you ask so nicely, I’d be more than happy educating that thick skull of yours on the glorious finer points of cunnilingus.”

Scoffing, I flip him a crude middle finger as Jace cackles beside me. “With your tongue skills? Please, I’d rather learn how to tongue-fuck from a cheese grater.”

The wait drags on, tension coiling tighter with every passing second. My leg bounces with restless energy, fingers drumming an unsteady rhythm against the armrest as I sneak glances toward Arius. Stormy eyes narrow into slits, jaw clenched so rigid the vein throbs at his temple. Every inch of him radiates defiance and irritation like a cobra poised to strike. Whatever new shite Hansley plans on dishing out clearly has Arius on edge.

Rhys clears his throat, the sound shattering my wandering focus. I quirk a brow as he glances up from the leather-bound tome balanced on one knee. “Did you know the Kakapo is the world’s only flightless parrot?” A sly grin tugs his lips as my blank stare meets his wry amusement. “Unique little bugger, that one. Nearly went extinct a few decades back due to—”

A derisive snort erupts from my other side where Jace lounges with one leg crossed over the opposite knee, thumb swiping idly across his phone screen. “Aye, sounds dead fascinating, Rhysie,” he drawls in that posh accent dripping sarcasm. His emerald gaze flits up, dancing with mischief. “Read any decent poultry porn involving a well-hung cockerel lately? Heard those tomes make for bloody brilliant wank material.”

My bark of laughter echoes off the polished oak walls. “You telling me you get your rocks off to feathery fowl, hiena?” I tease, leaning into his solid warmth with a playful elbow jostle. “Didn’t peg you for the type into poultry porn. Thought I knew everything about you.”

Rhys simply arches one dark brow as he meets my taunting gaze. “If I required erotica involving avian creatures to stimulate arousal, Jace,” he murmurs in that exaggerated drawl, voice dropping sinfully lower, “at least I’d delight in demonstrating that silver tongue’s true flexibility… unlike some chaps overly preoccupied with cocks.”

A crimson flush heats my cheeks at the blatant innuendo, chuckling under my breath while Jace snickers beside me. Only Arius seems immune to the provocative barbs exchanged, slouching into the cushions with brooding intensity as he glares into the middle distance.

Finally, the creak of the heavy oak door swinging inward snaps me fully alert. All four of us rise in unison as Hansley strides through without preamble. The old bat doesn’t bother glancing our way, features arranged in a scowl of concentration while she saunters toward the desk. Papers and files and various scholarly knick-knacks litter the polished surface in an organised chaos—the relics and obsessions of a lifetime’s dedication to an arguably dubious cause.

Like a well-oiled machine, the moment Hansley sinks onto the worn leather chair with a dull groan, my knees automatically bend in a respectful genuflect until I’m seated once more. The other lads follow suit, bodies folding in precise mirrored movements honed through rigorous training and conditioning.

My eyes flit toward Arius the second Hansley settles behind her desk, breath catching at the outright hostility radiating off the bloke in waves. His jaw grinds so tightly I swear I hear the furious squeal of molars, and that vein throbs dangerously at his temple as if his head might rupture at any second.

Before the Matriarch even parts those perfectly lined lips, Arius hurls himself directly into the fray. “This isn’t how we conduct bloody business, Hansley,” he bites out, every syllable dripping venom, one hand gesturing with an agitated air to punctuate the statement. “Summoning us like trained mutts without following proper Council protocol—I don’t appreciate these flagrant breaches of decorum. Not to mention requesting Briar’s presence?”

Hansley’s brows climb toward her hairline as she regards Arius coolly. With a dismissive roll of bony shoulders, she leans back and crosses arms over her chest. “The Council has bigger issues occupying their attention at present,” the woman sneers, nose crinkling in distaste. “Best leave these trivial matters to those capable of handling them without dithering over technicalities, don’t you agree?”

I don’t miss the way Arius’ nostrils flare at the blatant slight, jaw clenching so tightly I’m surprised his teeth don’t shatter. For several taut heartbeats, I expect him to fully unleash the towering inferno of rage simmering in that icy stare. But just as abruptly as the tension crests, Hansley barrels straight past it without giving Arius a chance at rebuttal.

“Speaking of Ms. West,” she drawls, beady gaze flickering toward my best mate with pointed disdain, “perhaps you’d care to illuminate how our little Neophyte is settling into her compulsory coursework, Mr. Whitlocke. And, preferably, why she isn’t present.”

At that, some of the incandescent fury burning behind those turbulent eyes finally ebbs. Arius’ shoulders slump infinitesimally as he tears focus from Hansley, gaze dropping toward the polished floorboards between his Oxfords. “Briar despises every second of it,” he mutters, words clipped yet carrying across the chamber’s stillness with crisp clarity. “She particularly loathes the etiquette curriculum. And she isn’t here because I deemed it unnecessary to subject her to your special brand of disrespect.”

I can’t resist rolling my eyes at the revelation—of course our feral little wildcat would bristle at being caged. Hansley simply snorts, thin lips curling in revulsion at Arius’ admission. “Then Ms. West had best get the fuck over her delicate fucking sensibilities if she hopes to survive this damned place,” she sneers.

Arius’ jaw twitches, eyes flicking up to meet Hansley’s head-on. But whatever retort burns on his tongue remains unvoiced, the bloke pursing his lips in a petulant, stoic mask of quiet acquiescence.

Seizing on that brief lull and Arius’ apparent reluctance to engage further, I decide to seize the offensive before someone can hijack the conversation into another inane tangent. “Is there a reason you gathered all four of us this morning, Headmistress?” I prod, injecting my tone with carefully pitched detached disinterest. “Seems a bit early in the day for your usual games of sadistic humiliation.”

A slow, sly smirk spreads across the woman’s features. “Ever the obedient little bootlicker masquerading behind bravado, aren’t you ?” she purrs. Hansley’s gaze drifts from me toward the group at large. “Indeed, I did summon you obstinate little shites for a very particular reason. You see, Ms. West’s next Trial requires participation from all of you mongrels.”

I scowl at the deliberate provocation, shooting a glare toward Jace when the cocky fucker chuckles. “And just what the bloody hell does that mean?” I growl, shoulders squaring.

Rhys doesn’t even flinch, simply arching one aristocratic brow as he turns a page in that stuffy academic tome without bothering to glance up. But Jace, the incorrigible little shite, fixes me with emerald eyes absolutely twinkling with wicked mirth. “Means you’re gonna have to get your cock wet, mate,” he drawls, perfectly framing that posh accent around the crassly lurid implication.

“Language, Mr. Caldwell,” Hansley huffs out her admonishment without missing a beat, that hawkish scowl sliding in Jace’s direction for a brief instant.

Then her attention snaps back to encompass the lot of us once more. “During her next Trial, we’ll be conducting a bit of sport,” Hansley announces, voice laced with disturbingly chipper enthusiasm. “An age-old tradition fallen into disrepute in recent decades due to festering apathy and weakness within our ranks. I intend to rectify such pathetic dereliction—we’re orchestrating a Hunt for the Stock.”

The frigid pall of silence weighing down the chamber is abruptly rent by Rhys’ humourless bark of laughter. “Hunt the Stock?” he echoes, those dark eyes finally lifting to pierce Hansley with raw incredulity. “You can’t be bloody serious? We haven’t conducted that base little ritual in nigh sixty years.”

Hansley’s grin widens, all perfect edges and vicious glee. “And that’s precisely why we’re reinstating the Hunt, Mr. Marston,” she counters silkily. “It’s the perfect means to test our Neophyte’s fortitude, you see—her resilience and self-preservation instincts under duress.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I note the way Arius’ jawline twitches, the slightest full-body flinch rippling through him at the mention of the word ‘Hunt.’ Before I can ponder the uncharacteristic tell further, the wanker’s already locked down that impenetrable mask of aristocratic indifference once more.

“So I gather we’re aiming for a… traditional approach to this Hunt?” Arius muses carefully, each syllable clipped and precise. That piercing stare slices through the space between him and Hansley like a blade’s edge seeking blood. “Or will the parameters be modernised in any fashion?”

Hansley reclines back in her ancient leather throne, steepling refined fingers as she appraises Arius through narrowed, squinting slits for several elongated beats. Finally, she lets out a long, rattling sigh through flaring nostrils.

“I don’t give a rat’s festering arse how you mutts choose to conduct yourselves so long as the job gets done,” Hansley proclaims with a dismissive wave. “But you’d best get your wicks unfurled and throbbing for the occasion, Whitlocke. Unless you’ve developed some… performance issues of which I should be apprised?”

Arius stiffens at the barbed insinuation as a dull flush burns across those chiselled features—embarrassment, or merely indignant rage? With him recently, either is equally plausible. “My cock functions just bloody fine,” he bites out.

“Good,” Hansley fires back without missing a beat, that triumphant smirk still etched across her lips. “Because I expect you troglodytes to give that little cunt everything she can handle and more during this Trial.”

Tension stretches out toward the breaking point as the words hang there, the air charged and thick enough to choke. Jace shifts uncomfortably beside me, hands fidgeting in his lap while Rhys affects indifference behind that dusty old book’s cover.

But through it all, my focus remains locked on Arius—the muscle twitching erratically in his clenched jaw… the icy storm raging behind unfathomable eyes… the barely perceptible tremor gripping his shoulders as if the slightest spark might ignite him into a conflagration of unbridled violence to bring this sanctum thundering down around us…

What the everfucking hell has been eating away at my best mate? I’ve never witnessed such unrestrained unravelling in Arius before—he’s always been the epitome of iron-clad discipline and control, the consummate aristocrat with nary a hair out of place.

But recently? Shite, it’s like the bloke’s a bloody live wire on the verge of meltdown, oscillating between white-hot wrath and sullen melancholy without discernible rhyme or reason. And I can’t figure out what’s driving this erratic, uncharacteristic spiral into instability no matter how I rack my brain.