Page 33 of Crown of Thorns (The Initiation #3)

LOUIS

Gael: Where the hell is everybody? Louis? There’s no birthday party without the Deveraux Cocktail, bro

Arthur: Narcissistic, much?

Dominique: You all are.

Gael: Trésor? Where are you?

Régis: We’re heading back from town. Last minute gift shopping.

Gael: It better be expensive.

Arthur: Kitten, get your ass in here fast before I hunt you down. And where are you, bro?

N ews flash: I’m still dreaming of today.

A whole damn day in the forest with Noah. We hacked at those thorny vines like madmen. Well, mostly me, because he gave up halfway through, and even the scalding shower afterward couldn’t scrub away the ache in my arms.

Those vines aren’t just persistent; they’re feral. Guarding something. Something hidden under years of rot and silence. Like everything at Monterrey Castle, the whole place breathes mystery.

Noah looked genuinely surprised when we uncovered the windows beneath the overgrowth. The way he stared down at them—quiet, calculating—like there was more he wasn’t telling me.

Now I’m in his dorm, in the kitchen nook I bought for him, mostly practical but with a touch of obnoxious luxury, all marble and chrome.

Not exactly Noah’s style, but perfect for us.

I stare at my Deveraux signature, sugared rims and all.

This, all, feels…significant. Like we’ve stepped into something neither of us can name yet.

He’s even started to wait up for me in the evenings. The way his eyes light up when I walk in. It’s like coming home, like I finally belong somewhere. It makes me want to lavish him with gifts. To buy him the world, if it means I get that smile again.

Once I’d overheard Natalie tell my father that I’d need someone emotionally strict to keep me in line. I didn’t understand what she meant at the time. But now? I think I do.

Noah gives me purpose.

Arthur: LOUIS!

Gael: Bro, give him a sign of life. Our infamous watchdog is going crazy.

I snort. They don’t need to know where I am. Not yet. Gael’s a suspicious bastard, and Arthur’s turning his obsessive eye my way now that he’s got Régis in his clutches. I’ve been sneaking out of bed at midnight. Still showing up for morning runs with Dominique. Playing the game.

Maybe I should marry Noah. Chain a ring to his finger. Ink my name into his skin.

Too soon. Probably.

God, listen to me. I sound like a lunatic. But how else do you keep a man like him? What if I’m pushing too hard? What if all this want, this thing that might become love, only pushes him further away?

I look down at the cocktails I’ve made. I almost send a photo to the group to mess with them, but I stop myself. Not yet.

No, patience is a virtue.

Speaking of…

The cocktails are ready, but Noah still hasn’t shown up. He told me he had an appointment, but how long can it take? I stayed behind in the forest to keep working on those vines, pissed off and determined to win.

I want him to see what I uncovered. I want to see those eyes, silver and unreadable, flash with something like gratitude. Something like his walls cracking.

But I haven’t earned that. Not yet.

The bed’s made. A dim light glows, his usual ritual. He never says it out loud, but I suspect he’s afraid of the dark.

I down one of the cocktails and send him a pic. Lick the sugar from my lips, still nothing.

By the time I finish the second, my phone buzzes. His live location pops up, burning bright on the screen.

He left. Not just the castle. Me.

No fucking doubt. No hesitation. No backtrack.

I don’t sit there and overthink it. I don’t spiral into the “what if's” or “whys.”

I just feel it, the sting, the cold punch straight to the gut.

Because sometimes, leaving isn’t just a walk away. It’s a goddamn declaration.

I grab my keys. Slide behind the wheel of my Audi.

If he’s out there playing pretend while I’m here waiting like a lovesick idiot, I’m going to make him bleed.

The café’s dimly lit, all scratched wood tables and aging velvet booths. It smells like old books and bergamot, comfort trying to disguise itself as class. I spot him instantly.

Corner booth. A woman sits across from him. Blonde, pretty, a subtle kind of polished. He’s laughing. Relaxed. One arm draped over the back of the chair, tea in hand.

He never laughs like that with me.

Does he laugh like that when I’m not looking? What the hell would it take to earn that kind of ease?

Little devil: Where are you?

I watch his phone light up. He flicks the message away without a glance.

Little devil: Who’s the blonde bitch?

He doesn’t even blink.

I want to rip the table apart. Drag him outside by the collar. Make him look at me the way he did in the forest. With tension. With need. Not this…ease he’s giving her.

I slam back a glass of cheap champagne and storm out.

Back in the car, I sit gripping the wheel, vibrating with fury.

My thoughts circle like wolves. Snarling. Hungry. Ready to tear flesh from bone. And even after everything, after the kiss, the truth, the bruised relief, I can still feel them pacing at the edge of my mind, restless, unsatisfied, waiting for the next crack in his armor.

What does she have that I don’t? Her laugh? Her calm? The way she fits into this small town while I burn like sin at the edges?

I want to scratch her name out of existence. I want to brand mine into him.

And then, minutes later, Noah steps outside.

He sees the car. For a second, something flickers—surprise, maybe even guilt—but then his face hardens. Beautiful and conflicted.

He yanks the door open and drops into the passenger seat.

"Louis..." His voice is quiet. Tired. "You followed me?"

“You disappear after everything we did today,” I say, voice low and raw. “Don’t answer me. Don’t come home. And then I find you laughing with someone else like none of it mattered. What the fuck was I supposed to think?”

“She’s not a stranger.”

“So, what is she? A date?” I hate how my voice breaks on the word.

He doesn’t answer. I floor the gas and shoot us back toward the castle, jaw locked.

The silence is a blade between us. And I’m the one bleeding.

We walk the same steps up to the dorms together. First time that’s ever happened. No playing games. No letting him go first so he can pretend I don’t exist.

At his door, he tries.

“Shouldn’t you…”

“No.” The word scrapes out of me.

The hallway hums with quiet. The walls press in like they’re listening.

Inside, I don’t wait. I grab him by the collar and shove him into the wall. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t stop me. Eyes sharp. Mouth stubborn. For the first time, he looks…uncertain.

“What the fuck are you playing at?” I growl. “You think I’m your dirty secret? A distraction? After today?”

“Louis…”

“Don’t Louis me. I know I’m your student. I know you think I’m dangerous for your career, but…”

“Would you really choose me?”

His voice is soft. Direct.

I freeze. “Would I what?” He doesn’t answer.

“Would I ruin you?” I ask. “Would I protect you? Would I choose you? I want to know you,” I say finally.

“I want to know what you like, what you need. I want to be the one who gives it to you. Even if it drives me mad. Even if your silence makes me want to burn the world just to hear you speak my name.”

My hand on his throat loosens. He licks his lips, that goddamn mouth.

“You don’t have to…”

“Shut up,” I whisper, but there’s hesitation in my voice. Not to silence him, but just to hold on a moment longer. I press his head back against the wall, not to hurt him, but just to feel him. To make sure he’s real.

He doesn’t flinch. But his breath stutters once, like something inside him wants to run.

“I like to study,” he murmurs. “Science. History. The woods. Today was… nice.”

There’s a quiet to him now like he’s lowering his mask one thread at a time.

“I think I like stars,” he continues. “They’re beautiful, far away, but also… sad. Already gone by the time we see them. Just echoes.”

“Yeah?”

“My mom used to read to me when I was little. My favourite was a retelling of Bluebeard. Creepy, I know. But she made it soft somehow. Warm. Later, it was just textbooks. The stories stopped when she got sick.”

I hold still, afraid to break the moment.

“You were right,” he says. “I love apples. Coffee. Scones.” He blinks, and something shifts in his eyes. Like a shadow crossing the moon.

“I can make you apple scones,” I whisper.

“I’d like that.”

His smile hits like a punch. I can see it. Him at the table, messy papers everywhere, coffee steam curling into the air, those glasses slipping down his nose.

I almost say it.

“So,” I mutter, “if she wasn’t a date, then who was she?”

“You do know you’re a stalker, right?”

“That’s because you’re mine.”

He opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. His eyes spark. He lets out a string of low curses and surges forward, wrapping his arms around me.

Relief surges through me. My lips find his. I slide my tongue inside, tasting defiance and salt and longing.

“Don’t disappear on me again,” I whisper against his lips. “I need to know where you are.”

“Louis, stop it.”

I smile. “I’ll never stop.”

He groans.

“Gael’s party is tonight,” I say reluctantly. “I should go. If I don’t, they’ll start asking questions, and you don’t need more eyes on you.”

I hesitate. “Unless you want to come with me?”

He doesn’t answer. I don’t expect him to.

But the tightness in my chest doesn’t go away. Not even as I mark his neck with my teeth. Not even as he moans into my mouth. One more mark he can’t explain away. Maybe I’m not just staking a claim, I’m building a ritual of my own.

“You are mine, Noah.” I’m not gentle because I care. I’m rough because I do. If I don’t mark him, someone else will.

He doesn’t say it back. But he doesn’t say no, either.

I texted Amadou to trace the identity of the blonde woman, just in case, then climbed the stairs and headed for the party.

I may not know much about him yet, but I do know that he left Saint-Laurent when he was sixteen.

Why, I don’t know. He lived a rough couple of years before somehow managing to get into college.

Sure, university is free, but it still costs a lot for him to actually obtain his degree.

Let alone starting and finishing his PhD degree in less than six years.

On paper, the man is a genius, undoubtedly the reason the board hired him. But what sort of a man has he become? A man who doesn’t have time to enjoy the pleasures life offers. What would he have loved had he been given the chance?

Because that’s what this is about. I can feel it. About his own sexual identity. I will coax the words out of him one way or another. Perhaps I can be a patient man, too.

I want to. With him. I want him to want me, to fall for me and never get up again.

But even after tonight, the hunger won’t leave. I thought I’d feel calm. Sated. Instead, I’m worse. Restless. Starving. Like I’ve just tasted something holy and now I’ll rot without it. It’s pathetic, I know. But fuck it…I’ve never wanted anything this badly.