Page 5 of Crown of Thorns (The Initiation #3)

NOAH

" Y ou look just like her."

Melo lounges on the sofa, clay stains smudged across her honey-brown cheeks and under her short, bitten nails.

She’s wearing one of her old linen morning gowns, the sleeves pushed to her elbows, revealing wiry forearms dusted in flour and dried glaze.

Her curls, thick, reddish-brown, and wild, are barely held together by a worn scrunchie.

She looks like a painting unfinished, eyes sharp and luminous behind wide-frame glasses, and a mug of chamomile tea tucked into one hand.

“Like who?” I ask, my brows drawing together.

“You know who.”

I shake my head. “How can you tell that? We’ve barely spent time together.”

She shrugs. “A few weeks. And all those years before.”

“Well, I’m nothing like her.” Clicking my briefcase shut, I head for the coat rack.

“You so do. All pent-up, hard on yourself, a loner. Let me guess, you’re always early?”

I give her a pointed look through the mirror. “And you base that on…?”

“The time. You’re supposed to be there at eight. It’s a five-minute drive. It’s seven now.” She juts her face toward the clock that hangs on the wall above the fridge. It’s the one she made for Father’s Day when she was seven years old, two months before I left.

“I prefer to call it punctual.”

Melo snorts. “If you’re looking for your phone, it’s next to the coffee machine.”

“Right. You could have said that before.” I snatch it off the counter.

“It was too funny watching you. You know you’re going to be okay, right?” She gets up from the couch and strolls my way.

I have to be. But I don't say that.

Instead, I glare at my reflection in the mirror.

Navy-blue suit with a white shirt, no tie—since it wasn’t obligatory—and at my feet, brown sneakers.

Our eyes meet. “I hate my hair. And I’m nothing like her.

Not in the way I cringe at my reflection, not in the way this suit feels like borrowed pride, like armour I haven’t earned. ”

“You didn’t know her.” Melody runs a brush through my strawberry-blond curls, smoothing them out.

“I didn’t want to.”

“That’s because you didn’t want to know yourself. It’s not too late to change your mind. Got your wallet?” My baby sister only reaches my shoulder, but her eyes make me yield every time.

“Yeah.” But we both know that it’s empty.

I think of last week, of walking past a bakery, stomach hollow, calculating which coins I could spare.

My first paycheck won’t come until the end of the month, and we’ve already used most of Melody’s small artist allocation to pay for the house and groceries.

“You’ve got to eat, Nooms. Why don’t you take that fifty euro note you hid in the couch the other day? Mom used to do that, too.” She smiles knowingly.

“What? Stash money away behind pillows?”

“Hmm. Told you, you’re just like her.” She brushes away another lock.

“I doubt that very seriously. She never—” I clamp my mouth shut.

The brush halts. “She never what?”

“Nothing.”

“Stubborn.”

“I’m not.”

“Beautiful. With that mysterious conflict in your eyes.”

“You make everything sound like a painting.”

“Well, you’d make a fine model, that’s for sure.” She ruffles my hair, bringing my curls back into their previous state of chaos, and pulls on my arm for me to turn around. Humming an approval, she wipes off some invisible dust from my jacket. “These guys have no idea what’s coming for them.”

“You make it look like this suit doesn’t come from H its students are tomorrow’s leaders. They have been taught how to behave. It'll be easy.

I ’m wrong.

I sense it the first moment I step into the classroom. I knew they only had one study hall inside this castle, but the size of this class reminds me of my high school years.

The group is rowdy, not paying me any attention as I make my way to the front.

One of them stands by the window, smoking a cigarette while chatting with his friend, who sits with his feet on the table, his chair pulled back on two legs.

I contemplate snatching the cigarette right out of his hands, but refrain.

I don’t want to make any enemies on my first day.

After placing my laptop on the desk, I straighten to my full height.

“Welcome, everyone. My name’s Noah Montague.

I’m a professor in both sociology and finance.

I’m grateful for those who signed up for this class.

We’ll be looking at group behaviour in finance and will analyze your own behaviour in a number of test cases. ”

Everyone ignores me.

I clap once, sharp, clearing my throat. “Excuse me, class has begun. Can someone please close the door?”

“We’re not complete yet,” says the guy by the window, then flicks away his cigarette and blows out a final hit. Sliding the window shut, he plops down onto his seat next to his friend.

“Well, those who arrive too late will have to skip the class. Please close the door.” My request stays unanswered.

“I expect you to show the same respect I’m showing each and every one of you.

” I end up walking down the aisle myself, annoyance building in my gut.

Just as I grasp the door handle, it’s pulled open from the other side with such force, I’m thrown against a solid chest. “What the…”

The door flies open with dramatic flair, the clack of designer boots echoing like a warning down the corridor.

Louis Deveraux enters like the lead in his own private play.

Coat slung over one shoulder, lips curled into a smirk sharp enough to cut glass.

“Well, hello again,” he drawls, voice dipped in honey and sin.

The scent of bergamot and expensive cologne hits before he even rounds the threshold.

My skin prickles at the proximity. Charcoal eyes, framed by sculpted brows, drag up from my shoes to my face.

Slow, indulgent. Louis whistles, low and mocking, like he’s already claimed me.

Clenching my jaw, I feel my nostrils flare. “I thought you hadn’t signed up for my classes.”

“I changed my mind. Mo, your seat,” Louis winks, then walks past me and inside the classroom.

In a blink, everything shifts. Chairs scrape, spines straighten, and the room holds its breath.

The prince has arrived. Books are being opened, and the noise dims to a silence.

I grind my teeth when a guy on the row stands and picks up his stuff, clearing the table that sits right across from my desk.

Again, I let it slide. One challenge at a time.

“Just to be clear, we start at eight thirty. Not five minutes later. I show up on time and expect the same courtesy from my students. Yes, Deveraux?”

“How can we call you, Professor? You’re so young.” He blows a bubble with his gum, encouraged by the others as it grows and grows.

My hands ball into fists. “No chewing gum in class, please.” Louis squints his eyes when someone takes a picture, making everyone laugh. “No phones either. And you may call me Professor, or Mr. Montague.”

Louis sticks out his tongue and collects the gum, sticking it under his desk. White heat appears behind my eyes, recollections burning of all the shit jobs I had to keep food on the table. Hours of scraping gum from school furniture.

His eyes stay fixed on me through the entire length of my introduction. He sprawls in his chair like he owns the place, thighs parted, long legs stretched nearly to my desk. Inked fingers twirl a pen like a blade.

I don’t often feel vulnerable while teaching, but right now I do.

Because he’s the kind of boy who takes up space like it’s his birthright.

Because I’m in trouble, and he knows it.

The hours crawl by in a blur of meaningless classes and forced smiles.

Hours later, when I get home after work, it still controls my thoughts.

Pouring myself a glass of wine, I sit at the bar, phone in hand.

A quick search on Louis Deveraux gives me information I already know.

Heir to the Deveraux Holding, together with his famous twin, Arthur, and their obnoxious cousin, Gael.

There’s a stepbrother, Régis. The family worth is over five billion euros.

Louis has over two hundred thousand followers on IG, where he mostly shares boring pics of himself at luxurious parties.

He shows off his tanned skin, his muscled build, and his ink.

He smiles at the camera like he knows exactly how hot and bothered he leaves the rest of us.

#frenchboyspartybest

#barcelonagayparade

I scroll through the first fifty posts before I realize what I’m doing. One of the videos auto-plays with sound. There’s a burst of laughter and music and I jolt, nearly dropping the phone. Each grin sends feelings through me. Half shame, half heat. I feel pathetic. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The door to the studio opens, and Melody walks in. Her curls are wrapped into a messy bun, and she shuffles by on her slippers, yawning. “You’re back. How was your first day?”

“It was alright.” I watch as she washes her hands by the sink.

“What are you watching?”

“Nothing, really. I was about to go to bed.”

A phone rings.

We both glance at the one in my hand, but it stays silent.

“That yours?”

She shakes her head. Drying her hands, she walks up to my briefcase and slides out a phone. A brand-new iPhone 16, silver and gleaming. That’s the one ringing with a text.

“What on earth...” I stare at the phone.

Anonymous: I own your world now, Professor.

No emojis. No name. Just that one sentence.

My heart kicks. The hum of the fridge becomes a roar in my ears. My fingers tremble above the glass.

It’s Louis, I know it is. But how the hell did he manage to sneak the damn phone into my briefcase?

“Nooms, you alright?” Melody asks.

I swallow. “Yeah. Yes. Just a late message from work.”

“Hmm. Well, it’s a nice phone.”

“Yeah.” I get up and press a kiss to her forehead, trying to shake off the unease. “Nothing important. I’m off to bed.”

“ Bonne nuit .”

I brush my teeth, change into my oldest shirt, and crawl under the covers. Melo's light clicks off a few minutes later.

But I can’t sleep.

The silver phone gleams on my dresser like a loaded gun, silent, smug, waiting. Daring me to reach for it.

I’m in trouble. Not just with my job. Not just with the rules. But with him.

Louis Deveraux.

My thoughts circle like vultures. I keep replaying it. His eyes, his words, that look like he already knows how this ends.

I need a plan. Because that text wasn’t a threat.

It was an invitation.

And Louis? He doesn’t play to lose.