Page 6 of Crown of Thorns (The Initiation #3)

NOAH

M y eyes snap open at the sound of an unfamiliar tune. It’s still dark behind the curtains. Clutching my blanket, I turn to grab my phone. No notifications. It's not even six in the morning. My alarm isn't due for another hour. What woke me up?

There’s that tune again. No.

My heart jumps to my throat as I slowly grab the other phone. Two unread messages:

Anonymous: You know what I’m thinking of? That gorgeous body of yours. Don’t make me beg for a little preview.

Anonymous: Make it worth my time.

I roll back onto my back with a groan. That little menace. That smug, insufferable menace. That bloody nuisance.

Anonymous: I know you’ve read my messages. Did I wake you? I can’t sleep. I keep thinking of what you did in that bathroom stall.

Well, that makes two of us, but he doesn’t need to know that. My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I keep on deleting my message.

Anonymous: It was so fucking hot to get sucked off, knowing that you were hiding in there.

Noah: I wasn’t hiding.

I remove the words. I shouldn’t write back. Shouldn’t give him any ammunition to continue this…whatever this is.

Anonymous: You were typing. What did you want to say?

I don’t realise I’m holding my breath until he’s typing again.

Anonymous: Were you thinking of the club? Of how you loved watching me dance? How it made you hard just seeing me move like that, while you stood there imagining your hands on me?

He might be young, but he’s got a filthy mouth. Too bad for him, I won’t lower myself to that same level. Throwing the phone back on the floor, I try to ignore the incoming message, but now my dick is tenting my sleeping pants.

I shut my eyes and try to ignore the tingling in my balls. It lasts maybe ten seconds before they snap open again. This is not going to work.

My hand trails down my stomach, leaving a wake of flutters before I dip into my briefs and grab hold of my cock. Hissing at the first touch, I slowly start stroking my rapidly growing erection.

“Hmpf...” I’m back in that room, back on that chair.

Ari’s Babydoll echoes through my head and I feel Louis grinding his hips against mine, his aching dick against mine.

The way he smoothly went down to his knees, unpacked me as if I was a gift, teased my leaking cock, smirked at me with that haughty, stunning smile.

My back arches off the bed, and I shudder, hips rolling against my hand. The room is now gone, but Louis is still on his knees, the music’s still there, reverberating in my head, driving me crazy.

“Fffuuu…” I moan, my fantasy capturing the next scene. Louis’s lips, stretched around my cock. He smirks when he takes me deeper down his throat.

My hand flies over my shaft, collecting precum at the tip and smearing it over my girth for more slickness.

Louis pops off my dick, jacking it while smiling up at me.

‘I own your world now, Professor.’

My balls throb at those words, and my eyes roll back when I pick up the rhythm of swiping, jacking, swiping… ‘No one owns me.”

‘Wrong.’

I hate that I want him like this. That even my own hands can’t forget the way he sounds.

Behind my squeezed shut eyes, Louis licks my crown.

I shudder when he suckles it back into his mouth, his palm still fondling my balls.

My toes curl in pleasure, and I curve my throat and stroke myself furiously, coaxing an orgasm, needing to be wrecked.

It does, raging through me as I spurt all over myself, leaving me a panting, shameful mess.

I hate myself for letting him get to me. Again. For needing it. For craving him.

Picking up the phone, I read his final text.

Anonymous: Next time I’ll make those sounds for you, Professor.

I t’s busy when I head to the canteen for some lunch.

On my way in, I pass one of the teachers from the older faculty buildings. He glances at me strangely, then says under his breath, "You have your grandfather’s eyes. Let’s hope not his sins."

I turn to question him, but he’s already walked off. While waiting for my order, I flinch hard when fingers clamp down on my shoulder. A rush of heat—fight or flight—before I hear the voice I dreaded.

“Bad conscience, Professor?” When I turn around, I find Louis leaning against the display case, hands folded in front of his chest, smirking like a Cheshire cat. “That’s because you’ve been ignoring my messages.”

“Not here,” I bite.

Dark eyes peer right into mine, their challenging flare a dangerous seduction. “Then where?”

“Nowhere.” When he blinks, I swallow. He’s got the longest lashes I’ve ever seen.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Professor. Allow me—” He grabs my tray and walks off.

“To my office.”

“Certainly, Professor.” His shoulders are broad, rippling as he holds my food. I hate myself for noticing.

We walk in silence through the corridors. I don’t miss how everyone greets Louis, only to get a cool jut of his chin in return.

He whistles when he follows me inside. “Nice office, Professor. Although the furniture’s a bit old.”

“Please place the tray on my desk, Louis. Thank you. Now, let me give you back your phone.”

“You can keep it, Professor. Although I’d appreciate you executing my orders.”

I lick my dried lips, then slide the phone his way. He watches it for a beat before picking it up. The contact is deliberate, his fingers graze the edge of mine. But for once, he takes it back without comment, tucking it into his pocket like it never meant anything at all.

My fists unclench under the table, the release involuntary. It’s like watching a lion lower its head. Not out of fear, but play. “I’m glad we understand each other. Please refrain from leaving any items with my possessions. I won’t report it this time, but I will if this happens again.”

Louis grins. “Oh, you’ll report me? Please do, Professor. The thought gets me all hard.” He takes another step back, the grin still curling at his lips, but his hands remain at his sides.

“That’s enough. I won’t tolerate this behaviour.” But my hands are trembling, face flushed.

Louis barks out a laugh. “Beautiful. I’m having so much fun.”

“Leave, Louis.”

I sit glued to my chair, unable to move, desperate to keep my calm. My dick has hardened in my pants, and I’m mortified he’ll notice. I’m not even sure when it happened. “Close the door when you leave, please.”

Louis’s smile is pure malice. He doesn’t leave.

Instead, he moves around the desk with that same predatory grace, leaning down until his lips brush the curls above my ear.

A slow exhale. A teasing blow. Then a nip to my lobe, sharp, claiming.

He bites down harder than necessary, making me flinch.

His hand slips between my thighs, cupping me with confident possession.

Then he straightens, smooths down his jacket, and strolls toward the door like a man satisfied. “I’ll let you know what I want from you,” he calls over his shoulder. “Given the situation you’re in.”

T he raging storm is the perfect excuse to visit the library before finishing my work week. Besides, those empty bookcases in my office are a thorn in my side.

They remind me of what I am exactly.

Poor.

Climbing up the spiral staircase to the second floor, I'm welcomed by my kind of paradise.

Enormous windows. An endless space filled with round tables, set with green notary lamps.

And books. Rows and rows of them. Categorised by section, alphabetically.

I'm practically salivating. It takes me less than an hour to create an obnoxiously messy stack of books.

I intend to read them all.

Recycling life with the unknown.

That’s what I’ve always done.

Back in my office, I play I Love You by Woodkid on my phone and move around just because I can. And this cupboard… I contemplate going back up to the library and dragging another pile of books down here to fill it entirely.

Melody texts me about a party she’s going to, asking if I want to join. The invitation is touching, but we both know I won’t go.

It’s nice, this time together life has offered us. A second chance between brother and sister. After all, she was only seven when I left home.

Home .

I hate the word. It never meant safety; it meant silence, judgment, and exile. It represents nothing but shards of collections, swept up and binned in my Parisian shack. Because that's what you get for conditional love. You get sent away by your own father.

I jerk awake with a gasp, heart hammering in my chest. Disoriented, I blink against the blackness, my breath catching as I peel a damp sheet of paper from my cheek.

The air is cold, sharp with the scent of old paper and rain-soaked stone.

For a moment, I can’t tell where I am. Then lightning flashes behind the curtain, and the thunder follows.

Loud and close. The storm hasn’t eased. Still hungry.

Pushing myself out of my chair, I make my way to the light switch, nearly tripping over a discarded book I must have forgotten to store in the cupboard.

The sudden light makes me squint, and I raise an arm above my eyes. I swear, when the time shows it’s nearly midnight, and the string of missed texts Melo left me.

“Where are you?” She asks when she picks up my call.

Rubbing the stubble on my jaw, I stifle a yawn. “I fell asleep in my office. I’m coming home now.”

“You fell asleep? I was worried sick!”

“I thought you were at that party?”

“I changed my mind. I made you something instead. I was waiting with a bottle of wine… but I drank it while you were sleeping.”

I chuckle and make work of closing my bag. “Well, open a new bottle, I’ll be home before you know.”

“On it.”

Pocketing my phone, I pull on my coat to leave. While locking up, I hear sounds. Dimmed laughter, followed by hushed voices.

I’m way past curfew. I grimace at the meaning of the word. It used to mark the difference between danger and safety.

Not here. Not anymore. Those years have passed.

But my heart hasn't gotten the memo, threshing in my chest. I don’t like the darkness for obvious reasons. At night, evil strikes. At night, they’ll search your stuff, steal your food, and your money.

At night, the streets aren’t safe.

It’s a college, I tell myself.

It’s nothing.

It’s Friday night, and all these students live here. I don’t have to be scared. But old habits don’t die, and the corridor looks too dark, too foreign.

A chill runs down my spine. The storm outside has gone eerily quiet, like it’s holding its breath. The walls creak. The smell of dust and something coppery invades my senses.

Something clatters on the floor, and I jump, the flashlight on my phone flickering around.

It’s nothing.

Footsteps .

My hand trembles when I lift my phone, yelping when I trap a figure in my light. Cloaked from head to toe, he wears a Venetian mask. His eyes, black and intense, stare right at me.

“What the hell?” I cry out.

My phone slips out of my hands and clunks onto the wooden floor. Fuck. I bend down and search frantically. When I pull it back up, the stranger is on the move. My legs move before my brain can stop me. What if it’s a prank? A student? I should call security. But I don’t. I run.

We round the corner, where scorns have been lit against the walls, giving the narrow corridor a sinister flicker. Strangers in ancient, framed photos stare at me, their gazes hollow but their eyes twitching as they seem to follow my every move.

The corridor bends in impossible ways. My footfalls echo too loudly, like I’m trespassing somewhere forgotten.

He's way ahead of me, moving surprisingly fast for a vision of terror, until he vanishes into the wall like smoke sucked through a crack.

My heart drums out of my ribcage, and my steps are far from being measured. “Where are you?” I ask the empty hall.

Slowly, I approach the spot where I last saw him. There’s a large painting of a dark forest with a glowing moon. And a crow, sitting on a branch, its black, beady eyes staring right at me. The moon glows faintly, lit from within. The crow’s gaze gleams, not just pigment, but memory. Warning.

Granddad always said the crows watched over us. That they remembered things men forgot. Back then, I thought it was just one of his stories. Now I’m not so sure.

No door.

I reach out, nerves pooling in my stomach, touching the paint, and I swear it’s like that bird can fly out at any time, stabbing my neck with its beak.

I yank my hand back, heart racing. I turn on my heel and half-jog, half-stumble through the flickering corridor, the shadows licking at my heels. The further I go, the more the hallway begins to resemble the world I know. Solid, familiar, lit by emergency bulbs.

By the time I reach the last stretch, I’m moving fast, driven by instinct. I push through the heavy door and emerge into the reception hall. The soft glow of a night light washes the space in warmth, and I finally breathe again.

The main doors creak open under my hand. I step outside into the storm’s fury, letting the rain lash against my face. It’s cold and unrelenting, but I welcome it. Anything to shake off that eerie stillness.

I stand there, soaked and shivering, like some idiot caught between fear and fascination.

The outside wall of the castle rises like a dark monolith, its stones slick with rain. Near the upper arch, lights form a circle, crows mid-flight, their wings frozen in luminous motion. Their shadows ripple across the wall, twisting and flaring like whispered secrets.

A message. A warning. Or maybe… an invitation.

Either way, they’re watching.