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FIVE

LUCIUS

It was almost eleven, and I’d overslept half the morning. There was a half-full coffee mug cooling in my hand as I scrolled through my phone. Cass had called me a minimum of ten times, probably to check if I was alive.

I didn’t know what to tell him. That I might have fallen in love at first sight? That such a thing didn’t exist? And yet, I found myself obsessed, watching her, studying her, drawn to the raw vulnerability in her eyes.

Sighing, I flipped my phone to Do Not Disturb and settled back on the edge of the bed.

I set the cup on the nightstand and laid back, closing my eyes. My mind was a mess, tangled in thoughts of her—her face, her eyes, the soft scatter of freckles across her fair skin. I had never seen anyone like her before. I wanted her.

No, I needed her.

And what better way to have her than to make her fall for me? To break her down until she clung to the mask of a hero, the one who would rescue her? She needed a safe place. And what was safer than my arms?

I want to know everything about you. Every thought, every secret. Until I consume your thoughts. Until the only thing left on your mind is me.

Footsteps resonated along the hallway, then stopped abruptly just outside my apartment. No knock. Just the harsh clinking of metal as the door opened to slam back against the wall. Cass was there in the doorway, last night’s dark blue suit on him. The shirt was rumpled from having been slept in—or more likely having been thrown upon some woman’s floor.

He looked like he’d had a night to remember.

Staggering slightly, he pushed the door shut and stumbled toward the bedroom.

He was still drunk.

I raised a brow as I propped myself up in bed.

“You’re such an asshole,” he growled, staggering over the carpet. His body dropped beside me with a loud thud.

“What did I do now?”

“You hurt my feelings.” He pouted, turning his head to face me, lower lip trembling in exaggerated offense.

“Oh, did I?” I smirked.

“I called you last night,” he said, lips curling into a half-smile, “I needed your advice.”

I exhaled, already regretting where this conversation was heading. “About what?”

He grinned lazily. “I needed to know if I should use condoms or not during anal.”

I blinked twice.

He still reeked of whiskey and cigarettes.

“I don’t even—“ I shook my head. “What the fuck?”

“I didn’t,” he admitted with a snicker, barely able to contain his laughter.

A chuckle escaped me before I could stop it. “You’re mad, you know that?”

“Mad about women, brother.” He pushed himself up, swaying slightly before waving his hands in the air, shaping curves. “You should’ve seen her.” He clicked his tongue. “Perfection.”

“Wow,” I muttered, eyeing him. “Is this the one?”

He barked a laugh. “More like the fifth one.”

I shook my head as he pointed a finger at me, suddenly serious. “We have to find you one.”

I scoffed. “I’m good, thanks.”

He studied me for a second before narrowing his eyes. “You are so… dry.”

“You need to stop before they start talking to each other,” I shot back, laughing.

“So then what?” he questioned, tilting his head. “What?”

I exhaled, stretching out on the bed. “I might’ve already found one.”

His eyebrows raised. “Really?” He leaned in toward me, his smirk smug. “Does she even know that you’re alive?”

“Yeah,” I laughed. “She knows.”

His smirk slipped momentarily as he looked at me, his expression changing from amusement to suspicion. He paused before responding. “You didn’t stalk her, did you?”

I laughed nervously. “No,” I grumbled. “I just made sure she got home safe.”

He groaned, dropping down beside me. “We need help.” Turning to me, he added, “You do understand there are legal means to check up on a woman, don’t you?”

“Like what?”

He grinned. “The World Wide Web.” He let out a short laugh. “Ever heard of it?”

I rolled my eyes. “If I knew…” I started, already laughing.

“I got you.” He sat up, stretching before heading toward the wooden table where my laptop was. He grabbed it, carried it back, and dropped it onto the bed beside me. The screen lit up, prompting a password.

“Code?” he asked.

“One,” I said.

He started typing.

“One,” I repeated.

His fingers hovered over the keys.

“One… one,” I finished, laughing.

Cassian stopped, staring at me like I had personally offended him.

“What?” I shrugged. “I’m not a tech guy.”

“Well, technically, even if you aren’t technical, you should have a password that doesn’t start with ‘one one one one,’” he deadpanned, blinking at me.

I gave another shrug.

He sighed. “Do you at least know her name?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t need you,” I muttered, jaw clenching.

“Fine,” he said, cracking his knuckles before flexing his fingers over the keyboard. “Address?”

“14 Balmore Road, Milton, Glasgow.”

It didn’t take him but a couple of seconds to begin to type before something showed up on the screen. He frowned, studying the outcomes.

“Rosalind Ravenshaw,” he read aloud.

A picture of an older woman filled the screen. She was in her sixties, standing next to a garden full of blooming roses behind her. Her blonde hair was pushed back from her face, and her sharp blue eyes were softened by the curve of a smile. She wore a white blouse, a silk scarf loosely tied around her neck with red and white plaid details.

My gaze rested upon her eyes. Something about them was familiar. Her eyes looked far too similar to the girl last night. Either she was a family member, or this was one damn coincidence.

Cassius must have been thinking the same thing. He narrowed his eyes.

“Why does she look familiar?”

His fingers moved fast, clicking through links until he landed on the official website for Blackthorn Academy. On the homepage, where they displayed the prestigious houses and co-founders, the name Ravenshaw was printed next to the House of Corvus .

She was younger in the photograph, but it was her.

“I know her,” Cass whispered. “She was a teacher at the school. I think she was a professor of History.” His fingers worked once more, this time rummaging through old class records. “Class of 2007.”

We browsed through the faculty roster. And there she was.

Then, off to the side of the page, something caught my eye—a 2007 news clipping. STUDENT FOUND DEAD AT BLACKTHORN ACADEMY. SUSPECTED SUICIDE.

Shivers went down my spine.

I opened the article.

A photo.

A girl.

Long, dark hair. Blue eyes. An otherworldly smile captured in time.

My stomach was tied up.

“I remember that,” I whispered, my throat being dry.

Cass’ voice was gentler now. “Adeline Ravenshaw.”

I swallowed hard. “They found her in the dorm. Her wrists slit open.” My jaw was locked as I spoke. “She had even sliced the edges of her lips into a permanent smile.”

“My dad told me that they never figured out who did it,” he complained, his skin paling. “So they just figured that she’d done it to herself.”

A shiver ran down my spine. “Do you think she was killed?”

The very thought made my blood run cold; the memories of having seen her, having known her, flooded back to me in the form of flashbacks.

He let out a slow breath. “I think we all have issues, but no one carves a ‘forever smile’ into their own lips and fills a bath with their own blood.“ He closed the academy page as if shutting it would make the image of her disappear from our minds.

Silence settled between us.

She had been in the same class as us. We both knew her. A tragedy like that leaves its mark on everyone, especially those who saw it with their own eyes.

Cass cleared his throat and clicked back to the page where Rosalind Ravenshaw stood in front of her house. He scrolled through the gallery, and almost at the bottom, a picture caught our attention. Rosalind was standing next to another woman, who cradled a little girl with ginger hair in her arms. The caption below read:

“Rosalind Ravenshaw with her daughter Coraline and granddaughter Freya.”

My stomach twisted.

“Freya.”

He turned to me, his eyes darkening. “Rosalind left the academy a year after Adeline’s death and never came back. I think you should stay away from this girl.”

I exhaled, my fingers curling into a fist. “I think it’s too late for that.”

Cass let out a sharp breath through his nose. “Whatever.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. A moment later, my own vibrated in my hand.

“Her phone number is registered here,” he said, nodding toward the message he sent me. “In case you decide to do something dumb anyway.”

I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “I might.”

He snapped the laptop shut, leaving it behind on the bed. Shrugging his blazer over one shoulder, he headed for the door. Halfway there, he paused and looked back at me.

“Don’t forget—the day after tomorrow, we have to go to Blackthorn. My dad is holding a big speech and all.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

He gave me one last look before walking out, the door clicking shut behind him.

LUCIUS- 18 years old

It was the year 2007, my first year at Blackthorn Academy.

That summer, I received an invitation that made me one of the top five to be included in the class of 2007. Blackthorn admits about 300 students each year, but only five are handpicked by the Dean. The privilege of being included within the academy and an ensured future upon graduation. The chosen ones are allowed to go to the best companies or to remain within Blackthorn to stay and teach. I was sure that I wanted to leave. But being one of the chosen ones, perhaps I was meant to stay.

Blackthorn was founded in 1907 by five influential families to be a place where the children of these groups would be honored, educated, and molded to be the leaders that they were destined to be. My great-grandfather, Venaris Lockwood , was one of the founding members. Founder of the House of Scorpio , a title passed to me by birthright.

The school was situated in Glascoe, High Scotland Lands, perched upon isolated cliffs that one accessed only through the bridge that connected the fog-shrouded countryside. The ancient castle housed more than 3,000 students and 130 teachers, all of whom lived on the campus dominated by four towers that symbolized four Houses.

And that was where I was heading now— House of Scorpio.

It took me a month to fully settle in. But once school started, I was only able to find a couple of friends: Luna Aracelis and Cassius Blackthorn. We came from different Houses but had the same routine, and soon enough, we were inseparable. We didn’t take long to understand that we all had the same demons; we all came from the same kind of troubled past that made us end up here. None of us was brought to Blackthorn because we were exceptional. We were brought here because our parents wanted to be rid of us, expecting this place to somehow mend us.

History class was the subject of the day, and our professor was Rosalind Ravenshaw. The previous week, she’d covered the myth of Romulus and Remus, the origins of Rome, so there was a strong possibility that there would be a quiz. I was always labeled as the class geek by none other than Cass, but my talent was something else. I was particularly skilled at picking up on something that didn’t quite add up.

Kids growing up in loud households where it was an ongoing game to try to figure out if your parent was having a good or a bad day learned to read people. We learned to read every movement of an expression, every hesitation in speech. We had to. Because if we didn’t, we would be the ones who were punished for their bad day.

It was how I was consistently able to see people before they saw me.

A girl was sitting up front. I knew her from the House of Corvus. She always looked at me, thinking that I didn’t see. She didn’t know I saw everything, knew everything, even her name.

Adeline.

My new obsession.