Page 4 of Wicked Bonds (Serpentine Academy #1)

Three

Rose

The last thing I expect is to find myself sitting across from someone who looks like she stepped out of a corporate boardroom.

Headmistress Wickersly’s office is bizarrely modern, considering the age and style of the building, with teakwood walls and a huge minimalist desk. She sits behind it with perfect posture that makes me straighten my spine.

“Miss Smith.” Her voice carries the authority of someone who’s never had to repeat herself. “Welcome to Serpentine Academy.”

I shift in the uncomfortable chair, hyperaware of my gin-stained shirt under her scrutiny. “Thanks. Though I’m still not entirely sure why I’m here. I’m not exactly academy material, according to what I’ve heard about this place.”

“Your bloodline carries certain obligations.” She opens a file folder, my file, apparently, and scans it. “Your mother attempted to sever those ties. She was unsuccessful.”

Well now. That was conveniently left off the invitation. “What kind of obligations?”

“The Accord binds your family line to serve the Crescent Moon Coven. It has for centuries.” She closes the file with a soft snap. “You are under contract, now. You belong to the Coven.”

The words hit me like ice water. “Contract? What fucking contract?”

Her eyebrow arches at my language, but she doesn’t comment. “Your ancestors pledged their bloodline’s service in exchange for certain things. The terms were extensive.”

For one terrifying second, I can’t breathe, and the room goes sideways.

They’ll come for you one day, Rose.

Mom’s voice breaks through my panic, clear as if she were standing right behind me. She’d said it the night before she died, her fingers wrapped around mine so tight they hurt. I’d thought she was delirious from the fever. Now I understand she was trying to warn me one last time.

When they do, baby, you run. You run and you don’t look back.

Except there’s nowhere to run now, and this perfectly coiffed woman is telling me I’m property. Inherited debt.

“And if I refuse?”

“Refusal isn’t an option, Miss Smith. The contract is binding.” Wickersly leans forward like a cobra about to strike, her hands folded. “However, not all is as grim as it appears. The academy offers you a rare opportunity to honor your obligations while also developing your potential.”

Potential?

All I can think about is the dying plant in my backpack.

But then my brain flashes back to the asshole’s broken fingers, the way the air sparked and bent around my anger, how I didn’t even have to say anything for something in the world to rearrange itself for me.

“And if I accidentally set the place on fire? Do I get community service, or is it straight to magical juvie?”

She doesn’t dignify that with a smile. “We have extensive measures to ensure the safety of our students and staff. The more pressing matter is whether you understand the seriousness of your position. You are not here for punishment. You are here because your bloodline made a deal. One that they are bound for eternity to honor.”

There’s a beat of silence as she watches me closely. She looks like someone who’s used to getting compliance by sheer force of will, a gorgon in a pantsuit. “What if I, you know, run away in the middle of the night?”

She clicks her pen. “If you attempt to run, the Accord will ensure your return. And your remaining time would be… less pleasant. I would recommend for your own comfort that you apply yourself to your studies and acclimatize. The alternative is less desirable.”

I stare at her, waiting for a punchline. There is none. “Then what? I’m just the Coven’s bitch forever?”

“Two years of immersive education, during which you will serve the Crescent Moon Coven. In return, you will have access to resources, protection, and liberties that most can only dream of.” She says it like she’s promising me a company car and a dental plan.

“Wow. So generous.”

For the first time, her mask cracks. Barely. Her lips thin slightly. She’s annoyed. “Your dormitory is Room 304. Your class schedule will be provided. You are expected to conduct yourself with discipline and decorum. If you have questions, you may direct them to Lucien.”

“Do I at least get a meal plan?”

She blinks, as if the concept baffles her, and then moves on. “You may go. You have a busy week ahead of you.” She closes my file. The conversation is over.

And just like that, I’m dismissed.

Room 304 turns out to be a single, and it’s on the third floor, up a spiral staircase so narrow I’m genuinely worried my hips will get stuck.

Spartan as hell, but I’ve slept in worse.

The good news? It’s private, with a solid door, not the curtain that gave me zero privacy in my last room, and a bed that doesn’t appear to have any suspicious stains.

The bad news? The only decor is a brutally ugly painting of a goat-headed figure leering over a baby cradle. Wonderful.

I toss my backpack onto the bed. The succulent, predictably, has already wilted. I poke it, and a single leaf falls off in protest. “Mood,” I say, and flop onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend this is just a particularly weird Airbnb.

It’s clean, it’s warm, and the sheets smell faintly of flowers.

I pull the blanket up, but sleep is a no-show.

My brain won’t shut down. I keep thinking about what Wickersly said about my bloodline and contracts.

My mother must have known, that’s why we were always on the run.

It makes sense now. But goddammit why didn’t she tell me any of this?

I could have protected myself better. Might have known the Crescent Moon Coven was coming for me.

I slam the back of my head into the plush pillow as tears gather at the outer corners of my eyes.

As much as I want to be angry at my mother, I also still miss the hell out of her.

It was just the two of us for so long. She called us the dynamic duo, and I’d roll my eyes every time she said it, reminding her that was Batman and Robin, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be Robin.

I don’t realize I’ve drifted off until I wake up with a start. I check the time: 3:00 AM. The witching hour. Nothing good ever happens at 3:00.

Then I realize I hear the sound of someone breathing. Someone very close.

I go rigid under the covers, doing that thing where you convince yourself if you don’t move, you’re invisible. There’s a second, maybe two, where I convince myself it’s my imagination, that it’s just the building settling, or exhaustion playing tricks on my brain.

But then I hear it again, an exhale, the slight hitch that comes before a word.

“Go away,” I say, instantly feeling like an idiot. The first thing I do is talk to the intruder in my room. Just like the morons who get murdered in horror movies.

Silence.

Then, “You’re awake.”

The voice is male, deep, and amused. There’s a faint distance to it, like he’s standing at the bottom of a well. I edge the blanket down just enough to see the room, eyeing every dark corner. The goat painting stares back, unhelpfully.

“Show yourself,” I say, sounding more ballsy than I feel.

There’s movement by the window, then figure just kind of appears, like he materialized from thin air. Literally, because he’s see-through in places, like someone forgot to color him in. There’s a weird flicker to him, like a glitch in a video game, and my heart does a slow, horrified somersault.

He’s tall, he’s handsome, and I’m pretty sure he’s a ghost.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I say. Lies .

He smiles. “You should be. Most girls scream.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“You really shouldn’t have come, Rose.”

“How do you know my name?” I shimmy up to a sitting position. He doesn’t reply, just glides closer to the foot of my bed.

He stands there, watching me as I grip the blanket tighter. If I had to rate my chances in a supernatural staring contest, I’d put all my money on the ghost, but that doesn’t mean I’m folding.

I clear my throat, because why not double down on impulsive idiocy. “You gonna do something, or just stand there and glare at me until I die from second hand embarrassment for you?”

He actually laughs. “That depends. Are you the type who embarrasses easily?”

I decide not to answer. Instead, I focus on the details.

He’s translucent at the edges, but his eyes are sharp, colorless, and angry.

There’s a faded scar that runs from his eyebrow down to his cheekbone.

His clothes look like the style is at least a century out of date, and he’s wearing a waistcoat and a tie. Very Peaky Blinders.

“You the second half of the creepy welcoming committee, or are you just here to haunt me?”

“Depends which you prefer.” He smiles, and it’s less menacing this time, more tired. “They sent you here to die, you know.”

“Wow. Subtle.”

“Everyone tries to run, eventually,” he says, voice flat. “They always catch you. Sometimes they let you live. Sometimes you end up like me.”

With that, he steps backwards towards the wall, then sinks through it, disappearing.

His words hang in the air, and I know I’m not getting back to sleep anytime soon.