Page 23 of Wicked Chains (Serpentine Academy #2)

Twenty-One

Rose

Back in the Great Hall, I'm on my fourth—or is it fifth?

—glass of champagne, and the room has taken on a slightly softer focus.

My head feels pleasantly buzzy, like there's a swarm of bees between my ears, but the happy kind of bees, not the angry ones.

I lean against a pillar and survey the scene through narrowed eyes.

God, these people are exhausting. Lucien glides through the crowd like he was born for this, which I guess he probably was, back when people still used chamber pots and died of scurvy.

He's wearing a charcoal suit that is impeccably tailored to his tall frame.

A group of mothers have cornered him, and even from here I can see their greedy smiles, the way they touch his arm or toss their hair.

Lucien responds with just the right amount of charm, enough to be polite, not enough to encourage.

Every so often, his crimson eyes scan the room, and they linger on me for half a second before moving on.

I take another sip of champagne and push off from my pillar.

"Well, well, if it isn't the famous Rose Smith." I turn to find myself face to face with what has to be Thorne's father. Same blonde hair, same blue eyes, same look of entitled disdain. He's flanked by Thorne and a thin woman who must be her mother.

"Famous?" I repeat, raising an eyebrow. "I think you've confused me with someone else."

"Not at all." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You're the witch who's caused quite the stir. The one with the special bloodline."

Thorne smirks beside him. "Daddy's on the board of trustees. He knows everything that happens here."

"And everything about everyone," her mother adds, looking me up and down like I'm poo stuck to her shoe. "Though I must say, you're not what I expected."

"Sorry to disappoint," I say, my tongue loosened by champagne.

Mr. Hawthorne's expression hardens.

"I told you, Daddy," Thorne says, voice dripping with fake concern. "She's completely wild. No manners at all. But what can you expect with her background."

"What an extraordinarily common dress," Mrs. Hawthorne remarks, eyeing me with deliberate distaste. "Though I suppose it's the best you could do."

I drain the rest of my champagne in one gulp. "Better than looking like a chandelier threw up on me." I smile sweetly at her diamond-encrusted ensemble.

Mr. Hawthorne's face reddens. "You'd do well to remember your place and who you are speaking to, Miss Smith."

"Elias!" Helena materializes beside us, her voice sickly-sweet. "And Margot! How wonderful to see you both." She shoots me a warning look.

"Helena," Mr. Hawthorne acknowledges coolly. "We were just getting acquainted with Miss Smith here."

"How lovely," Helena says, though her expression suggests it's anything but. "Rose has no family to speak of, but we do our best to accommodate everyone, even those less fortunate."

The champagne burns in my stomach. Less fortunate. Like I'm a project they've taken on out of the goodness of their hearts, instead of a prisoner they're keeping for my magic.

"Yes, how progressive," Mrs. Hawthorne says with a thin smile. "Though I do wonder if it's wise to mix students of such different backgrounds."

"I need another drink," I mutter, stepping away before I say something that'll get me locked in the dungeons.

I snag another glass and move to a new corner, the room now definitely spinning a little at the edges. Hank shifts in my dress pocket, where I've been keeping him for moral support. "S'okay, buddy," I whisper. "Just a few more hours of this nightmare."

Across the room, I spot Harry with his parents.

His father is a heavily jowled man with small, mean eyes and his mother is a woman who looks like she's had so much plastic surgery her face might crack off if she smiles too widely.

Harry is gesturing in my direction, and they're all looking at me like I'm a zoo exhibit.

My feet start moving before my brain catches up. The champagne is definitely doing the thinking now.

"—absolutely disgraceful," Harry's mother is saying as I approach. "Letting that sort in. In our day?—"

"What sort would that be, exactly?" I interrupt.

Harry blanches. "Mother, this is?—"

"Rose Smith," I offer, extending my hand. "The charity case. The one with no family. The wrong’un. Please, tell me what sort you think I am, I'm dying to know."

Harry's mother draws herself up, ignoring my outstretched hand. "Young lady, I don't know what you think?—"

"I think," I say, cutting her off, "that you've raised the most entitled, third-person-speaking, boundary-ignoring asshole I've ever had the displeasure of meeting."

Harry's father splutters. "Now see here."

"No, you see." I'm on a roll now, all my frustration and loneliness and bad decisions pouring out.

"Your son is a bully. He follows that blonde nightmare Thorne around like a trained dog, making other students' lives miserable.

He refers to himself in the third person, which is deeply creepy, by the way.

And he has zero respect for personal space or consent. "

Harry's face has gone from white to purple. "Harry didn't."

"There it is! There's the third person!" I gesture wildly, sloshing champagne onto the floor. "Does he get that from you? Is it a family tradition to talk about yourselves like you're the King? The royal ‘we’?"

Harry's mother's mouth opens and closes like a fish.

"Rose." A strong hand grips my elbow. I look up to find Soren beside me. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you."

"Professor Malric," Harry's father says stiffly. "Your student is extremely inappropriate."

"Forgive her," Soren says smoothly. "She's had a difficult time. Recent trauma to the head, you understand.” He taps the side of his head. “Very sad case."

I try to protest, but Soren's grip tightens in warning.

"She's clearly a halfwit," Harry's mother sniffs.

"Indeed, which is why I'll be escorting her out immediately." Soren flashes a smile that manages to be both apologetic and dismissive. "Please enjoy the rest of your evening. Harry is doing quite well in my class, by the way. Very consistent."

Before Harry's parents can respond, Soren steers me away, moving with purpose through the crowd toward the exit. His hand is hot on my lower back, guiding me when I stumble slightly.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he mutters once we're in the hallway. "Do you have any idea who that was? Bartholomew Kent sits on the International Council of Magical Regulation. One word from him and you'd be in a containment cell faster than you can say 'bad idea.'"

"I don't care," I slur, though the cold air of the hallway is already clearing my head slightly. "They're awful. Their son is awful. This whole place is awful."

Soren sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. "Yes, yes, everyone's awful. The world is a dark pit of despair. Very edgy of you, Rose."

"Don't mock me," I warn, though it's hard to sound threatening when the floor keeps tilting. “I’m not a halfwit,” I grumble.

"I'm not mocking you. I'm saving your ass." He steadies me with a hand on my shoulder. "Listen to me. You need to be more careful. These people?—"

"Have power. I know." I rub my eyes, suddenly exhausted. "I'm just so tired of it. All of it."

Something in Soren's expression softens. "I know. But getting yourself punished won't help anything."

I lean against the wall, the cool stone grounding me. "Thanks for the rescue. Even though I didn't need it."

"Of course not." His smile is sardonic. "You never need rescuing, do you, Rose?"

"Exactly." I give him a wobbly nod of agreement. The champagne is starting to turn from pleasant buzz to queasy discomfort. "I should go lie down."

"Come on, I'll walk you to your room. Can't have you passing out in the hallway. Think of my reputation."

Soren lets go of my shoulder but walks close, just in case I decide to swan-dive into a wall or something. “You going to make it, or do I have to carry you?” His tone is almost bored, but I catch the way his eyes slide sideways at me.

“Please. I’m not that drunk,” I say, though the floor seems to ripple a little under my feet, so maybe he’s got a point.

“Let’s test that hypothesis.” Soren stops, leans against the wall, crosses his arms. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Trick question. You’re not holding up any—” I squint, realize he’s got a single finger raised. The middle one. “One finger. And you’re flipping me off.”

Soren laughs. “Come on, little hellion.”