by Rhea Watson
And she was terrified.
That was all I needed.
As the towering warlock undid his belt, I slipped into the aisle. As he shoved his hand in his briefs and fisted himself, no doubt getting that micro dick extra hard for a bit of after-hours sexual assault, I prowled in the shadows, my pristine leather shoes not making a sound.
Not for a warlock to hear, anyway.
The shifter heard me, her teary brown eyes darting my way, and I hastily pressed a finger to my lips. Quiet, girl. Quiet. Her subtle nod put a bit of pep in my step, and just as the goon leaned over her, a hand on the spines of my pristine collection, the other going for her hair, I struck.
Grabbed the back of his head and rammed it into the wooden shelf hard enough that something cracked.
Hopefully his skull.
“Go,” I hissed, snapping at her with my free hand, the other cuffed firmly on the back of the groaning bastard’s neck. “Up—now. Back to your tower as fast as those puppy paws will carry you. Stay in the shadows, d’you understand?”
While she nodded, sheet-white and shaking, the little shifter didn’t move. Barely even breathed. Stars above, like I needed her to pass out on top of everything—
“Run,” I barked, and she was off like a shot. At the end of the aisle, she risked one last look over her shoulder, marking me with a wolfish yellow gaze, her inner beast finally slinking to the surface to defend her.
Next time.
The first brush with true evil was always the hardest.
Next time, her inner animal would be braver.
“No one will know,” I called after her. “Come see me if you need to, er, talk. My office door is… open.”
An offer I had never extended to a student before—it felt strange and forced, but it seemed to help her. The wolf shifter sucked down a deep breath, then sprinted into the darkness. I waited until her footsteps faded off, lording over the dazed warlock guard, furious. While he stayed slumped over, clutching at books with stronger spines than him, pants open and erection poking out the slit in his briefs, his free hand went for his wand. Clumsily, it missed the holster on his belt, and I didn’t allow him the grace to try again.
I hauled him back, all that showy muscle useless now, light and inconsequential compared to fae strength, then slammed his face into the shelf again. Made sure he crashed into the rigid edge so that blood painted the wood. Then again. And again. And again. Over and over, making sure not to favor one part of his face: nose, mouth, cheeks, eyes, forehead—they all got the attention they deserved, cartilage crushed and bones smashed to bits.
When it was done, he collapsed to the floor, just a limp meat sack, face unrecognizable, blood everywhere. I nudged back what was left of his upper lip with the pointed toe of my shoe; not a single tooth had survived the onslaught.
Good.
The bastard deserved worse. How many innocents had he preyed upon within these walls? How many more would he have destroyed in the future had I not been here to absolutely wreck his shit?
Adrenaline pounded war through my veins.
Briefly, I remembered how it felt on the field, armor caked in blood and dirt, spent and sweaty and alive.
But I wasn’t on the field.
And I couldn’t don my armor by Ash Court royal decree.
Teeth gritted, I hauled the lifeless body out of the stacks—out of the library, even. Like my vampire friend, I clung to the shadows, hoping the wolf shifter had done the same, all the way to the empty north admin wing, where I dumped this useless fucker in front of Iris’s locked door.
Abandoned him without so much as a backward glance, off to destroy the evidence with a bit of fiery fae magic.
Then I’d join Alecto and Bjorn for a night of TV and conversation, as I had many nights since the first time.
Well and truly alive.
Confident that should I encounter another heinous breach of conduct, I was more than ready to act accordingly. Emboldened to do what was necessary.
And feeling, somehow, that given the current circumstances… Jack Clemonte would very much approve.
10
Alecto
Tonight was such bullshit.
The bullshit cherry on top of the bullshit cake that made up my bullshit third term here at Root Rot Academy.
Arms crossed, I surveyed the turned-out dining hall from the outskirts of the dance floor, clutching my glass of Riesling and trying not to glower too hard.
But that was a task and a half, what with all the high council members guffawing in each other’s faces, their spouses dripping with pearls and gold, and Iris swanning about like she owned the world. Same as every year, the twentieth of March marked the spring equinox, and I had assumed that even under the new regime, there would be a celebration of some kind.
And there was, the night unfolding with a string quartet to serenade us, hired help circulating the room—not a single student in sight.
This was a teenager-free zone, and according to Gavriel, who was closer to administration than Bjorn and me, Iris had gone way over budget on the Ostara gala. Probably desperate to impress the bigwigs waltzing on the dance floor and scarfing down canapés. Pastel silks dripped from the ceiling and floral explosions lined the windows. At first, I’d been a bit insulted that they hadn’t consulted me, but then I felt the flowers used tonight and—fake.
All of them.
Not in the literal plastic sense, but in the glamored and charmed and under a time limit sense, the spell wearing off come midnight or sunrise tomorrow or whenever. So, really, I didn’t consider any of the blooms here flowers—just splashes of color, whites and pinks and purples, pale greens and robin’s-egg blue, glamored vines twining around tables and a smattering of obnoxious bouquets along the buffet.
The outfits tonight reflected the color scheme.
I had chosen all black in honor of Jack. While nearly every other woman wore a floor-length gown, my dress was almost aggressively plain, just a simple A-line cut that cinched at the waist and flared to my knees. Bell sleeves that cuffed at the wrists, a scoop neck—no jewelry except my mom’s wedding ring, which I proudly wore on my right hand. I’d even straightened my stubborn curls under the world’s most intense heating charm, hair stick-straight, a rebellion in its own way, a physical representation of the lamest sabbat gala so far.
Like, seriously. These events were for the kids, an opportunity to let their hair down—even at a reform school. They could bond, connect, dance, laugh, eat… None of this was for us. Professors were background noise at these things, just boring wallpaper that stepped in to correct wandering hands every so often.
Iris had made it about her, about the staff and faculty, and most definitely about the high council.
She wanted that permanent position.
I grimaced at her crowing laughter rising above the music, over the rumble of conversations and glassware, all the way across the dance floor to smack me in the face. Rolling my eyes, I slurped another gulp of Riesling, too annoyed with everything to enjoy my favorite of the white wines. Hell, I had barely gotten through this one glass and I’d been here for a full hour. At any other Root Rot party that allowed staff drinking, I would have been at least eight-deep with the girls by now.
Only many of my girls had taken the severance package.
And the new hires were so cliquish.
“You know…” Every muscle locked when Benedict fucking Hammond’s whisper tickled my ear. His presence hummed in the corner of my eye, then intensified as he stepped closer, fully invading my personal bubble, one deep breath away from grinding against my hip like some bar perv. “Your mother and I attended many such events during our engagement. She was always the star of the show.”
“Bold,” I deadpanned, wineglass in front of my mouth to shield the venom from onlookers, “saying shit like that around high council members.” I sniffed and took another sip, barely tasting the sweetness that usually lingered on the back of my tongue. “One of them will put you in
a hole, Benedict—just wait.”
His dark chuckle made my skin crawl. Fortunately, besides my hands, face, and neck, I was covered, the opaque black stockings hiding my legs blending into a pair of onyx heels made for power walking down a runway.
“Oh, I am,” he crooned, and I swore he had started fiddling with the ends of my hair. “I’ve been waiting a long, long time, Hannah. Nothing yet. Not even a whisper until you.”
“Nothing but banishment to the middle of nowhere. I bet even the gods can’t hear you all the way out here.” I tapped my nail on the side of my glass, blasé, refusing to be intimidated—refusing to let him goad me in public. “Do you miss the cozy embrace of the Hammond coven? Does Daddy still send you an allowance while you’re in exile, or have you been cut off completely?”
I smirked in the silence that followed, his crackling aura a reminder of how fragile his ego really was—how stupidly unstable it had to be for that to trigger him. After all, I had no clue if the Hammond coven spoiled their kids rotten, but given the wealth disparity between my ancestral line and his, it was a reasonable assumption.
“We needn’t be enemies,” he said, his seductive rumble sounding forced. “The Corwin and Hammond covens have long since settled their grievances.”
“Was that before or after you butchered my parents?”
“Why let something so petty ruin what could be an unstoppable alliance?” Benedict mused, the insinuation setting my blood on fire. “Alecto, you’ve become a vision. Almost as beautiful as her, in fact, and our children would rule this world, especially if we came out as our true selves—”
Fueled by rage and Riesling, I junk-punched him as hard as I could. Benedict disguised his groan in a cough, folding forward and slamming into me hard enough that if I hadn’t braced, I would have fallen over. Expression schooled, I sipped my wine like nothing had happened, scanning the partygoers, casual and collected and furious.
My gaze eventually landed on Bjorn as the vampire navigated the crowd, constantly twisting and turning his body to accommodate for witches and warlocks who wouldn’t move a hair for him to pass. Eyes locked on me, those icy blues plummeted to a still-gasping Benedict, and he picked up his pace. Quite the matching pair, both of us in black, that suit deliciously fitted to my handsome dark knight.
“Ah, yes,” Benedict hissed, finally upright again and just out of arm’s reach. “There’s one of your guard dogs. You’ve recruited quite the team.” He jerked his chin toward Gavriel, also in a full black suit, who looked cornered at the buffet table by a handful of high council witches. “Run along, Hannah, and hide behind your leech.”
I eased around, heels clicking softly, and faced Benedict with a cool expression. “I don’t need anyone protecting me from you. I’m right here.” I held out my arms, offering him a free shot. Benedict stood still as a statue, cruel black eyes locked on mine, and I finally used that to my advantage, unblinking as I stepped into his personal space for once. “You like my eyes. They’re her eyes. Get a good look. Remember them when you’re rotting, Benedict. I hope they’re all you see in that dark, black hole. Your days of breathing free air are numbered.”
The warlock snorted. “Highly unlikely, but I rather enjoy you thinking that. All this confidence, this bravado, is so exquisite. I’ll remember that when I break you—when you have no other choice but to come to me for help as your allies disappear, one by one.”
I lashed out for another blow to his balls but stopped just shy of contact, pleased that the bastard flinched. Arching a victorious brow, I headed for the main doors, downing my wine and slamming the empty flute on a table before I made my exit.
Attendance tonight was mandatory.
Iris had made that clear at the last staff meeting, followed by an overtly threatening lecture that reminded us all to be on our best behavior.
As the ten-fifteen bells chimed through the castle, I’d had enough. Shown my face for a good seventy-five miserable minutes, behaved relatively well, and now I was done.
The temperature dip from the packed hall to the empty, echoey underground corridors hit like a fist to the gut, and I crossed my arms to fight the shivers whispering down my spine. With the dining hall doors shut firmly behind me, the stupid sabbat gala disappeared, and in the shadows, I was just… alone.
But not for long.
A beat later, the doors flew open again around the corner I’d just taken, and the curt, crisp footfalls that trailed after me had a familiar rhythm in their stride.
Bjorn hadn’t let me go anywhere alone after sunset these days, unless it was to class, but I just didn’t have it in me to wait for him this time. I needed to move, needed to get this adrenaline out so I could come down from the high of a fight and be… normal.
Fucking asshole. Fucking Benedict Hammond—creeping up on me, floating the idea that despite everything, we ought to be together.
All because we came from, what, untainted covens?
Lines of pure witches and warlocks, probably, not mixed with other supers or shifters.
Or humans. That was the gravest sin to traditionalists like him.
Maybe it was a notch on the bedpost for a Hammond to bag a Corwin, some sick, warped accomplishment that he’d missed out on with my mom.
Ugh. Just the thought had my stomach in knots, and I yanked open the door at the base of the staff tower, immediately assaulted by the musty air of this rarely used portion of this stairwell. Cobwebs dangled overhead, lights flickering on and off as soon as I stalked inside, as if offended by my raging aura.
“Alecto, wait!”
Not being able to deal with Benedict had been so fucking frustrating, but my kids came first—they had to. After seeing that first year cornered, I’d been on high alert for further nonsense from security, and that in and of itself was a full-time job on top of the one I already had. Besides, it wasn’t like he was going anywhere. Whether he was genuine in his offer of what was bound to be a hideously abusive relationship or he just wanted to break my psyche down to nothing, Benedict and I were stuck here, caged together with a very deep line drawn in the sand.
He wanted to know me.
He wanted to hurt me—destroy me.
Bring it on. His words still hurt, but I could take them now.
A few steps up the winding staircase, an icy hand snapped around my wrist. I jerked forward at the abrupt halt, then let out a long, glorious breath of relief when everything stopped spinning. Bjorn was self-conscious of his skin on mine, how cold he was compared to me, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Just one brush of his frost soothed the burn in my chest. Reduced the boil to a simmer. Made the world clear and bright and in focus.
And I loved him for it.
He had no idea that he snuffed the inferno with a touch, a word, a look, a smile.
The butterflies in my belly swarmed, fluttering in my chest, around my heart, thrilled to see him standing there when I whirled around and fell into him, my vampire solid as stone and cozy as velvet, beautiful in the shadows, ridiculously hot in all that black.
We hadn’t even coordinated our outfits; Bjorn and I had trudged out of our bedrooms tonight, took one look at each other, then burst out laughing.
Black for Jack and his all-black suits.
Black for the absurdity of a sabbat gala with no students.
Black for the decline of this academy.
Black… for a united front.
How Gavriel had known to dress like we were all headed for a funeral was beyond me, but we made quite the depressing trio in the spring pastels crowd tonight.
Bjorn released my wrist as soon as I crashed into him, arms around my waist, huge hands on my ass, lips to mine in a kiss that was all bite and no bark. All sublime fury and aggressively possessive from both of us. I wore his mark proudly on my neck, only a dab of foundation used to mute it for the sake of my students. If I could, I’d show it off to everyone, let them know what we had done, how he had claimed me, marked me, made me his beneath thousands of
glittering stars and a gorgeous moon.
I couldn’t tarnish his skin. Couldn’t scar it. Couldn’t tear through it, make his lip bleed with a snap of my teeth.
But I could kiss him like he was mine, fast and furious and a little desperate, my breathy moans carrying through the stairwell, my body molded to his.
No one kissed like this vampire.
No one had his passion, his earnestness, his raw, unbridled power that I literally felt him fighting—so he didn’t destroy me.
I needed that.
I needed the monster.
He had let him out to play a little in the field that night, but I craved so much more.
As soon as my fingers found his belt, however, Bjorn ripped himself away. I chased after him, loving the pursuit, excited to hunt the hunter, then yelped when he grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me back—held me at an arm’s length, steadied me when I stumbled over the few stairs he thrust me up.
“W-what—”
“No,” he growled, eyes dark and deliciously stormy again, fangs flashing with every word. “No. You don’t get to use me whenever someone upsets you.”
“Wow.” My eyebrows shot up as I chased my breath. “You and Gavriel sharing notes now?”
His nostrils flared through a breath that screamed Really? like that was a low blow. Fair enough. I wasn’t exactly subtle with how I handled my inner turmoil, and the first time we had kissed, I basically ruined it by trying to take things too far, too fast, desperate to feel something more than the numbness.
More than grief and guilt.
That wasn’t the case tonight.
Sure, I was pissed about Benedict, Iris, the gala—everything.
But I wanted to kiss him. Not as a distraction—because he was such a fucking good kisser. Because he looked scrumptious in that suit, and he had come after me, protection detail or not, because Bjorn Asulf cared so deeply it hurt. I saw it not only in his eyes, but in his actions. One of Bjorn’s best traits was that he wasn’t all talk. He could walk the walk ten times over. If he made a vow, he kept it. He didn’t speak in riddles.