by James Tate
Nolan’s smile didn’t falter. “Ah, my sweet twin. You know me better than that. I don’t touch what’s yours. Not since you almost bit my finger off.”
Mattie shrugged but didn’t deny it. “I was four,” she told me. “And everything Nole touched, he broke. It’s still that way, but now he breaks things that are harder to fix. Like hearts.”
I waved a hand at my overheated face. “I’ve been here for one day and already I have two heartbreakers to avoid.”
Nolan reached out and wrapped an arm around me. “Who is the other one? Tell me now so I can kill him.”
My snorts of laughter escaped against his firm chest. His hold was strong, but I still pushed to find some space. I knew exactly how to make him step away, but I was not about to pull that move out. Not yet.
Thankfully, Mattie went into sibling rivalry mode, slugging him in the chest. With a groan, he rubbed at the spot before finally releasing me.
“Alex has his eye on her,” Mattie spat the words out, and almost immediately there was a dark shadow that crossed Nolan’s face. For the first time since meeting him, I could see something dark lurking under that jovial exterior.
Clearing my throat, I attempted to change the subject. “So, you’re the crown prince? Are you looking forward to ruling?”
Mattie and Nolan still had their eyes locked in a silent conversation, but eventually she answered for him. “Nolan isn’t huge on responsibility. He’s still trying to figure out how to hand the crown to me.”
Nolan laughed, but his eyes were flat. “It’s unfair that Mattie gets all the benefits of being royal without the responsibility and pressure.”
Mattie echoed the sentence at the exact same time as him.
“Twinning like that is creepy,” I told them honestly.
Both of them smiled the exact same smile and … fuck.
“Oh my god, you two totally practice that, don’t you?” I said, my tongue looser than usual with all the green drink flooding my body and brain.
“Nole!”
The shout distracted us all before anything else was said, and Nolan turned toward Rafe, who stood with three other dudes. I found my gaze drawn to the one that was right at Rafe’s side, mostly because he was gorgeous. He had a striking look, with golden skin, and a slight tilt to his eyes that spoke of a half-Asian heritage. He was almost as tall as Rafe, with broad shoulders and a mess of auburn hair that fell over eyes that looked almost black—it was hard to tell their true color from this distance.
“That’s Jordan,” Mattie whispered in my ear. “Rafe’s best friend and heir to New America.”
I blinked, realizing that this was the crown prince to my country. A crown prince that was probably going to hate me because Rafe already did, for whatever reason. Now that I knew, I could see the resemblance to our king, but no one ever saw pictures of the heirs in media so I’d never have guessed otherwise.
Nolan started forward, only stopping when Mattie lunged for him, grabbing his arm. “Don’t go this time,” she murmured low, but I still heard her.
Nolan shot her a half smile. “It’ll be okay, sis.”
Leaning down he wrapped her in a quick hug, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Don’t wait up for me.”
From where I stood, it looked like Mattie was clenching her teeth, her eyes spitting her anger at him, but she didn’t say anything else. She did watch his back as he walked the short distance to those guys before disappearing into the crowds.
And I could have sworn that the entire time, until he was no longer in view, Rafe had his eyes locked on me, the blue darker than ever.
Dread and something unnamed swirled in my stomach. Trouble was brewing with that particular royal, and I wasn’t sure I’d survive the fallout.
Chapter 7
“What was that all about?” I asked Mattie when she finally calmed down. It took a good twenty minutes of dancing before her face relaxed and the green of her eyes softened until they no longer resembled jade stones.
Thankfully this Drake guy had spared no expenses on his party, and I’d been steadily filling my belly with delicious canapes every time a smartly uniformed waiter wandered past.
“What do you mean?” she asked, and it felt like she truly had forgotten what happened.
“Where did Nolan go?”
Some of the tension returned. “Don’t even worry about it. Just a stupid fucking thing the male royals like to do occasionally. I’ve tried to talk Nole out of it before he gets badly hurt, but as always, his ego is larger than his brain.”
She was worried about him. Genuinely worried. When she didn’t say anything else, I let it drop, recognizing that we weren’t at that friendship place yet where I could push her like I would have with my bestie back home. But I wouldn’t forget. There was something going on here, something that Arbon probably wouldn’t like—judging by all the secrecy—and I was going to uncover it.
No! My inner voice snapped a fucking command at me. No drama.
Ugh, it wasn’t in my personality to just let things sit untouched. If there was a thread, I had to unravel it. A secret, I would uncover it. But I was out of my depth here. Way out. Maybe, just for this one time, I should let it go and focus only on school.
The entire reason I was here.
* * *
When light first filtered through my shiny Arbon Academy windows, a groan escaped from my parched, cracked up lips. What in the fuc—? A cough burst from me, and it was almost painful as I wheezed through the pain in my head and the deadass taste in my mouth.
What had happened last night? Had I been assaulted and then blasted in the face by a skunk?
My eyes appeared to be half glued shut, caked on by a nice layer of crust, and as I tried my best to pry one open and double-check that I was even in my room, memories from last night started to filter through my hazy, thumping brain.
Party. Mattie. Green drinks of death.
Holy fuck. My first day at Arbon I’d gotten shitfaced and danced with a princess. How was this even my life?
A heavy knocking sound on my door sent sharp, shooting pain through my brain, and if I could’ve killed that person without moving, I would have.
“Violet Spencer, you are requested in the dean’s office in thirty minutes for your introductory meeting. Please do not be late.”
The stern, female voice sounded through the door, and I was pretty sure it was the stuffy woman from yesterday. I’d already forgotten her name because I was not the best at remembering names. I was much better with faces.
Wait! Did she just say thirty minutes?
Fuck.
Holy fucking fuck.
I couldn’t even lift my head without wanting to hurl, but I knew there was no way I could miss this meeting. The first, proper introduction. And with the dean, who was the father of Brandon, asshole of the year.
I’d seen said asshole a few times at the party the night before, but thankfully he’d been face-first in some chick and hadn’t even noticed me. Small favors.
Dragging my ass out of bed, I swallowed a few times, both trying to find some saliva and hoping to prevent any vomit before I made it to the bathroom. I was used to a way less palatable liquor than I’d had last night; I had not expected to wake up feeling like this.
Staggering across the soft carpet, I kept my eyes open just enough to not slam into anything before I finally slid across the tiles. I barely managed to make it to the toilet before vomit exploded from me. Luckily I hadn’t eaten dinner, so there wasn’t much to throw up. The canapes, on the other hand, were less than pleasant the second time around.
When I was finished with that fun start to the morning, I crawled into the shower, turning the water on as cold as it went.
It was the only thing I could think to do to wake myself up.
Twenty-six minutes later, exactly, I was dressed in the uniform—knee-length, black skirt, plain white button-down, dark maroon jacket, black tights, and some really—okay, not really—stylish Mary Janes. The o
nly thing that saved the shoes at all was the small heel that took them from dowdy into semi-fashionable.
To finish the look, I’d gone for minimal makeup—just enough to hide the evidence of last night—and my hair pulled back in a low bun, the curls tamed as much as they’d ever be.
Seeing myself in the mirror was the first real moment that I realized what the hell my life was now.
I looked nothing like the person I’d been two days ago. Shit, my friends would probably walk past me in the street and not know me.
Those emotions, they were not sitting well in my already tender stomach. My skin … it felt … itchy. Like my “fake rich” persona was stretched too tight and the real Violet Spencer was going to burst out at any moment.
Thankfully I didn’t have time to narcissistically obsess about myself any longer. I had to meet the ever-so-famous dean of Arbon Academy.
Trusty map in one hand, backpack with school supplies in the other, I hurried out of my room and in the general direction I thought the administrative offices were. They were near the front entrance of the school, where I’d first entered. Somehow I’d missed the building the first time, even though this map was telling me it was freaking huge.
Sure enough, when I passed the soccer field and the rest of the state-of-the-art indoor sports stadium, I found myself in a hall I hadn’t been in before. The weather outside was cold and biting, even through my tights and jacket, but in here it was a pleasant temperature. It was odd how this school flowed almost seamlessly from indoor to outdoor—I’d never experienced that at any of my schools before.
I liked it, though.
Turned out Dean Morgan was easy enough to find with signs leading me the whole way. Zipping the map into my bag, I slung it over my shoulder and entered the large, brightly lit receptionist’s office.
There were two women behind the counter, and both of them looked to be between thirty and forty. The one closest to me had her dark blond hair pulled back in a tight chignon, and her hazel eyes remained expressionless, even though a professional, perfect, white-toothed smile crossed her face when I stepped closer. I wondered where Mr. Wainwright was since he was the assistant to the dean. He was probably off doing more important things about the school.
“Welcome to Arbon Academy,” the closest woman said, her accent heavy and hard to understand. At a guess, she probably originated somewhere in the Russias, seeing as most of the world had adopted a slightly British sounding English as their primary language. “The dean is waiting for you.”
She waved her hand to a hallway behind their area, and even though I was a little surprised she automatically knew who I was, I didn’t really ponder it for too long. No doubt there weren’t a ton of new kids starting at this school regularly.
“Thank you,” I told her before schooling my features into something that hopefully didn’t reflect the “crapping my pants” feeling inside me.
Please just let this be about the school and not last night. While part of me enjoyed breaking the rules, I’d like to at least get established in this school before I was at risk of being kicked out.
The hall was long and winding; the old red brick and tan blocks that this section of the school was made out of hadn’t been covered by sheetrock, leaving it all exposed and interesting. There was so much history in the chips and cracks, in the color variation on each brick.
I would never call myself a history buff or anything—it wasn’t really my thing— but right then, I wanted to know about this school.
Soon the brick was covered by large portraits, and if I’d thought that my mirror contemplations were narcissistic, I had nothing on the massive photos of every single dean to ever run this school.
They were six feet tall, almost spanning from the ceiling to the floor, and I passed by many before I found the most recent.
Dean Morgan.
Dean Winston Morgan to be exact, according to the plaque below it. He’d been the dean for almost a decade.
Examining the image, I could immediately see the resemblance to Brandon. The dean was just an older, more refined version of his son with the same chiseled features and charming smile. It was hard to tell in an image, but possibly the same dead eyes as well.
Great.
I’d lingered in the hall as long as I could, so with one last deep breath, I turned away from the portrait and hurried along to the double glass doors right at the end. They opened automatically as soon as I got close, and a puff of lemon-scented air spritzed me as I walked inside.
Dean Morgan was probably trying to cleanse the “poor” out of the air from my mere presence. Or he just really enjoyed the fake lemon scent.
“Welcome, Violet.”
The warm, rich voice had my head jerking up as I took in the man behind the ostentatious wood desk—a desk so dark that at first I thought it was black, before noticing the splash of mahogany through the woodgrain in its legs.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, hurrying forward to stand before him, then edging my way in front of the vacant wingback chair facing his desk. “I’m very excited to be here.”
He smiled a well-practiced smile that was nearly identical to his portrait. “We are even more excited,” he continued, nodding at me to take a seat. The moment I sat, he did as well, his own chair was far more impressive, with a hand carved scene depicted just behind his head. He blocked most of it, but I could make out branches with intricate detailing.
A silence stretched between us for a few seconds before he leaned across the table, hands pressing palm down on the shiny top. There was not a single thing on it, despite how gigantic it was. “As you probably know, Violet, Arbon Academy has a long history of being one of the top schools in the world.”
He was being modest. It was the top school with almost zero competition, but I nodded, playing along with the game. Thankfully the dean did not need encouragement to talk. “In that regard, we have some rules to go over with you.”
Now this … this was what I expected from Arbon and their dean. Because heaven forbid the charity case sully their precious halls with my gaucheness. I was already guessing in my head what the rules would be: Don’t talk to the royals. Don’t touch a royal. Don’t breath in the direction of a royal. Be seen and not heard.
“First, and most important, you represent Arbon, so at all times you will be in full uniform, with only a few select night events and activities that are uniform free.”
“No problem at all, sir.” And it was really wasn’t. Uniforms gave us an even playing field in one way at least.
The next few rules were standard things. No getting drunk and embarrassing the school—whoops. Curfew at 10 P.M—also, whoops. And a few other bits and pieces about grades, study hours, and asking for permission to leave campus.
“And that’s all we ask of you, Violet,” he finished, and I knew I was looking a little open-mouthed and slack-jawed.
“What about approaching the royals?” I burst out because, honestly … how were their no rules about that? I couldn’t go near them in real life, surrounded as they were by security and such. But here it was free run? Even for the scholarship kids?
The dean’s grin broadened, and an uneasy feeling swirled in my gut. Something about his smile was giving me major creeps. Like father, like son, apparently.
“We actively encourage integration between our students,” he said, pressing his hands together in front of him. “In fact, I’ve organized a student to help you settle in, find your classes today, and learn the ropes.”
His head turned toward the door behind me, and my first thought was please don’t be Brandon. I would probably be kicked out before the end of the day if I had to spend prolonged time with his ass-turd of a son.
Thankfully, it was another student who sauntered into the room, dressed in the uniform too, but a much cooler, less “perfectly starched” version. Alex looked like a surfy dream wrapped in a royal package. My body tightened, both in nerves and … well, other things, because he looked too damned g
ood in his suit. Unlike mine, his was tailored—fitted across broad shoulders, then cutting down with his athletic body. His blond hair was tousled, like he’d run his hands through it multiple times, but somehow it still fell perfectly about his face.
“Alex,” I choked out, before swinging back to the dean. “He’s a crown prince,” I whisper-yelled, trying to figure out what the hell was happening here. Princes weren’t student liaisons. This was a bad idea for multiple reason, but also … he was also far too fucking sexy. I wasn’t sure I could be trusted around him.
Although apparently there were no rules about fraternizing with the opposite sex, even if they were royal.
With a low, rumbling laugh that sent small tingles down my spine, Alex leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, his lips warm against my flushed skin. “Morning, Violet,” he murmured, lingering longer than was socially acceptable.
My attention flicked back to the dean, only to find him still smiling and not even remotely about to reprimand either of us for inappropriate behavior.
He stood, spreading his arms widely, and I was so freaking suspicious of this guy. No one in a position of power was this warm and inviting. Dean Morgan was hiding something major, and I reminded myself to never let my guard down with him.
“I knew I could rely on you Alex,” he said in that same warm-but-creepy voice. “Take good care of our Violet. I believe she’s going to fit in here better than we even expected.”
My brain flinched at those words, like there was a deeper meaning I was missing, but I’d picked up enough to know that something wasn’t quite right.
There was no time for me to ponder it before I was being hauled out of the room. Alex had one arm wrapped around my shoulders as he yelled goodbye to the dean.
I let him manhandle me for a few minutes before my natural independence kicked in. You didn’t grow up an orphan in the world I lived in and learn to ever rely on anyone.