Assassin's Academy: Book One: Rebels: (A Dark Academy Romance)

by Everly Frost

  I can tell myself it’s lust. Striker told me I’m playing with fire and, so help me, I want all the fire he’s offering.

  I step up to him, raise myself onto tiptoes, and join my mouth to his.

  He responds with a groan, wrapping his arms around me and hoisting me up against him, drawing my legs around his hips. The heat from his chest and arms burns across my torso and back as his fingers splay across my skin. Instead of returning me to the bed, he turns, nudges his chair out of the way, and strides to his desk, sitting me on its edge as he continues to kiss me.

  His lips are warm and tantalizing, drawing across my cheeks and chin and down my neck as his fingertips play across my back, exploring the shape of my spine and shoulder blades, the curve at the base of my neck, then my collarbone and the space between my breasts.

  I gasp as his lips follow his hands, dropping kisses all the way to my stomach, but he avoids my most sensitive places as he takes his time exploring my stomach and the tops of my hips, his hands finally finding the hem of my skirt and sliding along the tops of my thighs before descending all the way to my ankles. His fingertips skip along my calves and curl around my ankles before he positions my legs around his waist again. He presses closer, his lips returning to mine. I draw on my every shred of my sanity when he unzips my skirt but leaves it in place.

  An intense need grows in my center, only getting stronger the longer he avoids touching me. I drag at his shirt, breaking our kiss to pull it all the way over his head this time, trying to get what I need from pressing against him, naked skin on naked skin.

  He draws back to meet my eyes for a beat. I thought he was in control, but the wild flames in his amber eyes tells me he isn’t. When I press my hand to his chest, his heartbeat is wild and erratic, thudding hard.

  Running my hands through his dark hair, I search his eyes for a reason. I remember the way he picked me up when he brought me into his room, the power he keeps under control, the way his eyes promise me a sort of wild freedom.

  I whisper against his lips, “Stop holding back, Striker.”

  For a second, fear strikes through his expression, shocking me with its intensity. Striker Draven is never afraid. Why now?

  He dips his head and his kiss changes. Intensely hungry. His hands grip my hips, dragging me hard up against him as his tongue finds mine, tasting every part of my mouth and sending my head into a spin. When his palms drag across my ribs to stroke my breasts, my body responds with a fury of its own. I arch against his hands, wanting more, wanting everything, a moan growing in the back of my throat.

  The heat from his body increases, a fiery edge that scorches my hands as I flex my palms against his back. I press against him, trying to remove my underwear at the same time, but it’s impossible. He smiles against my mouth, one hand leaving my breast and descending to halt my struggle. His forefinger hooks over the top of my underpants. There’s a snap, a rip, and the material separates. I don’t know how he did it and I don’t care. All I know is that I must be lost because I don’t want to slow down.

  When his hand slides between us and his thumb brushes across my sensitive center, I shiver so hard that I rock against him. With another fiery kiss planted on my lips, he reaches for his shorts, swaying back from me to remove them and kick them to the side. I drag his hips forward like he gripped mine, growling against his mouth when I can’t tug down his underpants because…

  Because… What the hell?

  I swallow a shriek. He jolts, his reflexes kick in, and he grabs my hand—the one that just scratched him.

  He wrenches my hand into view and we both freeze.

  Sharp claws extend from each of my fingers, my fingernails turned crimson and sharp. My breathing becomes wild for all the wrong reasons.

  I have claws!

  I try to pull away from him, but he won’t let me go.

  His voice is a husky growl. “Your power is manifesting.”

  My breathing is rapid. I’m starting to panic, but a shockingly fierce smile grows on his lips. He elongates his fingers next to mine, easing up his grip. “Look, Peyton.”

  I gasp as his fingernails extend into claws, blackening and sharpening like mine.

  Panic flips to excitement, thrumming through me. “Are we the same?” I search his face for answers. “Am I like you?”

  His smile becomes intense. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  I’ve heard of supernaturals who experience significant shifts in their development when they have sex. Some supernaturals bond with their partners. Others discover greater power.

  Intense physical contact with Striker has triggered my power in many ways ever since I got here—from giving me speed and strength to causing me to levitate to healing me—and now I have claws. I’m terrified of what I’ll find out the further we go, but I’m ready for it.

  He draws my wrist to his cheek, nuzzling the sensitive skin of my palm before trailing kisses all the way down my arm. I arch against his mouth, drawing him back to me as soon as he removes his jeans. Hooking my fingernail across the band of his underpants, I bite my lip with a smile and prepare to tear them just like he tore mine.

  He growls against my mouth, snaking his arm around my backside and drawing me closer, an invitation that I can’t ignore. As soon as the material parts, there will be nothing between us.

  Just as I move, he suddenly tenses. His hand closes over mine, stopping me. He draws back to see my face, his breathing barely under control, but his eyes are suddenly narrowed.

  “Wait… Wait…” He shakes his head as if he’s trying to think. “You’re manifesting.”

  I smile, attempting to ignore the sudden worry springing to life inside me. “We already determined that.”

  “Yes, but you’re manifesting now.” He grips my upper arms before he slides his hands firmly to mine, holding my fingers up again, forcing my claws to splay between us. “Why are you manifesting now?”

  “I don’t… I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “Yes! It matters.” His voice is a growl, but not a husky growl. An angry one. “Is it me? Or is it sex?” He searches my eyes. “If it were me, you would have manifested like this before now. So it has to be sex. But you’re Unknown. You’ve never manifested before, so…”

  My cheeks flame. Damn. Here comes the virgin talk I wanted to avoid. He’ll get to the truth one way or another, so I take a deep breath. “I’ve never… done this before.”

  The stillness that descends over him makes my heart sink. I know that humans count their first time as a big event. Actually, most supernaturals do too, but I hate that he’s looking at me like I’m a completely different person now. As if it means he has to treat me like I’m made of porcelain. Like he can’t touch me the way he wants to. Like he shouldn’t have touched me the way he did.

  He pulls away from me, but I grab his hand. “It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change what I want.”

  He whirls back to me, prying my hand from his. His accusation hits me hard. “You should have told me.”

  “Why does it matter?” I respond to his anger with my own. “I could have had sex a hundred times before. This would still be the first time with you.”

  “It matters because you shouldn’t be messing with me your first time. You shouldn’t be fucking on a desk your first time.” He runs his hand through his hair. “How the hell is this possible?”

  I stare at him. Is he seriously asking me why I’ve never had sex? “Guys weren’t exactly lining up to date me, Striker.”

  “Yeah, well, they were smart.”

  I inhale a breath, but it’s all I can do. I try to process his sudden rejection, but I’m numb and just as suddenly incoherent. “I thought… maybe… you…”

  His eyes narrow to dangerous slits. “What, Peyton? You thought there was something between us?”

  A storm grows inside me. I know what I felt. I know what I saw in his eyes. There’s a connection and it’s more than lust. “I know what I feel.”


  My declaration makes him freeze like stone. His silence scares me. His cold, indrawn breath scares me more. “Don’t get attached to me, Price.”

  The way he calls me by my last name makes me shiver. I fight the moan building in my throat. He shouldn’t be able to make me feel so bad. I should be tougher, but he may as well have sliced my heart in half. Unexpected physical pain claws through my chest. It makes my head ache and my eyes fill with tears I don’t want him to see.

  He doesn’t have to say anything else—I’m already hurting, already pulling away—but he goes on. “We can fuck, but that’s all this is.”

  I was sure there was more between us just now, a spark of something good. I thought I saw it when he picked me up in my room. I was sure I heard it in his voice when he told me they’d never break me, when he flipped through the medical kit searching for something to help me, when he touched me and his palms softened against my skin. But maybe helping me was obligation and touching me was lust… and caring about me never came into it.

  My hair falls over my eyes as my shoulders slump, the long strands tracking across my naked chest. All I see now are the claws on my hands. They manifested when I felt the connection between us, but they haven’t gone away. Actually… my claws are stronger, as if the more harshly he treats me, the more furious my power grows.

  I’m such an idiot. This is Striker Draven. He never lied to me about his intentions or who he is. I’m the one who was lying to myself. He’s an asshole and I dreamed up a different Striker for all of two seconds.

  Well, that’s over now.

  A deep cold seeps into my arms and legs, a growing numbness. My arms drop to my sides, not caring anymore. I slide off the desk. My skirt falls back around my thighs as I zip it up. The movement releases my torn underpants, which slip off the desk and hit the floor at my feet. I leave them where they lay.

  Striker stands his ground as I take a step toward him, my head held high. He isn’t afraid of me—he’s never afraid of me—not even when I tap my sharp foreclaw against his chest and line up my other claws around the location of his heart.

  A wary light enters his eyes. He tenses, ready to act, but he’s still not afraid.

  “One day, I will rip out your heart, Striker Draven,” I whisper. “I’m sure you’ll survive without it since you already do.”

  I drag my claws across his chest hard enough to scratch him as I spin and stride from his room, pulling the door open without pausing. I’m still naked from the waist up, but I only care to cover up my claws, folding them inside my fists.

  I needn’t have worried. Collin and Colby are nowhere to be seen. Covering the distance to my room, I set my mind on finding a new uniform and taking a shower before afternoon classes. I need to wash off the reminder of Striker’s hands and how far I nearly went. How far I can’t go again.

  25. Striker Draven

  Peyton’s claws leave deep red welts across my chest as she stalks from my room, but nothing compares to the painful roar inside my mind.

  My beast shouts at me, his rage like a hot lash. What the hell did you do?

  I clench and unclench my fists, digging my claws into my palms until they bleed. My shoulders slump. This isn’t love.

  Like hell it isn’t, my beast roars. Kaitlyn messed you up so badly, you can’t tell the difference between love and lust anymore.

  I shout back inside my mind. I don’t love Peyton!

  His growl is deep and raw. She offered you more than anyone ever will, and you threw it back in her face. You hurt her.

  My heart is beating too fast. My body is out of my control. Peyton’s underwear is scattered around my room—her bra on my bed, her underpants on the floor. Both items of clothing are torn up, like the look on her face when I told her she meant nothing to me.

  I couldn’t take her to the bed because that’s where Kaitlyn always wanted to go. I held back when I touched Peyton because that’s how Kaitlyn liked to be touched. But Peyton… she wanted all of me—all the fire and rage—and the look in her eyes and the heat from her body told me she would give me back the same.

  That doesn’t mean she’s my match. My beast is wrong. He’s wrong about Peyton and how I feel about her.

  I have to run, hit something, bloody myself up.

  I grab a pair of track pants and pull them on at a run before I charge down the corridor. The other students will be at lunch now. The garden and the electric fence will be all mine.

  Hurling myself down stairs, I burst through the back exit and pull up sharp.

  A guy my age stands in the middle of the combat mat, his arms folded across his chest, facing upward. His gaze is firmly fixed on the wide windows that line the floor of the attic. The very transparent windows.

  Damn. He would have seen Peyton leave my room. He would have seen that she wasn’t wearing much, but unless he has eagle eyes, he wouldn’t have seen her claws.

  He’s wearing a black T-shirt with jeans and boots. He’s not quite as tall as me, but it’s obvious he works out. It’s also obvious he hasn’t bothered to change since he took his knife to Peyton. Her blood splatters his jeans. I can smell it from here.

  Perfect. I need someone to fight.

  Pale green eyes glitter at me between the strands of his blond hair as he lowers his line of sight. He sizes me up as I stride forward. I take the steps up to the platform and find a position far enough away from him that he won’t be able to make any sudden moves, but close enough that I can smash his face in if I want to. Hell, I didn’t hold back when I last fought Peyton but for this guy, I’ll let everything loose.

  “Striker Draven,” he says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  The corners of my lips twitch upward. “It’s all true.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Huh. So ‘fucking brutal’ is an accurate description? That’s what the compliance officers say about you. Peyton said something similar, except maybe she meant the fucking part differently.”

  He’s trying to bait me, but it won’t work. “Professor Raptor,” I say, making my own assessment. “Likes to cut up defenseless students.”

  “But I’m not the only one,” he replies, circling me. “The cuts I make are visible. The cuts you make aren’t.”

  I hate the accuracy in his statement.

  I move while he does, keeping him in my sights at all times. I’ve lived on this mat for three years. I’m familiar with all its imperfections. I don’t even need to look to know that he’s about to hit an uneven part of it. Whether he loses his balance will tell me how skilled he is.

  His foot falls right into the dent and he doesn’t flinch, rebalancing as if the indentation isn’t there.

  I can’t help the smile growing on my face. This just gets better. I might actually enjoy this fight.

  “How does it feel to be the heir to a fortune you can’t touch?” Raptor asks, switching gears. Again, he’s trying to throw me, but he has no idea whom he’s dealing with.

  I shrug, stepping lightly. “My mother’s money is in good hands.”

  He is visibly surprised. “You think your stepdaddy is doing a good job of running the company that should be yours?”

  I scoff. “My stepfather? No. My stepsister? Yes.”

  “Ah, Zara Draven. I met her once. Headstrong. Needs a strong man to handle her. Has a beautiful neck I’d like to wrap my fist around.”

  He pauses. Again waiting for me to take the bait. When I don’t, he continues. “It’s funny how your stepdad took your mother’s name when they married and not the other way around. Most people think he’s your biological father, but he and your stepsister have no more Draven blood than I do. It makes me wonder… Did he decide to kill your mother before or after they were married?”

  Raptor watches me carefully, but I don’t flinch.

  Dear Daddy told me what he did on the day he had me committed to this place. The day I should have taken control of the Draven fortune—the fortune he held in trust for me until I turned twenty. My magical repres
sion gave him the excuse he needed to trigger the incapacity clause. Until I’m “cured,” I’m legally denied the right to control my own inheritance. Meanwhile, he can do whatever he wants with it.

  I was three years old when Mom married him. I gained a sister I love but lost my mother a year later in a freak car accident that was supposed to kill us both. I survived. Mom didn’t.

  That’s how I know that I will never leave Bloodwing alive.

  My stepfather sent me here to die so he can finally seize control of the Draven empire. He didn’t expect me to live this long and I’m certain he’s becoming impatient about it.

  I switch gears as quickly as Raptor did. “What about you Professor? They call you The Specialist out in the real world, don’t they?”

  A disgruntled frown creases his forehead. I guess I stole his thunder.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Were you building up to a big reveal? I already know you’re an ex-assassin.” I switch direction and circle toward him, throwing him off-track. “Most assassins don’t last long once they’re excommunicated. Without Lady Tirelli’s protection, you’re a dead man.”

  The flare of anger in his eyes tells me I’ve hit a nerve.

  “That’s all you are,” I say. “A man.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “And what are you, Draven?”

  He stops stepping around the mat, relaxing his shoulders in a way that tells me he’s nearly done talking. “Trained in martial arts and boxing, but not football because they wouldn’t let you on the field. You took to cage fighting for two years after high school. You learned how to fight dirty. Hurt or be hurt. So, which are you: monster or man?”

  I smile. “How about both?”

  I dart inward and clip his chin. He barely winces, but I didn’t expect him to. My goal is to figure out how he likes to fight and to test his strength, but more than that, I need to get myself thrown in the pit. I can’t sleep near Peyton tonight.

  He retaliates with an angry punch to my cheek and another to my side, throwing both with enough effort to hurt me. I exhale the air from my lungs as if he winded me worse than he did before I let him follow up with a kick to my chest. I fake a backward stumble that makes him snarl.