The actofself-flagellationis a ritual the Cardinals have takenpartinfor centuries. Itgrounds us. Focuses us. Keeps us fromstrayingoffthepathlaidoutinancienttimes
The sound ofthe other three whips is music to myears. The sounds ofthe hushed rasps ofhorror and fear ofthe interCardinalsfillmyblacksoulwithsomethingakintojoy. Ten.
“Rise”
The other three Cardinals, in order, Benedict, Damien, and Charles, rise fromkneeling on the cold stone floor of the undergroundchamberintheoldtownhouseinthemiddleofKnightsGate,oneoftheoldestcitiesinEnglandandthefounding townofourOrder.
I fucking hate my title. Duke of KnightsGate. My father died last year, and the title landed on me as his only son. I’m twenty-fucking-oneanda Duke Fuck.That.
I look around at them, my fellow Cardinals, young men with old souls, bound by secrets and blood oaths and ancient lineages thatdate backas far as the mid-1300s “Remember,we mustbe seamless inour execution The Order’s plans must advancewithoutfaltering.”
As Iascend fromthe depths ofthe roombeneaththe house into the deceptive brightness ofday, Icanfeel the weightof responsibilitysettlingoverme.AlistairGaight,DukeofKnightsGateandleaderofanOrder thatdealsinshadesofgreythat oftentendtobeblack
Fromthewindow,Icanseestudentsloungingonthegrassneartheverge,theancientKGbuildingloomingbehindthemlike afearsome watcher as their laughter pitches throughthe air.Butit’s all superficial tome.These are pawns ina muchlarger
Gothic spires claw ata skyso fiercelyblue itlooks like a promise. This is the momentIstep onto the cobblestones of KnightsGateUniversity,andmybreathcatches Italwaysdoes Thisplaceisspectacularlybeautiful Beneaththem,ivy creepsoverancientstones,whisperingsecretsofthepasttoanyonewhodareslisten.Iadjustthestrapofmybackpack, feelingtheweightofbooksagainstmyback mychosenarmourinaworldthatdemandsmorethanIsometimesfeelcapable ofgiving.
The library’s toweringdoors beckonme fromacross the quad, the darkwood starkagainst the limestone buildings that house centuries of tradition As I push open the doors, the scent of old paper and ink fills my nostrils, a perfume more intoxicatingtomethananyfloralbouquet.
ThehushofthesacredspaceenvelopesmeasIstepinside.Ifindsolaceamongtherowsofleather-boundbooksandthe quietclickofkeyboards Theworldoutside,withits expectations andwhispers,fades away It’s justmeandthestories that havestoodthetestoftime.
This is where Ibelong inthe companyofwords and wisdom, where the onlylegacythatmatters is the one writtenon thesepages.
Slipping between the stacks, I let my fingers graze the spines of countless books, feeling the weight of history in their pages.Eachone is a silentwitness tothe Knightlegacy a name etchedintoeverycorner ofKnightsGate University.It’s an honourandaburden,adouble-edgedswordthatcutsdeepwheneverwhispersfollowmedownthesehallowedhalls.
The anticipationsits heavyonmyshoulders, a cloakwovenfromgenerations of scholarlyexcellence and philanthropy, expectationsastoweringastheuniversity’sspires.
Butunlikethegrandstatuescommemoratingmyancestors,there’snomarblepedestalelevatingmeabovethemasses My world has always beenone of modest means a home where love was plentiful but luxuryscarce. Our family’s dwindled fortuneisrenownedinelitecircles.Ourdownfall,ascandalandadisgrace.
KnightsGatemightbemybirthright,butit’salsomybattlefield.Here,Ifightforgradesagainstthecountry’seliteandfora chance to redefine whatitmeans to be a Knight Notthe gilded figurehead ofa bygone era buta studentearningher place throughmerit,sweat,tearsandtheoccasionalcaffeine-fuelledall-nighter.
TheycallmeaLegacy.I’mprettysureit’swhatgotmeinthesehallowedhalls,notmystraightAsandnotaheftydonation. JustmyancestorsbuildingthisplaceandeducatingtheoffspringofKingsandQueens Pompous, old assholes.
GrabbingthebookthatI’dreservedweeksagoforEnglishLit,thatsomedickhashungontoforfarlongerthantheyshould have, this now means Ihave to workwell into the nightto refine the essaythatI’ve struggled onfor days withoutthe right materials.ClutchingitasIcheckout,IstridebackoutintotheafternoonandacrossthequadtoheadhomesoIcangetstarted.
“Orthey’reholedupintheirroomsalready,”Isay,almosthintingthat I needtoholeup.Andfuckingquickly.Thisessay won’tfixitself
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Lila agrees, tossing her bag onto the sofa that’s as much a patchwork of fabrics as we are personalities “Everyonehereneedsthoseresults”
“Bitches,” Sasha says, cominginto the roomand makingher wayto the kitchen, her glasses pushed up her head as she carries a mountainoflaw books “I’mhere for snacks before Ihead backfor Torts Ido notwantto be around whenCass makesscrambledeggswithchocolatesauce.”
“Ah, the joys of cohabitation,” Lila chuckles, collapsing into an armchair that groans under even her slight frame. “Differentasnightandday,butsomehowitworks.”
The girls snicker at the student-wide nickname for Professor Noblett But he brought it on himself because he is a knobhead.
I stride into the kitchen, where the scent of burnt toast hangs like a bad omen Sasha, with her dark curls bouncing, is scrapingblackenedcrumbsintothesink,ascowlonherfacethatcouldscareoffanyfirst-year.
“Ha-ha,”sheretortswithoutlookingup “Ifthistoasterhadaspiritanimal,it’dbeadragon” “Or maybe youjust have a unique talent for charringbread,” Cass interjects fromthe fridge, her nose wrinklingas she sniffsacartonofmilk She’sthemotherhenofourgroup,alwaysmakingsurewedon’tcontractfoodpoisoningorworse “Deadlytalentsaside,Ever,howdoyouhandlethoseFreshernoblebabiestreatingyoulikesomekindofmuseumexhibit? ‘Look,it’sanactualKnight,’”sheaddswithasnort,mimickingaposhaccentthatearnsalaughfromus
“I’ll get it,” I say, makingmywayto the door. Openingit, I reveal the familiar face of Alexander Kensington, Earl of somewhereinEngland Ithink Idon’trememberbecauseitdoesn’tmattertome Hisblueeyesarealightwithmischief.“Ever.Readytocausechaos?” “Huh?”
The familiar ritual of making tea, the sound of boiling water and the clink of spoons anchor me amidst the swirling aspirationsthatoftenthreatentopullmeunder.
GrinningatAlex,feelingabitshyashegivesmeawink,thathalfsmirkonhistoo-handsomeface,Iwishwitheverything thatIcouldgotothatpartywithhimandmaybegettipsyenoughtoseepastthebooksandmakeamove I’mprettysurehehas friend-zoned me, but sometimes I can’t be sure. I’mnot that experienced in this area, and while no one knows quite how innocentIam,asthatisnoone’sbusinessbutmine,Ican’tpretendtobesomethingI’mnot.
She’s busy, hunched over her textbooks, scribblingnotes. Her resolve to conquer academia is almostadmirable despite everythingstackedagainstherthatsheisn’tevenawareofyet Almost
It’s a game ofchess, really, and I’mfixated onher nextmove She’s the queenonthe board, powerful and yetblissfully unawareoftheeyeslockedonhereverynight.Shedoesn’tseeme,butIseeallofher,caughtinmydigitalnet.Inthistwisted game,knowledgeispower.PowerIintendtokeep.
Shestands,stretches,thelinesofexhaustionetchedintoherposture Theroom’ssilenceisprofound,herchairwhispering over the carpet as she moves. I’mperched onthe edge of myseat, staringat mylaptop, hungryfor what’s next. This isn’t unusual,butitisdifferent.Thereissomethingdifferentabouthowshewalksacrosstheroom.Expectinghertogotobed,Itilt myheadas she flicks onthe lighttothe tinyen-suite shower room.Mygaze moves tothe leftofthe screen,tothe camfeed installedintheoverheadlightfitting.Thisinvasionofhermostintimateprivacymakesmydickgohard.
Ileancloser,myfocusnarrowingtothefigureonthescreen Shedoesn’thesitate,hermovementsnatural,unguarded Each pieceofclothingshediscardspeelsbackalayerofmystery.
Noonebutusseesthissideofher,thisunvarnishedtruth.
Herluscioustitsfallfreefromtheplaincottonbra,andIlickmylips,eyesnarrowedfurthertofocusonherslippingher panties off to reveal her shaven pussy. It makes my blood spike. There are rumours about her experience. Rumours I’m desperate toprove one wayor the other,butifthey’re true,thenshe does this for herself,whichmakes itevenhotter,inmy humble opinion. She isn’ttryingto impress anyone, she justwants to feel good. Itis a fragile confidence thatwill soonbe smasheduntilthereisnothingleftbutabrokenlittlegirlbeggingtobeloved Iwillbethere.
She tilts her headback,eyes closed,lostinthe soothingwarmthofthe water Rivulets runalongthe curves ofher body, overthoseripenipplesonhergorgeoustitsthataredefinitelymorethanahandful.Iimaginemyfingerstracingthesamepath. I’mmesmerisedbythesight,thecravingforherdeepinsidemegrowsinsatiablewitheachpassingsecond.
“Saysyou,”Isnarl “Whenwasthelasttime you gotlaid?” HiseyesnarrowandIknowI’vehitmymark.It’slowandabitmean,butfuckhimandhislousytiming.
Hecomes closer,leaningintostareatEver climbingoutoftheshower “Damn,Imissedher Luckyyou,catchingher at night.She’samorningshowergirl,usually.”
“Oh?” As muchas I’d love to spyonher twenty-four-seven, it’s notpractical, notpossible. We take turns, and itseems Damien has her all to himself in the dawn hours, being the fucking early bird he is, or rather the all-time bird. Asshole insomniac.
ButDamienunderstandstherush,thehungerthatdrivesus Wealldo Ileanbackinmychair witha smirk. The sense ofvictoryis sweet, a richtaste thatlingers onmytongue. There she is, unawareandsobeautifullyobliviousthatI’vejerkedoffwhilewatchinghershower It’satriumphthatwarmsmemorethan thepost-climaxhaze.
Everstepsoutoftheshower,dropletscascadingdownherskinlikeliquiddiamonds,andIdrinkinthesightgreedily.She wraps a towel around herself, and I leancloser to the screenas if I could breachthe distance that separates us. Myheart doesn’trace;itprowls,apredatorsatedfornowbuteagerforthenexthunt.
Shemoves gracefully,theeleganceofher movements never lost,eveninthesimplicityofdryingoffandgettingdressed Webothwatch,rapt,assheslipsintopalepinkpyjamas,thesoftfabrichuggingherforminalltherightplaces.They’remodest but somehow accentuate her understated beauty, her classic allure that doesn’t screamfor attentionyet commands it all the same.
Asinister smile crosses myface atthe dedicationthatmakes Ever who she is brilliant, independent, untouchable. But here she is, unknowinglytouched byour gaze, byour desire The game is deliciouslydark, everymove calculated, and the anticipationofwhat’sinherfuturehasmehooked.
Thepre-dawndarknessistheworsttime.It’swhenthedemonsthathauntmysoulcomeouttoplay.Ignoringthembytrying to sleep is pointless, so Iembrace themwithanintensitythatborders onphysicallypainful The marks leftbythe cat whip onmybackfromthe ritual yesterdayare notenough. Myhand itches for the blade inthe drawer nextto mybed. Closingmyeyes,Ireachfor it,knowingexactlywhere itis Pullingitoutofthe drawer,Ileanmyelbows onmyknees and plant my feet on the floor. The soft, plush bedroomcarpet, too big for my liking, is warmand cosy. Everything that is an antonymtothecoldharshnessthatfillsmysoullikeanicicleslowlymelting.Myroomisacaveofdeepshadowsandsecrets. ThehandleoftheknifebitesintomyfleshasIgripittightlybeforeslicingthebladeovertheinsideofmyarm Clenchingmy fistsothebloodwillwellupandspilloutdownmyskin,stickyandwarm,Ismilesoftlyandopenmyeyestoseethecrimson stainmyfeetasitdripsdown Thepainisawhisperofaburn Nothingmore,nothingless Butittakestheedgeoffthedemons, andthat’sallIneedtomoveoutofthisroomandnotwrapanoosearoundmynecktoenditall.
Alistair would fuckingkill me if I did that Evenif I were alreadydead, he’d bringme backjust to kill me again He doesn’tbelieveinfailureorgivingup.It’sprobablywhyI’mstillhere.
The cams flicker to life, revealingEver’s room, and there she is myobsession, myfixation. Not that she knows. The camerasareoursilentwitness,tuckedawaywhereshecan’tsee,can’tsuspect.Shetruststooeasily;that’sherweakness.She doesn’tknowthemonsterswhoarewatchinghereverymove,whohaveintegratedthemselvesintoherlifetokeepherclose. Butthat’stheicingonthecake,isn’tit?Wewillstrike,andshewon’tevenseeuscoming.
Watchingher, this isn’t about safety This is control Power The thrill comes sharp and sweet as I invade her privacy withoutremorse.Ever is ours towatch,ours toknow,evenifshe’s clueless toour silentguarding.I’mher twistedguardian angelwithcharcoalwingsandmorescarsthanIcancount
The momentIslaminto the kitchen, it’s like walkingonto a battlefield. The air’s thickwithtension, anunspokenalarm screamingthroughthesilence Withhisbodyrigid,Damienisproppedagainstthecounterlikehe’stryingtoholdupthe worldwithhisback.Alistairisloominglikeadarkgod,hisfaceofthundertellingmethatshitisabouttohitthefan. “What’sgoingon?”
Alistair’sgazepinsmine,andItrynottoflinch.I’mnotscaredofhim,butheisslightlyviolentintheunpredictablesense. I’ll slice your throat without a second thought and walk away, but Alistair will stick around to mutilate your corpse and probablyburnitforshitsandgiggles
“It’sEver,”hestarts,andthewayhesaysher name,likeit’ssomethingholy,somethingendangered,makesmestraighten up
Damienleans againstthe wall,his arms crossedover his chest, butIsee it the glintofapproval inhis steelygaze He doesn’thavetosayshitformetoknowhe’sgotthiscovered.Wealldo.
Alistair’s eyes, darkand dangerous, flickover to Damien. Theyunderstand eachother, these two. Predators recognising another’sterritory
I watch the silent communication between them, like they’re speaking in some sort of code only they understand. It’s chilling and effective Benedict is still leaning against the doorframe, but I see the way his eyes have narrowed, like he’s calculatingeverypossibleoutcomeinhishead.He’salwaysthreemovesahead.
It’s settled, then Aplan rough, frantic, butit’s something Ashield thrownup around Ever whether she wants itor not becausethat’swhatyoudowhensomeoneyouhaveeverythingridingonisthrownintothelion’sden youbecomethedamn beastthatprotectsher.
I’ma heartbeat awayfrombeinglate, and mybreathcomes inshort bursts as I dodge bodies inthe frenzied hallwayof KnightsGate University This fucking paper burns a hole in my laptop My trainers squeak against the polished floor, beggingfortractionasIweavethroughclustersofstudentswhomovelikeglaciers.
Finally, I burst into the classroomjust as the clockticks its final warning. I slap myassignment submissionslip onthe professor’sdesk,mychestheaving,relieffloodingthroughme.That’sonedeadlinethatisnotgoingtokickmybutttoday.
I’mout the door, and the world shifts fromthe stale air of academia to the crispness of autumnoutside. The quad is a battlefield of social hierarchies, which even the elite have within the elite, and frisbee games, but right now, it’s just an obstaclecoursebetweenmeandmynextclass,whichis,ofcourse,ontheothersideofthecampus Myfeetpoundthegrassy pathsasIjointhestreamofstudents,allofusreducedtosalmonswimmingupstreamtowhateverwaitsforusinLectureHall A,BorC
“Party at ours tonight,” Eric says. “You’re coming, right?” The question doesn’t sound like a question at all. It’s an expectation,ademandwrappedinfaux-politeness
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I say, my words slicing through the charged atmosphere like a blade. I grip the strap of my backpackalittletighter,ananchorinthischaos “I’vegottoomuchonmyplate”
Ishake myhead, wonderingwhatIhave to do to getthese guys outofmysphere “Notinterested,” Istate, louder now, hopingmyfirmnessmaskstheuneasytremorIfeelinside.Theyhavetotakethehint,theyjusthaveto.Nooneishelpingme.If anything,they’reeggingthemon
“Fuckoff,” one of themsnarls, and I take a suddenstep backas I recognise the Duke of KnightsGate, Alistair Gaight, steppinguptomydefence.I’veneverevenspokentohimbefore.
Theguybesidehimissilentbutscreamingvolumes.DamienWraith,Ithink.Hisstanceisawall,unyieldingandcold.They don’tneed to saymuch;their presence alone speaks a language ofpower thatthese second-years clearlyunderstand butare stupidenoughtochallenge.
The air is thickwithtension,myearlier fear replacedbya strange sense ofsecuritystandingbehindthese two imposing figures.Idon’tknowthem,butrightnow,they’retheshieldbetweenmeandthebullieswhohavemademetheirtargettoday.
Damien moves then, a shadow slipping through twilight His own strike is precise, a coiled spring of pent-up energy releasinginadevastatinguppercut.Stanleycrumpleslikeamarionettewithcutstrings.
We fall into step with him, and I try to lock away the image of Alistair’s intense gaze, the silent threat of Damien’s presence Butthey’reetchedinmymind,darklyfascinating,drawingmeindespitemybetterjudgement
“Tellmeaboutit,”Lilagroansrightnexttome.Weshuffleintothehouselikewe’rewadingthroughmud. We trudge up to our rooms, and Ichuckmybagsomewhere near the deskand collapse onto the bed The mattress grabs holdofmelikeitmissedmeallday.Iletoutthislongsigh,tryingtogetmyheadstraight.
Asuddensoundjoltsthroughthefloorboards,followedbyatangofsomethingburntthatscratchesatthebackofmythroat. “Shit. Sasha? Whathave youburned now?” She is the world’s worstcook. I’monmyfeetbefore the words finishtheir echo,openingmydoortoastrongerstench.“Fuck!”Adrenalinekicksmyheartintooverdrive,andImovefast. Stumblingdownstairs,followedbyLila,myhandskidsalongtherail,slickwithsweatorterror “Fire,”Igaspaswetearthroughthelivingroomtothekitchen.
“Ever!Ever!”Lila’svoiceisasharpstabofreality Ican’tseeher,butIknowshe’sclose,lostinthesmokelikeIam Ilaunchmyselftowardsthedanger,towardstheheatthatwantstosearthefleshfrommybones.“Out!Getout!”It’sall I canthink,allIcanscream.
Thekitchendoorisopen,andholyshit theflamesarealivething,all teethandclaws,devouringtheroom.Heatslams intome,sofierceit’s like aphysical blow,andfor asecond,Ican’tbreathe,can’tthink.Ican’tevenseewhere it’s coming from
“Fuck!”It’sallIcanmanageagain,astrangledcursethatgetsswallowedbytheroarofthefire. It’s everywhere, climbingthe walls, lickingat the ceiling, and turningeverythingit touches into aninferno Mymind’s racing,screamingthatthisisbad,sofuckingbad,andI’mhere,rightinthemiddleofit.
“Fire,”Igaspoutthemomenttheoperatoranswers.“There’safireat55GateClose!” “Hurry,” Lila shrieks, her voice trembling next to me. She’s never been one to lose her shit the girl who can recite Shakespeareatthedropofahatisnowstrugglingtostringasentencetogether “Areyououtsidethebuilding?”theoperatorasksallbusiness.
“Thankyou,” Iwhisper,endingthe call.Myhands shake,butnotfromthe cold it’s pure,undistilledterror.Iclutchthe phone like a lifeline as we back away, watching the beast roar and ravage everything we hold dear that used to be our sanctuary.
“Where the fuckis everyone else?” Iwhisper, glancingaround “We need to go backinside!Whatifthey’re sleepingor can’tmove?”
“No!”LilasaysasItakeastepforward “CassandSashhadlater classesandweregoingtothepubafter Crystal went homefortheweekend?Remember?”
Watchingas the firefighters shuffle inand out, I’mnumb. Sasha and Cass joined us a few minutes ago, havingalready heard aboutthe fire fromthe pub Word travels fastaround here;Ididn’tevengeta chance to call thembefore they barrelledover.
Lila’s fingers twitchbeside me Sasha’s brow is furrowed, lips pressed into a thinline Cass stands a little apart, arms wrappedtightaroundherselflikeshecouldphysicallyholdoffthecoldrealitysettingin.
Iglanceatthefaces ofmyfriends,seeingmyworryreflectedbackatme We’resupposedtobesmartandresourceful –we’re the students who ace exams and tackle complextheories – but none of that matters now. We’re just four girls, five, includingCrystal,whoisn’tevenheretosurveythedamage,suddenlyhomeless “Weneedaplacetocrash,”Cassstates,breakingthesilencethathasenvelopedus.
“That’sgood.Good,”Isigh,tryingtoswallowdownthebittertasteofenvy.Atleastsomeone’sgotastrokeoflucktonight. We all manage weaksmiles, knowingbetter thanto hold itagainsther She’s gota portinthe storm;the restofus are still adrift.
“Okay,whatnow?”Sasha’svoicepullsmebacktoreality “Universityhousingoffice,”Iblurtout,“Theyhavetohelp,right?” “Let’shopeso,”Lilaadds,hertonenotquitematchingheroptimisticwords IfishmyphonefrommypocketandfindthenumberIsavedbackinfresher’sweek justincase. “KnightsGate UniversityHousingOffice, how canI assist you?” The voice onthe other end is crisp, detached. It’s the
emergencyafter-hoursstaff Idon’tholdoutmuchhopeforthis,atall “Hi,this is Ever Knight,final year student.We’vehadafireatour placeoffcampus.Is thereanythingyoucando?”My voicetrembles,andItrynottocry Thisisn’tmystrength I’mthebookgirl,nottheonewhosolvesreal-lifeproblems “Onemoment.”Hedisappears,andIwait,tappingmyfootimpatiently.
“Alex!”Myvoicebreaksonhisname Ithrowmyselfathim,wrappingmyarmsaroundhisbroadframe.Heholdsme,butthere’snopassioninhisembrace,no tighteningofhis arms It’s a friendlyhug, and that’s all it is It just makes me cryharder Not that I’minlove withhimor anything,itonlydriveshomethatI’mallalone.
We reachour rooms, and it’s a grab-and-dashjob. Ishove jeans, shirts, and anythingIcaninto mybag itall feels so trivialnow
“Grab my bookbag and shove whatever you can in, please,” I mutter to Alex who has followed me into my room. “DefinitelyanythingthatbelongstotheAcademy.”
“Sure,” he murmurs, distracted as he checks his phone “Got somewhere you can crash,” he says, looking up with a reassuringsmile.It’slikehe’sofferingmeanumbrellainahurricane.“Afriend’splace.”
Alex steps closer, his presence a towering certainty in the cramped space. “They’ve got other friends. They’ll figure somethingout”Histoneisn’tcoldbutpractical,likehe’sdiscussingachessmoveandnotourlives “Feelswrong,ditchingthem,”Iconfess,theguiltgnawingatmyinsides.
“Sometimesyouhavetolookafternumberone,Ever”Heshrugsasifit’sthatsimple Iknow he’sright.Cassdid.Weall haveto.I’mgrateful for hishelp,butitfeelslikeacceptingalifeboatwhileknowing othersarestillonthesinkingship.
Lila pockets her phone and manages a small smile. “Headinghome for the weekend. Mum’s freakingout. She thinks I’m abouttoturnintoafireballorsomething”Sherollshereyes,butIcantellshe’srelieved,she’sbacktoheroldself,mostly “I’llsortsomethingonceI’mthere.IfIhavetocommute,it’snotthatfar.Coupleofhourseitherway.”
Sashalooksupfromherphone,aresignedsighescapingherlips “Mycousin’sgoingtoletmecrashinherdorm It’stiny as hell, but it beats sleeping out here,” she says, gesturing out to the cold, unforgiving street that’s become our temporary refuge.
