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As we approach the towering building of KnightsGate Manor, the gothic structure is an extension of the Royal Academy behind us, I hesitate.
“I’m not sure how that would work with my landlord.”
“His house set on fire. He can’t expect you to be loyal to him when he fixes it. You need a roof over your head and stability, not flitting around from house to house.”
Well, he’s not wrong there.
“Fine.” I finally exhale the word more than say it. It feels like a pact made with the devil, but I have no idea why. “And thanks for earlier and for letting me stay and for yesterday as well.”
A smirk curls his lips as he pushes open the heavy front door with an ease that speaks of power. “We look after our own, Ever, and you’re ours.”
His words send a trail of ice down the back of myneck, mingling fear with an undeniable rush. I’m part of ‘their’ world—protected, but also possessed in some intangible way. As we step into the entrance hall, the sensation only intensifies, the shadows seeming to whisper secrets I’m not sure I want to hear, that I’m notreadyto hear.
21
EVER
Monday morning arrives with my head throbbing mercilessly as I take two more painkillers, a relentless reminder of Saturday night’s spiked drink. There is no doubt in my mind now that is what it was, and that Stanley gave it to me to rape me to win his sick bet. I glare at the form I filled out late last night with loathing. I wasn’t sure at first, but then I found anger, and Stanley Richfucker, Lord Asshole, is going down. I glance at the form to make sure I didn’t actually write that down.
Stanley Richford, Lord Ashdown.
The morning grey light filtering through my curtains feels like an assault on my gritty eyes, but I force myself off the bed, determined to scrub away the haze clinging to my thoughts.
The shower’s hot spray stings my skin—a welcome pain. As the water cascades over me, I try toimagine it washing away the physical and mental toxins.
I dress on autopilot: a pair of high-waisted jeans that hug my legs just right and a loose ivory sweater that falls off one shoulder—a touch of understated elegance. Giving them a sniff, they smell faintly of smoke, but it’s going to have to do. The way the breeze is picking up outside, it’ll be blown away by the time I reach class. Uncoiling my hair from the shower-bun, I leave it down and glance at the clock before shoving books into my bag and sliding my laptop beside them. There is no time for breakfast; the thought alone churns my stomach.
Still.
Heading down the stairs with my jacket slung over my arm and my bookbag on my shoulder, I grin. Charlie is waiting by the door, his hazel eyes scanning me with interest.
“Looking cute, Ever,” he teases.
“Thanks,” I murmur, stepping out into the crisp autumn air. “Back at you.” Leaves crunch underfoot, and I pull my jacket on as the breeze whacks us in the face. “Fuck, that came out of nowhere.”
“Wouldn’t be England if it didn’t.”
“Fact,” I reply with a snort of amusement. “You’re in this early? Thought the drama students liked a lie-in?”
“What’s that?” he jokes, but shakes his head. “Got Art History this morning.”
“Heavy shit on a Monday morning.”
“No kidding.”
We walk side by side, his presence a bizarre comfort despite feeling like I’m being watched.
“You ready for Test Week?” he asks as we leave the square. I’m not sure when it was decided we’d walk in together, but it’s nice, I guess.
“Always.”
“Hey, you okay? After everything?” Charlie nudges me gently with his elbow.
“Yep. Fine,” I lie, not fine at all.
Charlie doesn’t press further, but I catch him shooting me a worried glance before going back to staring in front.
Falling into an easy silence, we reach the building of my first class, and he gives me a playful salute. “Knock ‘em dead, Professor’s pet.”
