CORIN

  Peasant turned hero, right after saving the queen, was the most cliché of things.

  It didn't bother her. Not even when half of Billard's female populace began giving him a second look in the corridors. She expected as much the moment she named him to the club. It was like putting a mark on a product, stamping it Corin Clarendon approved—and so the others should trust it, covet it, perhaps even worship it with blind faith.

  What did bother her was his tie.

  It kept slipping, every single day, into some looser, sadder shape, as if actively mocking her demonstration on how to do it properly. The bloody muppet could recite the dates of every European war since the twelfth century but apparently could not remember to tie a Windsor knot.

  She sat in the upper quad, watching him across the courtyard, head bent as he spoke with a few upper sixth boys who now seemed to orbit him like he was the next coming of someone important. Maybe he was. Billard had a way of sniffing out bloodlines and potential with frightening accuracy.

  The quiet kid with the odd scholarship had become... important.

  Ever since the incident—as the staff were calling it—Lucien's name lingered in every conversation. He'd gained a kind of reluctant fame. The boy who shielded her during the trolley crash. The one she'd actually spoken to, even defended, when the club tried to question his place.

  It was funny, really. They all whispered about him now, but not one of them dared ask how close they'd gotten that day—or how much of him she remembered feeling against her skin before she realised what she was doing.

  She pushed that thought away and left to meet Patrice in the special clubroom she shared with the top boys.

  "Good morning, Ms. Clarendon," Patrice greeted, handing her a report on what happened. "That's the security team's findings. They ruled it as an accident."

  Corin puckered her lips, disappointed. "I was rather hoping for a small act of sabotage. You're telling me he simply has impeccable timing and a generous streak of luck?"

  Patrice's face was unreadable. "And he's become quite the sensation." She passed a second sheet across the desk. "Clubs have started sending him invitations."

  Corin scanned the list, which showed almost everyone except fencing.

  Rothwell will not yield an inch of his territory.

  "And?" she asked, without looking at her.

  "He hasn't accepted anything yet," Patrice replied. "But I heard Mr. Vandercourt is quite determined to get him."

  "Vicki's like that," Corin said with an amused grin. "He likes to steal other people's toys."

  Her expression stayed calm, but the paper in her hand crumpled into a tight ball.

  Patrice moved to pick it up from the floor and briefly glanced at the fresh wound on Corin's finger—a papercut from the list.

  "Relax," Corin said, catching her eye. "It's just a little blood."

  "Do you want to claim damages from the catering company?" Patrice asked.

  Corin leaned back on the velvet couch, dark red as the blood still on her finger. "What do you think we should do?"

  Patrice clasped the folder behind her and straightened her spine. "There was a clear sign of negligence on their part. They failed to maintain their equipment in tip-top shape. A breach of contract. I'll ban them from all Billard and Clarendon events."

  "Then get it done," Corin said simply.

  "Miss Clarendon."

  She turned and found Alistair standing right outside the door—clearly eavesdropping.

  "Mr. Ascor."

  "'Morning, Patrice." He moved aside to let her through, then stepped into the room. "Her MBA is working well for you. Not bad for your first project. Didn't you send her to school with your own allowance?"

  "I did no such thing," Corin replied, though amusement tugged faintly at her voice.

  "Why were you eavesdropping? Didn't your butler teach you that it's rude?"

  "I wasn't," he denied, taking a seat across from her, his fancy socks peeking through—green little dinosaurs. "I was politely waiting for you to finish your conversation before I barged in."

  He always had his way with words; she couldn't even throw something at him.

  "Shouldn't you be resting?" he asked.

  "As you can see, I'm unscathed. There's no reason to be in bed."

  He stood up and reached for her hand. "But you're bleeding right now." Pulling out a pocket square, he wrapped it carefully around her finger.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "You're so fragile sometimes. I should put you in bubble wrap."

  Alistair had warm hands for someone who appeared cold and distant. He had been sent to Billard to make connections, to help him in the future should he run for a position like his father. The Ascors were a known political family, one of those rare few who actually cared for the people. But still, that history of public service meant nothing to Corin. She trusted no one—not even angels.

  "Remove your hands," she whispered as she leaned in closer, "before I strangle you."

  She felt him tense as he slowly shifted his fingers away.

  The door opened, and Rothwell walked in on them. She saw the way his jaw ticked at seeing them that close.

  "Shouldn't you be in bed?" he asked through clenched teeth.

  Corin laid her head against Alistair's shoulder. "I'm getting well taken care of." She noticed the box of treats in Rothwell's hand—one of her favourites, for sure. "Is that for me?"

  Rothwell threw it onto the table. The box slid just right to stop at the centre, stubborn like him, refusing to fall off the edge.

  "They made me buy it for you."

  They. He meant his family.

  Corin pulled away from Alistair and stared at the box of Turkish delight. She loved those. "Shame, I don't have a dog to feed them to. Oh, wait—I do have a dog. Lucien Green."

  He scoffed and shoved his hands into his pockets, clearly hiding how he'd balled them into fists. The mere mention of that name made him more upset than Alistair ever could.

  "You keep associating yourself with that transferee. You must be really bored," he said.

  "I am," she replied as she stood. "None of you are really cutting it for me these days. The Mocks are coming; we shouldn't be sitting here talking like this, like we're all friends."

  She shut the door behind her. Softly, even though she wanted to slam it, make the sound ring in their ears.

  None of them are taking Clarendon Industries from me, she promised herself.

  Whichever boy that came up on top would not matter. She would not allow them to take what was hers.

  Not even that bloody muppet.

  ***

  Corin found Lucien in the library—not the old wing he favoured, but the new one. The light here was sharper, the silence thinner. Dust floated in the air like drifting ghosts between the shelves.

  He stood before one of the taller stacks, reaching for a book that was just out of his grasp. It should have been nothing for him. But she saw it, the slight wince, the breath he held when he stretched his arm.

  His shoulder, she thought.

  "Do you want me to help?" she asked.

  Lucien turned, startled, then smiled in that careful, uncertain way he did when he wasn't sure if she was teasing or offering kindness. "Sure," he said.

  "Get down," she ordered, pointing to the floor.

  He blinked, as though realising she was going to use his back again instead of the ladder. "I'm injured, Corin," he sighed, his hands settling on his hips.

  "You mean your minor bruise?" she countered, stepping closer, her tone a blend of concern and mockery.

  He glanced aside. "Forget it." He turned to leave, but she caught him by the tie and tugged him back. His hand shot out, bracing against the shelf beside her head to keep from colliding into her.

  He was close enough that she felt the warmth of him. The smell of books, linen, and faint aftershave folded into the space between them.

  "I taught you how to do this properly," she said, gaze flicking to the loose knot. "Why do you show up like this? To annoy me?"

  He tried to free his tie, but Corin's grip is much stronger than his integrity.

  "The right way," he said quietly, "is making it hard for me to breathe."

  That disarmed her for a moment. Not from the words, but from the honesty in them. He wasn't trying to spar—he was trying to read her.

  "I never asked," he went on, eyes searching hers. "Are you all right? You must've been scared. Even a bit."

  Corin almost laughed. He really thought she was a soft little thing. "You're hilarious," she said.

  Lucien caught her hand, prying his tie free—and that's when he noticed the silk band around her finger. "You hurt yourself."

  She should have brushed him off, the way she did with Alistair, like she did with anyone who presumed the right to care. But his touch was warm. Not the careful warmth of sympathy—something steadier, unassuming, real. Her grip slackened.

  "It's nothing," she said.

  "Right." His tone softened, but there was a quiet certainty there. "You're coming with me."

  Before she could protest, he grabbed her wrist and led her out of the library. Students turned to stare, some whispering, others gasping. The Observe Silence sign might as well not have existed.

  They stopped at the infirmary. Peterson looked up from a cabinet, startled. "Ah, Mr. Green—oh, Ms. Clarendon."

  "She hurt herself," Lucien said, holding up her hand as if presenting evidence.

  "No worries, let me take a look," Peterson said.

  "It's really nothing," Corin repeated.

  "Seriously, Corin," Lucien said, lowering his voice. "Just let the man check."

  Peterson peeled away the silk cloth and looked from Lucien to her.

  "It's a very small cut," he observed. "Paper cut?"

  Corin nodded.

  Lucien's ears turned red. Peterson smiled kindly. "I'll get you a plaster."

  As he left, the silence that filled the room was close, suffocating.

  "You should've said something," Lucien said quietly.

  "I did," she said. "You're just deaf."

  He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. "Fair."

  When Peterson returned and fixed the plaster, Corin said idly, "You should check his shoulder. He was wincing earlier like a child."

  Lucien gave her a look that was half a glare, half amusement. Peterson nodded obligingly. "Of course, Ms. Clarendon. Mr. Green, off with your shirt, please."

  Lucien hesitated, then submitted.

  The vest and shirt fell away, and Peterson frowned at the bandage. "This was poorly done."

  "I asked Sinclair—my roommate—to help," Lucien admitted.

  That nitwit, Corin thought. No wonder.

  Peterson stripped off the bandage. The bruise had lightened since the first time she saw it, but it was still angry and red. Her gaze lingered longer than she intended—his build was lean, symmetrical, balanced.

  "Hold on, I'll get you some fresh ones." Peterson said.

  She sat on the cot beside him as soon as the good doctor was gone. "Lucien."

  He met her eyes.

  "You hurt yourself because of me. So, if you ever need to change your bandage—"

  "You'll change it for me?" he teased.

  Corin smirked. "Don't be a fool." Her hand came to rest against his stomach. "Peterson will do that. But I can always... supervise."

  He snatched her wrist. "You keep this up, and people will start to misunderstand."

  "You're pretty," she said, her hand slipping free to touch him again.

  "Stop," he said, catching it once more.

  Peterson returned then, and Corin stepped aside, pretending to lose interest. But it was fun—watching him flustered, making him blush.

  "Do you have a crush on me?" she asked sweetly.

  His eyes shot up, glaring.

  "I—I'll get more bandages," Peterson stammered, quickly excusing himself.

  "Corin—" Lucien began.

  "What? Peterson's discreet. You don't have to worry," she said.

  "I'm leaving." He stood, reaching for his shirt, but she stopped him with a firm hand to his chest.

  Something in him—his steadiness, his refusal to be afraid—made her pulse quicken. She couldn't afford that.

  "Did I say you can go?" she said, voice low. "Sit down."

  Lucien obeyed.

  Corin grasped his chin, hard enough to make him look at her. Her words came out in a whisper meant only for him.

  "You don't ever turn your back on me. Not you."

  Then she released him, pushing him back with a force that nearly made his head whip.