FAUST

  Clarendon had always been his, since Year One.

  He'd been the top boy every term, save for the rare occasions Alistair or Victor had stolen the title. But The Holder tie pin always found its way back to him. It had to. The world liked things neat—Clarendon on one side, Rothwell on the other.

  He threw a dart. Bullseye.

  Another. Dead centre. Precision born from resentment.

  Three photographs were pinned to the corkboard: Victor, Alistair, and the newest face—Lucien. He'd cut them out from a club newsletter. Each one smiled, unaware they'd been promoted to targets.

  Faust didn't miss when he wanted something.

  The sudden knock made him though. The dart hit the wall, a hair's breadth from Lucien's nose. He almost cursed but swallowed it down. Even in private, he had to maintain composure. He wasn't like the others—Alistair with his old titles, Victor with his inheritance. Faust was a third son. That meant no estate, no business, no fortune. The family name was all he had—and the chance to get the keys to her father's empire, if he played his cards right.

  A second knock. Insistent this time. Whoever it was refused to leave. Probably one of the idiots on his floor needing a favour, or worse, detention duty.

  He opened the door, ready to lash out—then stopped.

  A figure stood in the corridor, dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants with Billard's crest. Not a boy.

  He knew that stance. That arrogance disguised as calm.

  "Are you out of your mind?" he hissed, pulling her in by the wrist and checking the corridor before shutting the door.

  She dropped the paper bag she was holding and pulled down her hood.

  "Like it's our first time?" Corin Clarendon said.

  Then she grabbed him by the collar and kissed him.

  It wasn't gentle. It never was when she came to him like this—agitated, sharp-edged, desperate to prove that she still had control of something. She pushed him back until the backs of his knees hit the bed.

  He sat. She didn't let go. She unzipped her hoodie and kept on dragging his mouth up to hers.

  "Slow down, Clarendon," he muttered against her lips.

  She broke the kiss long enough to glance at his dress shirt. "Your shirt's wrinkled."

  Faust just huffed a laugh. "So, it's my turn today."

  She always did that, fixating on small imperfections, small failures. Dominance, disguised to sound like care, and that was the worst part—sometimes, he believed it.

  "It won't bother me if you take it off," she replied.

  "Strange way to ask someone to get naked."

  He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, watching her watch him. But she grew impatient and tugged at the fabric, ripping the seam. Buttons scattered on the floor.

  "That was one of my best shirts," he said, almost fondly.

  "Then don't wear it next time," she replied, kissing his throat. Her words were clean, sharp, merciless. Like she was peeling away his pride with every syllable.

  He caught her chin, forcing her to look up. "What's got you so worked up?"

  Her eyes met his, steady, cold, and burning. The kind of look that made him remember who she was and what she could take away.

  "You're ruining my mood," she said finally.

  There.

  That perfect blend of disdain and dependency. She would come to him after fights, after losing ground, after being challenged. And he would let her have him, because it was the only way he could keep her close.

  "Fine," he said softly. "I'll shut up."

  He cupped her face and kissed her. Hard. Because that's what she wanted—what she needed.

  It was never about affection between them.

  They weren't exclusive. Faust was seeing other girls; Clarendon knew that. But none of them were allowed to kiss him on the mouth. His lips were hers alone. That was the rule she'd never said aloud but enforced with a look.

  "Any requests?" he murmured against her skin.

  "You're still talking," she said.

  Then she pushed him down.

  It was always her who had the upper hand. She got whatever she wanted, how she wanted it, when she wanted it. Faust never let other girls do this to him—he wouldn't even think of it. Sometimes, though, he didn't know why he allowed her to be cruel.

  It wasn't love. Never with Corin. That was what he told himself.

  Not even when she once said she would marry him.

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  They were five then. Victor had proposed first—not with a paper ring but with the one that used to belong to his grandmother. Clarendon had turned him down. She told everyone she'd marry Faust Rothwell instead, because her mother approved of him.

  Belize liked him.

  The prince to the golden princess, her mother called them once. Unlike Victor—the unruly dictator who made Corin jump into mud puddles, eat pastries with her hands and play tricks to the household staff.

  But everything between them changed when she died.

  Clarendon still wanted him around but not like before.

  Now she wanted him only for heat—never warmth.

  "Stop making that face," she said in between moans, like she could hear his thoughts.

  Faust groaned and pulled her down, kissing her fierce enough to silence the memory. She bit his shoulder to stifle her noise; he bit the sheet to do the same.

  For a moment, he held her after—her breath ragged against his collarbone, his own heartbeat uneven beneath her palms. She must have had a hell of a day. She was rougher than usual, desperate even, like she was punishing someone who wasn't him.

  Then she slipped off him, pulling the sheets with her, and sat at the edge of the bed.

  Her back was to him, all straight lines and quiet ruin. Faust watched the slope of her spine move as she breathed, slow, deliberate, like someone remembering how to be human again. He traced a finger down the curve of her back, over faint red marks his nails had left. He hadn't meant to make them. She didn't flinch. Didn't move at all. Just let him touch, let him want, like that was her favourite cruelty—to allow desire, but never give it a place to land.

  Then, without a word, she rose. Put on her hoodie, hair spilling out messily over the collar, and picked up the paper bag she'd dropped earlier. She sat on the couch, not even looking at him. The light from the bedside lamp caught the faint sheen of sweat on her neck, now cooling into indifference.

  He got dressed too, tugging his shirt back on—the one she'd half torn open.

  When he joined her, she was already peeling open the paper box. Turkish delight. The ones he had brought her.

  "I thought you were feeding those to your dog," he said, leaning back beside her.

  "Why would I do that? They're mine."

  No fork, no plate—Corin Clarendon, the immaculate heiress of Billard, eating sweets with her fingers. The pink sugar clung to her skin like defiance. She didn't offer him one, she knew him enough to know he didn't like them. Too sweet. But he'd eaten them before, back when she used to leave them on his study desk when they were younger. Before they learned how to hurt each other so efficiently.

  "Did they really make you buy it for me?" she asked, her voice deceptively mild.

  She never let things slide. She was confirming what he'd said, that his family had made him bring them. That he was just their pretty errand boy.

  The Rothwells never cared what she liked. All they cared about was Clarendon Industries, and the condition laid by the Chairman: the top boy of the last term gets it all—the company, and her.

  Love wasn't in the clause. Neither was her consent. So, no. He didn't need to try so hard to make her like him. He bought them, though. Because he couldn't help himself.

  "Don't ask me questions if you don't want me to lie."

  He reached for her face, trying to steer her mind off it. His thumb brushed the sugar from her lips—a small, almost tender gesture that somehow came out sounding like mockery. "Are you a kid?"

  She ignored him, biting into another piece.

  He rested his head back on the couch and watched her eat. He couldn't do this with other eyes watching. But here, his eyes could linger for as long as he wanted. "Stay for the night," he said quietly. "I won't mind."

  She stopped chewing.

  Faust immediately regretted what he just let loose from his mouth.

  She wiped her lips with the back of her hand—grace abandoned, just Corin now, stripped of polish and ceremony. Then she stood.

  She never stayed. Never once.

  This—whatever it was between them—always ended like this: him half-dressed and reaching for something she never meant to give.

  She pulled on her shoes, zipped up her hoodie, and slung the paper bag by the handles.

  "Bring your candies with you," he said, the bite in his tone an attempt to mask the ache.

  "I'm done with them," she replied, voice steady, eyes cold. "Throw them out if you don't want them."

  And then she left.

  The door clicked shut.

  Faust sat there in the quiet, staring at the half-eaten sweets on the table. The pink sugar dusted the black wood like a soft insult—her fingerprints still there, the imprint of her teeth on the treat she hadn't finished.

  He laughed under his breath. It wasn't amusement. It was disbelief, at her, at himself.

  Corin Clarendon. She could waltz into his life, ruin his composure, strip him down to a heartbeat, and walk away like it meant nothing.

  That was not even the worst part. Next time, he would still open the door for her.

  The next morning, everything was forgotten.

  Clarendon sat across from him, immaculate and back to being a rose, not a trace of last night's wreckage in her eyes. She spoke of the mid-year ball, in her efficient tone like she hadn't torn his shirt open twelve hours ago.

  "I'll have the theme list by the end of the week," she said, without looking up from her notes.

  All business, Faust thought. Just one Head Girl to one Head Boy. No trace of the girl who'd once shivered under his hands.

  By afternoon, he'd convinced himself to forget it—until he heard words that shouldn't even go together.

  Clarendon. Polo field. Lucien.

  Something inside him burned slow and bright. He shut his book quite violently that heads turned to where he sat. He didn't apologize but quietly left.

  He found her where the gossip said she'd be—on the field, under the white sun, instructing that bloody new boy, Lucien, about club rules like she was supposed to do it.

  She didn't even like the Polo Club. Hated the smell, the noise, the men—Victor, especially. Yet here she was, finally pulling her honorary membership just to do a trifling thing like talk to a commoner.

  He stayed by the fence, refusing to approach. The smell of grass, leather, and arrogance filled the air.

  "What brings you by?"

  Victor's voice was a grin made human. He was wearing the club's white polo uniform—crisp shirt tucked into cream jodhpurs, gloves in his back pocket, boots polished to a vanity gloss. He looked every inch the image of privilege, until he opened his mouth.

  "Ah. You're here to see our newest member," Victor said following his gaze and smiled wider.

  "Shouldn't you be the one doing that?" Faust said without looking at him. "Not her."

  "Like I could stop her once she starts blabbering."

  Faust's jaw tensed. "I don't even know how he managed to join. Members are required to bring their own horse—a thoroughbred. That boy can't even afford a horseshoe."

  "I lent him one," Victor said, smug.

  Faust turned to him, slow. "I didn't know you'd become generous."

  Victor laughed, a soft, venomous sound. "You think I brought him here because I'd grown a heart?" He leaned on the fence beside Faust, watching Clarendon and Lucien like a man watching a chessboard. "I brought him here because I wanted her here."

  Faust's glare was quiet but sharp enough to draw blood.

  "What? Keep your enemies close, right?" Victor said, his grin turning cruel. "But in your case—" he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, "you'd rather sleep with them."

  His hands began to twitch against his thigh. There were too many people nearby—riders, club assistants, other students watching the exchange. He couldn't hit him. Not here.

  Victor wasn't done. "Looking at you now," he continued, "it hasn't been long, has it? You always have that look after you've had her."

  He tilted his head, studying Faust like a specimen. "That look of obsession. Like a stalker."

  His fists tightened, knuckles whitening under the sun as he was trying to contain the anger he wanted to let loose on his face. Victor had a gift—to make decency feel like a weakness, to make violence sound like relief.

  He wanted to see that crass Vandercourt mouth split open, red and silent for once.

  But not now.

  He would wait. Until they were alone and Victor couldn't run. He wouldn't even let him scream for help.