CORIN

  She liked the way the colour drained from Lucien's lovely face when he saw her in the stables with the other members.

  All the boys were talking at once, trying to win her attention with jokes and flattery, their laughter clumsy and too loud against the hollow echo of horse stalls. She smiled when needed, nodded where appropriate, but her eyes stayed pinned on him. He wasn't wearing the club uniform yet, only his navy coat and that ridiculous tie that looked like it was choking him.

  "I'd like to do the orientation. It's not going to be a problem now, is it?" she asked the senior member nearest her. Upper Sixth, like them. Polite, a little too eager to please.

  "No. O-of course not, Ms. Clarendon," he said, practically tripping over his words. "I'm sure Victor wouldn't mind."

  "Braxton," she said, placing her hand lightly on his arm. The contact was barely there, but the boy blushed so hard his ears went pink. "You're such a delight."

  She heard the sharp sound of someone scoffing behind her. Lucien. The colour was back in his face now—angry red. She didn't even have to look to know he was glaring.

  Corin turned back to Braxton and tugged on his sleeve, just enough to pull him an inch closer. His glasses slipped down his nose, and she caught the faint scent of his cologne, something overly sweet and borrowed. "You're quite tall," she said softly, and poor Braxton nearly forgot how to breathe.

  Lucien stood near the last stall, hands in his pockets, jaw locked, eyes not leaving the both of them. She let him watch. That was the point.

  "I think you'll do," she said.

  "Ms. Cla-Clarendon?" Braxton stammered.

  "Get him one of your spare uniforms, would you?" Her fingers trailed down his arm before she let go. "And take the boys. I don't want to disrupt everyone's day. I'll handle it from here."

  "N-no, actually, it's not a problem at all. We can all stay to—"

  Corin's smile cut through his sentence. "Should I make my words simpler, Braxton?"

  Her grip on his sleeve tightened—a warning dressed as gentleness.

  "U-understood, Ms. Clarendon," he whispered, eyes dazed and turned to the others. They shuffled out like obedient sheep, murmuring about how she was even prettier up close.

  The stable door closed with a soft thud.

  Silence.

  It was just her and the Green boy now.

  Lucien stood by the post, arms crossed, watching her with that irritating half-smile that always looked like he was about to say something he shouldn't.

  She picked a piece of hay off the ground and twirled it between her fingers. "You could at least pretend to be impressed. Most people don't get a private orientation with me."

  Lucien's reply came slow, dry. "Do they usually start with you touching people's arms?"

  Corin laughed—low, melodic, and a little cruel. "Does it bother you?"

  He stepped forward, just once. Enough to narrow the space between them, enough that she could smell the faint soap on his collar. "Not at all," he said. "It's not my business."

  "Then don't sulk," she brushed past him toward the tack room. "You'll need a helmet, boots, gloves. No one rides here without full gear. Even charity cases."

  He didn't rise to it. Corin knew of his excellent control. It was why she liked poking at it.

  "You really enjoy reminding people where they stand, don't you?"

  She looked back at him over her shoulder, eyes glinting. "Only when they forget."

  Their gazes locked for a long moment. Even the horses felt the tension and became uneasy with the space filled with the unspoken and the almost-said.

  Corin was the one to break eye contact. She plucked a riding crop from the rack and handed it to him handle-first.

  "Rule number one," she said. "Respect the horse."

  Lucien's fingers brushed hers when he took it, eyes lingering at the point of contact. "And rule number two?"

  Corin tilted her head, a faint smirk ghosting her lips. "Respect me."

  He smiled faintly. "Yes, ma'am."

  For the briefest moment, she almost smiled back. Almost.

  Then she caught her reflection in the stable window—the perfect Clarendon mask, the one that didn't falter—and straightened her spine.

  Braxton came back with the uniform and led Lucien to the locker room to change.

  Corin silently followed, stopped in the doorway and watched as Lucien stripped of his coat. He was halfway through his shirt buttons when he noticed her there.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  "What happened to respect?" he asked, but the tone was not sharp, didn't sound like he was offended all.

  "That only applies to me."

  "Shouldn't it be mutual?" he asked.

  Lucien had this strange notion that his rights and hers were the same. He was an innocent to a lot of things, someone who didn't know how the world worked. Or was he, despite his occasional brilliance, just a pretty fool?

  "You still have your bandages," she answered instead.

  "Dr. Peterson's dressing my wounds now," he walked to her, his shirt open. "You don't have to worry too much."

  A fool indeed.

  "I'm not." Corin tried to reach, but he was always too swift; he caught her wrist before she could even touch.

  "Then excuse me," he pushed her out and shut the door in her face.

  She should stab him, hack him to pieces and feed his limbs to her falcons at home. But she stood there outside the door and waited.

  Lucien's face was a cocktail of regret and embarrassment when he stepped out of the locker room. His voice came out softer than he meant it to. "I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry. It's just—you bring the worst out of me."

  Her lips stayed pressed together, tight and unreadable. Corin could think of a dozen ways to respond, most of them unkind. She could accept his apology, or she could make him fall off his horse later and frame it as an unfortunate mishap. The latter felt more satisfying.

  "Fine." He bent his head, closing his eyes. "Hit me."

  He really thought that was all it would take to balance them, one clean strike and then they'd be even. She almost admired the simplicity of it; how boyish he still was beneath all that pride.

  Corin's fingers brushed his cheek instead, feather-light. She tilted his chin up to her. "Hitting you won't make it even."

  Lucien opened his eyes then, confusion flickering there. "What will?"

  Corin slipped her arms around him, pulling him against her. Her lips brushed the collar of his shirt, his breath ghosting the side of her neck. She felt how every inch of him tensed, body locked in that startled kind of stillness that happens right before a man either runs or gives in.

  "Corin," he whispered, voice breaking somewhere between warning and surrender.

  I would hurt you for this.

  She thought the words, but none left her mouth. Her embrace tightened, a python's grip. Shouldn't be mistaken for anything but a snare.

  Lucien wouldn't know when she would do it. He wouldn't see the blood, wouldn't even feel the cut, only the utter ruin when it came. Because that was how Corin Clarendon evened the scales: not in bruises, but in obliteration.

  She pulled away when she heard footsteps approaching and smiled, convincing everything was forgiven. He returned it, and unlike hers, his was warm, untainted by pretence.

  Corin wondered if she would ever smile like that again.

  "Ms. Clarendon, the horses are ready," one of club grooms called.

  Lucien still watched her like he hadn't yet caught up to what had happened.

  She turned without another glance toward the paddock where her mare, a chestnut thoroughbred, stamped her hooves impatiently. Lucien's horse was black, one of Vicki's stable favourites—sleek, dangerous-looking. Typical.

  "Do you even know how to ride one?" she asked, mocking him as she adjusted her gloves.

  He smirked faintly. "I can ride."

  Those words sat differently in her mind, warmer, more obscene than they should've. Thoughts unbecoming of a rose. She stared at him curious, subtly biting her lower lip.

  "Horses, Corin," he clarified quickly, a touch of colour rising to his cheeks. "Horses."

  "I didn't say anything."

  "You were thinking it," he muttered, and mounted his horse.

  She hid a grin, swinging onto her mare.

  They rode for a while, the rhythmic pounding of hooves cutting through the open field. Corin watched him in silence, assessing the way his hands held the reins—steady, practiced, not bad at all. When they finally dismounted, she brushed stray hair from her face and said, "Where did you learn?"

  "So, I passed?" Lucien asked instead, sidestepping neatly.

  Corin scowled. "You're avoiding the question."

  He smiled, lowering his eyes. "I worked at some ranch before. Much like the grooms here."

  "Well, aren't you full of surprises," she said, tucking her hands behind her back.

  "Is that why, of all the clubs, you picked this one?"

  "No. Victor's just too annoying, and he wouldn't shut up about it, so I gave in." He fell into step beside her, casual and unbothered.

  "How is your swing?" she asked.

  "I'm not sure what you mean."

  She started explaining—rules, rotations, the rhythm of the game, all the things most players took years to master. When she noticed he wasn't taking notes, she stopped.

  "I'm only going to say everything once."

  "Understood," Lucien said quickly. "You said: four chukkas, six and a half minutes each. The ball's bamboo root or sometimes plastic. Four players per team, numbered one to four—offense to defence. Horses switched each chukka to prevent exhaustion, and—please don't slap me."

  Corin blinked, amused and irritated. Show off.

  They walked past the stables where grooms brushed glossy coats and sunlight flickered off the tack. She continued, this time about etiquette, politics, and the unspoken hierarchy that ruled every inch of the field.

  "I was quite certain you weren't a member here," Lucien said when she slowed.

  "I can get into any club I want, when I want," she replied lightly.

  "Because you are Corin Clarendon."

  "Listen to you," she said, leaning in, a touch of pride threading her tone. "You finally learned something important."

  He laughed. He was the sort who took compliments well. She would have joined in, if she wasn't already planning to take that grin away.

  "You shouldn't be accepting gifts from Victor." Her voice hardened as she waved at the attendants to leave them.

  "I didn't know you were that desperate to compete for rankings."

  "I'm not competing," he said in defence.

  "You are," she countered. "One club's enough to survive in Billard. But you're collecting points, joining others. You want Clarendon Industries, just like the rest of them, don't you?"

  Lucien stepped forward, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath and notice the tiny bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face. His arms caged her against the fence.

  "I'm getting you too, right?" he muttered. "At least that's what I heard."

  So, he knew of the stakes and why every heir in Billard was fighting for their place. He wasn't as na?ve as he liked to pretend.

  "Like I'd allow that to happen," she said with a grin laced with warning.

  "Enjoying your first day, are we, Green?"

  Victor's voice interrupted, dripping with amusement as he trudged through the mud. Faust groaned beside him, when a spray of dirt splattered his patent leather shoes. Corin pushed Lucien away from her.

  "Been great so far," Lucien said, his tone casual, "until you showed up."

  Victor laughed. Faust didn't. Corin saw the tightening of his jaw, the flash in his eyes, not because of Lucien's sharp remarks. He'd seen them. Lucien too close. Her not pushing him away fast enough. Fury simmered behind his silence.

  This field, thick with mud and bruised egos was already dulling her patience. She yanked off her helmet and shoved it into Victor's chest.

  "Put this back for me, will you?"

  "You're such a brat," Victor muttered, gripping the helmet tightly, fighting the urge to swing it at her.

  "Good to see you too, Vicki." She brushed past him. Faust fell into step behind her, his silence louder than any insult.

  "Did you have fun with your little show?" he said, grinding his teeth when they were far enough to be overheard.

  "That wasn't meant for you." Her voice was ice. He was always so sensitive after sleeping with her.

  "I hate it when you interrupt while I play with my toys," she added, striding ahead, not bothering to see if he'd follow.