LUCIEN

  He shut the door behind him, flicked the lock out of habit.

  Silence.

  Lucien leaned his forehead against the cool wood for a second, exhaled hard through his nose, and muttered to no one but himself,

  "Way to make friends, idiot."

  The note echoed in his mind again—folded in the sleeve of his uniform the day he arrived, scrawled in unfamiliar but oddly deliberate handwriting:

  "Be her friend."

  Her, as if he wouldn't know exactly who.

  As if anyone at Billard could mistake who "her" was.

  Then he went and looked up her damn skirt.

  Be her friend.

  I love blue.

  The two phrases crashed together like train cars in his head, sparking heat and shame.

  He peeled off his blazer and tossed it on the desk chair, wincing as the motion pulled at the bruises blooming on his back. Her heels had been merciless—those expensive, razor-edged stilettos. Designer pain. He could still feel the dent of them against his spine. She hadn't shifted her weight by accident. She'd dug in. On purpose. With a smile.

  God help him; she looked good doing it.

  That was the problem.

  No, that was one of many problems.

  He dropped onto the edge of the bed and rubbed a hand through his hair. His heart was still kicking against his ribs, not from the physical pain, but from the look on her face when he said it.

  That blush.

  The sharp flare of colour across her cheekbones, like someone had finally managed to land a punch on the Queen of Billard.

  She looked...

  Cute.

  Hell.

  Corin Clarendon wasn't supposed to be cute. She was supposed to be terrifying. Distant. Something you admired from afar but never, ever touched.

  He touched her.

  Not with hands, but with words. The wrong words. The kind that gets people expelled, or worse—noticed.

  She did notice.

  Which meant retaliation was coming.

  Corin wasn't the type to let things go. She didn't forget. She didn't forgive.

  He had humiliated her—mildly, maybe, but in public. Even if no one else saw what he saw, she knew he had seen it. And that meant reckoning was inevitable. His chest already ached with the ghost of it.

  He stared up at the ceiling.

  "She's going to kill me," he whispered even though he was alone. "And it's going to be hot."

  The door clicked open just as he was beginning to regret everything. His roommate strolled in, carrying the kind of grin that meant trouble.

  "Evening, Green," Sinclair said. He wasn't exactly a friend. Compared to the sharks swimming the rest of Billard's halls, Sinclair was a tolerable barracuda.

  He didn't snore, which already placed him leagues above half the boys in the dorms. He wasn't put off by the scholarship status either—if anything, he seemed a little in awe, like rooming with the cleverest boy in class was some kind of good luck charm.

  The only real downside about Sinclair was his habit of peering over his shoulder at the laptop and asking, "Porn?" every time Lucien was typing anything at speed.

  Otherwise, he was alright.

  He slammed an envelope against Lucien's chest. "Special delivery."

  Lucien raised a brow. The paper was thick, embossed. Not signed, no wax seal, just elegantly scrawled ink. For a moment, he wondered if it was another note. If Sinclair could've been an accomplice.

  He turned it over in his hand. The scent hit him first.

  Clean lilies.

  That alone narrowed the sender down to one person.

  Shooting Grounds.

  8:00 a.m.

  Sinclair was watching him too closely now. "What the hell did you do?"

  Lucien didn't answer. Mostly because he didn't know how to explain that he saw something he shouldn't have, and worse, had the audacity to enjoy it.

  He left Sinclair before he could press, to the common room hoping for a quiet corner to think.

  Leather armchairs arranged around fireplaces, chessboards scattered like battlefields mid-play, heavy rugs muffling laughter and argument alike greeted him.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  The smell of oak polish and pipe tobacco clung to everything. Oil portraits of past graduates glared down from the walls, their gilded frames glinting under the soft lamplight.

  It looked more like a private gentlemen's club than a school.

  He got nearly two steps inside before almost slamming into Faust Rothwell.

  Head Boy, wore cashmere like armour and had a jawline sharp enough to cut ambition.

  Rothwell's gaze fell to the envelope in Lucien's hand. In one quick motion, he snatched it.

  "What does she want with you?" Rothwell asked, already reading. He knew exactly where it came from.

  Murder, Lucien thought. She wants to kill me.

  Out loud, he only said, "Give it back."

  Rothwell's lips curled. He tucked the card behind his back. "You don't want to be Clarendon's toy. She'll break you when she gets bored."

  Lucien scoffed before he could stop himself. "You talk like someone who bored her already."

  The air cracked.

  Rothwell's hand grabbed his collar, jerking him forward. Lucien didn't flinch—he'd grown up with rougher threats—but the heat in Rothwell's stare was real.

  "What did you say?"

  Lucien glared back, jaw tight. He wasn't going to say it again.

  A laugh floated from the far corner of the room—low, amused, and unmistakably smug.

  They both turned.

  Victor Vandercourt was lounging in a leather armchair by the fire, a crystal tumbler of something probably older than Lucien in his hand.

  "Oh no, no, don't stop on my account," Victor drawled, eyes dancing. "Go on, it's been a dull evening. I need some entertainment."

  Rothwell released him with a shove. He was Head Boy; a certain decorum was expected of him, and the last thing he wanted was a witness to his anger management issues.

  He shot Victor a dark look but said nothing as he stormed off down the corridor.

  "Wanker," Victor muttered once he was gone.

  He rose gracefully from the armchair and stepped toward Lucien. He plucked his tie back into place with mock delicacy and fixed his collar.

  "Summoned in your first few weeks," he said softly, as though impressed. "You work fast."

  Lucien didn't respond.

  "Don't worry," Victor went on, still fussing with his uniform. "Bullying is technically not allowed at Billard."

  He paused. Leaned in.

  "Attempted manslaughter, on the other hand..."

  Lucien stilled in his place.

  Victor grinned.

  "Just don't die," he said brightly, and gave Lucien a playful slap on the chest before strolling after Rothwell, back toward the corridor that led to the Top Boys' private suites.

  ***

  The Shooting Grounds at Billard stretched wide and empty, a field that had seen generations of heirs perfect their aim before they ever handled a boardroom. The sky was clear and bright, unlike his future.

  Lucien stepped onto the gravel just as a voice rang out across the field.

  "Pull."

  A clay target shot into the air, and in a single, echoing crack, it exploded midair.

  "Pull."

  Another. Shattered on contact.

  She didn't miss.

  Not once.

  Lucien stopped in his tracks.

  Corin Clarendon, already on the line, was a silhouette of rage wrapped in black tweed and silk. Her tailored shooting jacket cinched tight at the waist, leather gloves polished to a warlike shine. Hair pinned, heels swapped for sleek riding boots. She looked like she belonged on a postage stamp of colonial aristocracy.

  Even the shotgun in her hands looked disturbingly natural.

  Lucien swallowed.

  No big deal. Just a girl you insulted yesterday now holding a firearm.

  "Lovely day," he called out, feigning calm as he walked closer.

  She didn't look at him. Just adjusted her stance.

  "Pull."

  Another target. Another flawless shot.

  She cracked the barrel open, reloaded without looking at him, and only then turned her head.

  "You're late."

  "It's 7:59," Lucien replied.

  "Late," she repeated, the way a guillotine might snap a neck on a block.

  He went closer, but kept a safe distance from the gun. "Nice grouping. Your exes must be terrified."

  She didn't smile. Not yet.

  "Wouldn't know. None of them survived the second date."

  Lucien gave a tight laugh and glanced down the field. "So... why am I here?"

  She raised the barrel.

  And aimed it directly at him.

  Not between him and the target or past his shoulder. Not even teasingly close.

  At him.

  Right to his chest.

  Lucien's breath hitched.

  Then a shot.

  A bullet hole burned next to his left foot.

  My God.

  Vandercourt wasn't kidding.

  "I missed your stupid tie." She declared eyeing the crooked knot. She did not miss shit.

  He turned to the mid-aged man dressed smartly, watching at the corner. He wasn't even flabbergasted, like he expected this.

  There was no use cowering. Corin fed on fear like a banshee, reveling in it the more afraid you were.

  Lucien moved forward. Slow. Measured. Until the cool mouth of the barrel rested directly against his chest.

  "So you don't miss," he said, low.

  Their eyes locked.

  Something flickered across her expression. Surprise, yes. But not just that. A glimmer of curiosity. Something that felt dangerously like approval.

  Then—unexpectedly—she laughed.

  Not a polite titter. Not a girlish giggle. A short, sharp laugh that cracked the cold morning open like the targets she'd been shooting all hour.

  She lowered the gun.

  "Taylor." she called without taking her eyes off him.

  The mid-aged man moved in holding a second gun.

  "Give him one," she said.

  Taylor handed Lucien a polished Beretta.

  "Is this where I earn your forgiveness?" he asked, accepting the shotgun.

  Corin cocked her head. "This is where you earn your next breath."

  She stepped back, folding her arms, chin tilted in amusement.

  "Hit five out of six. You get to keep your spleen."

  Lucien clicked the barrel open, checked the load. Two rounds.

  "Only two?"

  She smirked. "Then don't miss."

  Pull.

  The first disc soared.

  Lucien raised the gun and fired. It shattered.

  For a split second, the sound wasn't Billard's manicured silence but muddy fields on the edge of someone else's estate.

  A younger him standing half-hidden, loading shotguns, cleaning up feathers, watching rich men drink brandy and laugh at birds falling from the sky. Sometimes, when they were drunk enough, they'd toss him a turn at the barrel—call it sport, call it a bonus if he hit clean.

  You hunt to survive. Their words rang in his ears.

  He learned fast. He had to, if he wanted to be paid.

  He shook the memory off, refocused, and raised the barrel again.

  Another target. Another clean shot.

  Corin's smirk faded to a look of mild interest.

  Third, fourth. He never missed.

  Taylor reset the launcher and Lucien reloaded, heart pounding.

  Up soared the fifth one. It was hit, but it didn't break. His hands shook mildly. He glanced at Corin and saw her wicked smirk. It was like she was casting a spell on him to fail.

  He tried again and this time, he got it, dead centre.

  Another one. He didn't wait for her cue.

  "Pull."

  The sixth disc flew. He adjusted, fired.

  Crack.

  Smashed to pieces like the rest.

  Silence followed.

  Corin stared at him, unreadable.

  "Well?" Lucien asked, lowering the gun, breathing hard.

  Corin turned to Taylor, her voice back to its usual cool efficiency.

  "What do you think?"

  Taylor, the ever-faithful assistant, gave a neutral shrug. "Great aim. Nice back. The ladies would love him."

  Corin didn't smile, but Lucien swore the corner of her mouth twitched. Just slightly.

  She handed the gun to Taylor without ceremony. "Students need clubs at Billard," she said, her tone shifting into instruction—like she was talking to herself more than her assistant. "But no one joins. Not unless they're invited in."

  Lucien tilted his head, watching her as she walked back toward the rack.

  "I'm short one shooter for the Clarendon Foundation fundraiser," she added, voice crisp. "You've got two weeks. Don't disappoint me."

  She didn't wait for him to respond. Just turned on her heel like the matter was settled.

  It was.

  Lucien lowered the gun, blinking after her.

  "Am I forgiven now?" he called after her.

  Corin didn't look back. "Make them sign those fat checks, and I'll think about it."

  The wind caught her words, carried them across the field.

  Lucien stood there, the echo of the gunfire still ringing in his ears and wondered if he'd just joined her team, or her list of playthings to break.