LUCIEN

  Corin Clarendon's smile was worth a million dollars, quite literally.

  That beautiful thing painted her face when Lucien handed her the check from Henrietta.

  "She must really like you," Corin said.

  "It was Timothy, really," he shrugged. "Apparently, the best way to a woman's heart is looking like her dead pet."

  She laughed.

  Lucien called on the names of saints. Seeing her like that was like witnessing a miracle he hadn't asked for.

  When she left for her speech, he found himself listening. It was good—too good. Feeding children, clean water, education. Things people could clap for without ever lifting a finger. And he nearly did cry, not because of her words, but because of how much she meant them.

  Afterward, when the applause softened into conversation, Henrietta found him again and introduced him to a circle of hedge fund managers. Lucien quickly deduced that not many liked her. He saw the eye rolls, the condescending smiles, the way their politeness curdled the moment she turned away.

  Henrietta, he found, was something of an outcast—because of her weird taste in hats, or perhaps that rumour about her husband's death, the late Lord Harrowhal and how it was not an accident.

  Or perhaps the widows in the room didn't particularly like her because, she was the one who carried both title and fortune—and was happiest to part with the latter if you knew the right words.

  Lucien had only mentioned her generosity in passing, within earshot of a few politicians' wives, when Henrietta overheard and promptly wrote him another check for half a million dollars.

  Patrice had handed the second donation to Corin, and she raised her glass to him from across the room. Henrietta was right, numbers really do buy forgiveness in this place.

  When the guests began to trickle out, Corin called the club members together. She shook Taylor's hand first, then the club's golden boys. She came to him last.

  There wasn't much ceremony. She didn't thank him like the rest. She only said, softly, "See you at practice."

  Lucien tried to hide the smirk that followed.

  Taylor clapped him on the shoulder. "Congratulations, Mr. Green," he said. It looked official now—Lucien was at last a member of the English Sporting Club.

  Corin moved now among the staff as they cleaned up. She thanked them each in turn. It surprised him—how naturally she did it, how genuine it seemed.

  He didn't even know she knew how to smile like that.

  It wasn't the poised, social smile she used on donors or reporters. This one was smaller, quieter. The kind of smile people only had when they forgot anyone was watching.

  Henrietta's voice echoed suddenly: she was everything that was good on her father's empire. And he found himself rethinking it.

  He'd never thought of her that way. He'd seen enough of her to know how frightening she could be. But seeing her like this, something shifted.

  Maybe, if he looked hard enough, he'd find more petals to her than thorns.

  She was still here, bent over a table now, going through a stack of documents. Patrice had left a plate of sandwiches beside her, but she hadn't touched it. Apart from champagne, Lucien hadn't seen her eat anything all night.

  He found himself picking up a bottle of water, intending to hand it to her, when the sound came.

  A wheel, creaking.

  He turned. One of the catering staff was pushing a tall trolley loaded with decorative plates and vases. The wheel leaned, metal straining. The movement was wrong.

  He didn't think. He just moved.

  The crack came first—a sharp, ugly sound that seemed to tear the air in half. Then the crash.

  The trolley tipped. Everything went white and silver and noise.

  He wasn't even able to call her name. He just lunged, arms out, covering her as the weight came down.

  Porcelain and clay shattered as he covered her, pulling her beneath him. Dust filled the air. The impact jarred through his back; he gritted his teeth, feeling the tremor in his arms as he held the weight to keep the worst of it from hitting her.

  He heard her cough beneath him. Relief burned through the panic.

  He shifted just enough to let her breathe. "Corin—can you hear me?" His voice came out rough, barely a whisper. "You're bleeding," he said when he saw the red streak on her cheek.

  She blinked through the haze, eyes wide and dazed, until they found his face above hers.

  "I'm not," she managed, voice shaking. "Lucien, you're—"

  Her hand brushed his face. He realized she was trembling.

  "Are you hurt?" he asked.

  She didn't answer at first—just stared, confusion flickering across her face as if she couldn't tell whose pain was whose.

  Then Patrice's voice broke through above them, and the weight above him began to lift, piece by piece.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Rothwell reached them first, pulling Corin out from under the wreckage and lifted her on his arms. She was pale, blood streaked across her temple, the blue of her gown now painted with grey dust and red.

  Lucien barely noticed his own shaking until Alistair crouched beside him.

  "Come on," Alistair said, gripping his arm. "Up."

  Lucien tried to stand, groaned when pain shot down his shoulder.

  "Don't be dramatic," Alistair muttered, helping him upright. "I'm not carrying you like Rothwell did her."

  Lucien hissed through his teeth. "When did I even ask you to?"

  He leaned on Alistair's shoulder, breath ragged, gaze flicking to where Rothwell now carried Corin toward the medics. Her head rested against his chest, eyes half-open, dazed but alive.

  ***

  The papers never wrote about the unfortunate incident. Billard had kept it hush-hush, as was their way—or so Lucien heard.

  The club members, though, gave him subtle nods as he entered the shooting ground. A gentleman's version of applause. Their quiet way of saying well done, hero, though he hadn't meant to be one. Reflex, that's all it was. He would've done it for anyone.

  He was at the far end of the field, rifle raised, posture too stiff for someone pretending to be fine. He shouldn't have been there. The doctor had told him to rest, but thinking was harder than shooting.

  A small plaster covered the cut above his brow—a pale badge of last night's chaos. His left shoulder throbbed when he moved, and though he tried to hide it, someone noticed.

  "Why are you here?"

  Corin's voice sliced through the morning air.

  He blinked, confused. Why am I here? His look said it for him—for practice, obviously.

  She didn't wait for an answer. Her hand caught his sleeve, sharp and impatient, dragging him across the gravel toward the club infirmary. He tried to protest but didn't dare pull away.

  Inside, she turned to him. "Strip."

  He froze. "Corin—"

  She didn't let him finish. Her fingers were already at his coat buttons, quick and efficient. When that failed to match her urgency, she simply tore them open. The sound of fabric giving way made his stomach drop.

  "Bloody hell—"

  She ignored him. Her eyes locked on his shoulder, where an ugly bruise spread beneath the skin—dark and angry, like spilled ink.

  "You told the doctor you were fine last night," she muttered.

  "I was," he said. "It's a minor bruise, seriously."

  She pressed her thumb into it—hard.

  He yelped.

  "Minor bruise?" she snapped. "You need to see the doctor. Now."

  "That's really sweet of you," he said, half-grinning, "that you're concerned—AAH—"

  Her nails dug in again.

  "You're no use to me if you're an invalid," she said casually.

  He opened his mouth to argue, but the words died when he noticed where her eyes had gone.

  They drifted down, unguarded, to his bare chest. Her fingers followed, a careless touch trailing along his skin like she wasn't even aware she was doing it.

  "Corin," he said softly.

  She didn't look up. Her fingers moved again—light, almost absent, but enough to burn.

  He swallowed hard, feeling his pulse skip. "This is... a bit inappropriate, don't you think?"

  "Not if we're friends," she said.

  That earned a small, crooked smile from him. "So, we're friends now?"

  Her gaze lifted, and the air between them shifted, too close, too charged.

  "Why?" she asked. "Would you rather be my dog?"

  Lucien almost laughed. She was still running with that Timothy joke.

  "You do look like you enjoy belly rubs," she added, her tone deceptively soft. Her hand drifted down to his stomach.

  He tensed. Her fingers pressed against him, feeling the firm lines beneath her palm. Her expression was clinical, but her voice dropped low. "But you're not as soft as Timothy," she murmured. "You're actually quite... hard."

  Lucien grabbed her wrists. "You need to stop," he warned. "Friend."

  The door burst open.

  "Ms. Clarendon—oh, forgive me, I can come back—" Taylor froze in the doorway, mortified.

  "No, Taylor," Corin said briskly, shaking Lucien's hands off. "It's fine. We're done."

  She straightened, already businesslike again. "Get him a doctor, will you? I don't want that shoulder costing us in the next event." Then she stormed out.

  Taylor exhaled, blinking. His gaze flicked to Lucien—shirtless, bruised, unamused. "Did you happen to misplace your shirt somewhere, Mr. Green?"

  "I didn't," Lucien said flatly. "She assaulted me."

  Taylor looked at the bruise on his shoulder. "She was right to do so. That doesn't look good." He nodded toward the cot. "Wait here. I'll call for Doctor Peterson. And I would greatly appreciate it if you kept the rest of your clothing on."

  Lucien scoffed.

  Dr. Peterson arrived and had ordered him to rest. Three days, no practice. No lifting, no shooting, no heroics.

  "If Miss Clarendon finds out I cleared you, Mr. Green," the doctor had warned, tightening the bandage around his shoulder, "we'd both be out before morning tea."

  Lucien had smiled thinly. "Then I suppose I'll be a model patient."

  And so, for once, he was.

  The dormitories were silent in the late afternoon. Outside, the grounds stretched wide and gold beneath a bruised sky; the muffled crack of distant rifles echoed from the field. Lucien sat on the edge of his bed, shirt unbuttoned, the gauze peeking from under his collarbone. His shoulder throbbed in dull intervals, the painkillers were something he was thankful for.

  From the locked drawer of his desk, he drew out the note.

  It still smelled faintly of jasmine and pear. He turned the slip of paper over between his fingers, reading the three words on it.

  He succeeded at the first task. Corin had said it herself. They were friends now.

  He wasn't sure whether to laugh or curse. Friendship was the prize he'd been angling for, and yet, standing before her half-naked in the infirmary, her hand pressed to his chest, it hadn't felt like friendship at all. Her touch had burned through the skin, left a mark he could still feel.

  He leaned back, closing his eyes. It would be painfully difficult to stay at her side and pretend that's all he wanted to be.

  A faint rustle interrupted his thoughts. Paper slipping against wood.

  Lucien opened his eyes. A thin rectangle of cream had been slid beneath the door.

  He rose, careful not to jar his shoulder, and crossed the room. The hallway beyond was empty, quiet as a graveyard. He glanced down both ends of the corridor. Nothing. Whoever delivered it had already vanished.

  He shut the door, locked it, and turned the paper over in his hand.

  The same handwriting. The same scent.

  Three words again.

  "Take her down."

  He stood there for a long moment, the note trembling between his fingers as he understood what it meant immediately.

  The termly exams had already begun. He'd aced nearly everything—mathematics, politics, the written compositions that made most of his classmates groan. But this note wasn't about academics. This was about ranking.

  The Mocks—middle of term rankings.

  Last term, Victor Vandercourt had topped the Lower Sixth finals. Yet even then, his name had glimmered below Corin Clarendon's.

  The note didn't want him to beat Victor. It demanded he dethrone Corin.

  Things had been improving ever since she nominated him. The shooting club had made him visible. Other clubs—the Debate Society, the Rowing Team, even the bloody Chess Circle—had sent their invitations. He would need the prestige of some of them to boost his standing.

  Lucien exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The jasmine scent still lingered on the paper, sweet and accusing.

  She's just beginning to like me, he thought, disappointed that he was about to upset her again.

  He folded the note once, precisely, and slipped it into the drawer along with the first one.

  He couldn't disobey. That was part of the deal that brought him here: study at Billard, fulfill every task set by his sponsor.

  His gaze shifted to the photo frame on his desk. Inside, a boy smiled beside an old woman with kind eyes—his grandmother, the last piece of family he had left. She was in a good place now, cared for, with a window that opened to sunlight and doctors who remembered her name. All paid for.

  Lucien exhaled slowly.

  If he won, he'd only wound Corin's pride. If he failed, everything would be taken away.

  From where he sat, the choice was painfully clear.