6. Keller
6
KELLER
I n another life, I could have been a wyvern. Out of the seven Rothford houses, that’s the one that fits me the most.
Raventhorn Hall was the first, and only house here. It used to be called the Legacy Lounge, and included a number of second sons and debutantes attending Rothford as a finishing school. It hasn’t changed much: it’s still a bunch of Heritage heirs from big families, and the girls they can screw and manipulate to their heart’s content. In all honesty, their play is a little too extreme and controlling for me. I have certainly had fun with them on occasion, but I find the idea of their constant power exchange exhausting.
When Rothford went from a tiny, exclusive college to the household name it currently is, they built the dorm and all six other houses at the same time, to separate us from the plebes.
The houses are lined up by order of importance, the least prestigious being right at the gate of our private drive, and the most, at the end.
Lion’s Den is the first. Honestly, the four dozen students living there are basically an embarrassment to the Thorn Falls elite. They’re…chill. I can smell the stench of weed as I drive past at any time, any day. They do have the largest house, and throw a mean party. Over the six years I’ve spent in Rothford so far, the four nights I hung out with them are the only four nights I don’t remember. Somehow, I survived their cocktail of booze, drugs, and decadence. Most of them call themselves artists. Don’t ask them what actual art they produce, though, unless you want to engage in conversation about gum sculptures and spit paint.
Next, there’s the Sharks. The jocks. They’re the only ones with an outdoor pool, and that’s all the positive things I can say about them. I genuinely can’t recall a single conversation with one of them that didn’t make me want to gouge my eyes out. No, I don’t need a protein shake recommendation, thank you very much. No, I haven’t watched you last football game. Yes, I actually sat through half of your hockey game, but that’s only because it’s entertaining. Also, you suck.
The Serpent House is the third on our lane, and the first half-decent one. It’s, in a way, the house of aspiration. Some of the members aren’t all that rich, or influential, or with the right last name. But they have the skills and willingness to become someone one day. Wannabe lawyers, business owners, even some of my fellow med students are in that house. But it’s a hungry vibe, meant for go-getters who don’t truly have anything yet.
Then, there’s the Web. In a perfect twist of universal sarcasm, it’s the IT guys, tech geniuses, math freaks, and all that. They’re intelligent enough, I suppose, but I understand about one word out of ten from them; their skills are definitely not social.
The last two houses could have been one, if there wasn’t a risk of us killing each other in our sleep. The wyverns and the vespers.
Those houses are not all that different from the serpents—meant for those willing to rise above all—except, we aren’t aspiring. We have it. The name, the money, the fame. I’d say the main difference between the wyverns and the vespers is that the wyverns are direct, all for a show of force, punching their way through life to get their way—metaphorically speaking, of course. They have people they pay for the actual punches. We vespers are less obvious. Yes, we’ll get our way, and yes, someone might get threatened, or perhaps disappear, but no one would ever suspect us. We’d lead the charge on the search for the body, and cry into our monogram handkerchief at the funeral. Unsurprisingly, almost all our alumni go into politics.
I truly could have been a wyvern. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty if there’s a need. The thing is, I joined Rothford the same year as Markus Goltz, my cousin, and we genuinely would have murdered each other. Aware of that, the legacy council sat us down our freshman year and asked how we’d dispose of each other’s body. I guess my answer earned me a place in the tower. Besides, my other cousin, Sebastian, was a vesper, and likely wouldn’t have survived years under the same roof as Markus.
I’m not complaining about the outcome.
By now I really should leave, get my own place in town. I have my Bachelor of Science, double majoring in biology and biochemistry. I’m on my first year of med school. Most of the other vespers are annoying little undergrads with too much time on their hands, while my course of study is going to be demanding. But staying here is convenient, just five minutes’ drive away from my classes—or a twenty-minute jog if I feel so inclined. There are showers in the Dome, and I keep a change of clothes in the legacy council chambers, so I’ve been known to occasionally do that when my schedule was so packed I couldn’t fit in a proper work out.
Besides, I am the head of Vesper Tower, and as of this term, also the head of legacies. It has a nice ring to it…and a lot of direct acting power attached to the titles. I wouldn’t want to miss out on any of the benefits. Such as getting the wyverns to throw this party. I wouldn’t want to mess my house up right before the start of school. And yes, my cousin almost punched me for it.
The wyverns do tend to have parties every Saturday, but typically, they are close doors, legacy only, and a lot easier to manage. I couldn’t have that today.
Winking at Markus, I move on to another one of my cousins, Sebastian, and his new wife.
“Hestia,” I say, grinning at the beautiful, blue-haired firecracker my cousin met and promptly married.
Like, six months later. He’s ridiculous.
“Hey, Keller!”
“You can’t call me that,” I remind her. “You’re a Keller too.”
She grins as my eyes slide to her husband.
“Bas,” I say, acknowledging him second.
“Darius.” He nods, his gaze challenging, like he’s expecting a trap of some sort.
No one likes when I make a move. No one can tell who my prey is until I let them know.
“So, an open party, huh? That’s not like you.”
I roll my eyes. “I love parties.”
“But you don’t tend to throw them. What are you up to?”
“I’m not throwing this one,” I tell him.
My cousin only shakes his head. “Whatever you’re up to, keep us out of it, yeah?”
“Cross my heart,” I promise readily.
I don’t drink much as a general rule, but tonight, I barely touch my glass, nursing my beer for a full hour, letting it go warm.
And then she gets here.
Fuck .
I down the rest of my drink in one go, and turn my back on the front of the house to gather my thoughts.
I…did not expect that, somehow. I mean, I should have. It’s a party, so naturally she dressed up. But from the pictures in her background check, and how she was dressed the two times I saw her, I figured her idea of dressing up was a knee-length Sunday dress. Instead, she’s wearing a tiny little shiny black pleated skirt that shows off her amazing, long, toned legs, and a shirt that while outwardly appropriate—a button-down with sleeves—is also incredibly suggestive. The outer layer is transparent. There’s a top underneath, but it’s still taunting.
I didn’t count on her making me want to grab her and pin her to the closest surface like a savage in two seconds, dammit. Tonight is supposed to be subtle. The girl is taken . She messages her boyfriend daily, FaceTimes him a few times a week. Of course, she doesn’t realize he’s been screwing a cheerleader on the side since sophomore year of high school—a girl his family wouldn’t approve of, and who’s not really interested in him other than the occasional lay, in any case. He started college two weeks back and already has three girls calling him “baby” in his inbox. But as far as Claire’s concerned, she has a boyfriend she’s committed to.
Tonight, the plan is moving one pawn up the board, not shooting for the damn queen right away.
I surprise myself when I realize I was this patient and strategic with someone I’d just met. It shouldn’t matter if I fuck it up. I should just shoot my shot, then move on, whether she says yes or no. I don’t quite get why I’m so very taken with her. Maybe it’s how she handled Octavia. Maybe it’s just that she’s exactly my type: formal, uptight, so damn pure. There’s something fascinating about immaculate, pristine wholesomeness. Makes one want to get it dirty.
Still, I didn’t expect her to make me half hard in three seconds.
I don’t immediately approach her, watching from a distance. She’s greeted curiously, cautiously. Everyone knows security checks unfamiliar faces at the door if they’re not accompanied by legacies. It’s impossible to fake our invites; they include a hidden code our guys scan for. So no one wonders if she belongs here, but they’re curious about who brought her in.
I should say them. My gaze only follows her while I get another drink and circle the room, pretending to chat with a few acquaintances, but eventually I make myself notice the other chick. She’s pretty enough, I suppose.
All right, no, that’s unfair. Claire’s friend is hot, too. Nice butt, in tight jeans, an inch of skin displayed under the hem of a lovely blouse with a healthy cleavage, she’s a looker. I would likely consider her entirely fuckable any other day. Her bangs and long black hair, plus huge glasses, also give her a bit of a prudish vibe. She’s playing the sexy librarian, and it works for her. But instead, I only watch Claire.
Holy fuck, what’s wrong with me?