Poison (Kings of St. Bartholomew’s #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

SORCHA

They call this place a sanctuary. A hallowed institution for the disgustingly rich, the insufferably brilliant mafia next-gen elite. St. Bartholomew’s College. To me, it’s a place where I can rule, expand and dominate.

The ivy crawling up the ancient stone walls looks pretty, but I wonder if you could wrap it around someone’s neck and choke them with it. My boots are silent on the old flagstones of the main quad, a deliberate stealth I learned long before I ever saw these manicured lawns.

I’m not here to learn about Economics or the law.

My education came from the back alleys of Dublin, from being a girl in a guy’s world.

From knowing who my father was, but never being able to use that as an excuse to gain a foothold.

I’ve sweat and bled for my crew, but it’s time to level up.

Start from scratch, and this is my breeding ground. Red Reapers two point oh.

A gaggle of girls in designer clothes give me a scathing look as they pass. I give it back. They outnumber me, but I’m pretty sure I could win this fight if they came at me. I think they know as well as they turn to look the other way, carrying on as if nothing has happened.

“Miss Gannon?”

I turn to the cultured male voice, still not used to going by this name.

But then I look into the eyes of Vice-Chancellor Smythe of this esteemed establishment, and I see respect, maybe even a slice of fear.

The Gannon name speaks volumes in this world, and this right here is why I chose to register under it and not the name I was born with.

“That’s me,” I say.

“Welcome to St. Bartholomew's College. We are honoured to have you here.”

“Honoured?”

He gives me a slightly sinister smile, his eyes darting over my long, fiery red hair before boring into my ice-blue eyes. “Honoured,” he repeats. “Please follow me. We will get you registered and arrange your class timetable. I understand you have somewhere to stay off campus?”

“I do,” I say, thinking of the pretty shitty flat on the rough side of the campus.

But it’s all mine, and it’s close by. I can’t complain.

I’ve lived in worse. I’ve lived in a rat-infested hellhole with smashed-in windows in the middle of winter while trying to fight off my mum’s handsy loser boyfriend.

I’m good with shabby but fully functional and all mine.

He leads me into the main administrative building, the air inside cool and smelling of lemon polish.

It’s a mausoleum to dead rich guys, their painted faces judging me from every wall.

I meet their gazes one by one, a silent challenge.

We enter a large foyer where a professional-looking woman sits, typing at warp speed while she talks into a headset.

Her laser-like gaze lands on me, and she ends the call, but carries on typing as she looks at me.

“Emma, this is Miss Sorcha Gannon. See to it that she is enrolled,” VC Smythe says. Without a goodbye or well-wishes, he disappears into his office, and I wonder why he came down to find me in the first place and didn’t send some lackey.

Maybe the old man wanted a good look at the new viper in his nest. A personal assessment. Whatever his reason, it puts me on edge.

Emma’s fingers finally stop their frantic dance on the keyboard.

She pulls the headset off, her movements precise, clinical.

“Right. Gannon.” She says my name like it’s a file she’s pulling from a drawer, not a legacy soaked in blood.

Her eyes scan a form on her screen. “There’s a note here from the VC.

All your tuition and fees have been taken care of. ”

I breathe in, annoyance flaring.

It’s a little, inconvenient perk of being the unclaimed bastard of a dead kingpin. Someone, somewhere, is paying my way, keeping tabs. It’s a leash I plan on snapping the first chance I get. As soon as I find out who is one step ahead of me.

“Great,” I say. “Let’s get this over with.”

Emma’s lips thin into a line, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face before she schools it back into bland professionalism. She slides a tablet and a stylus across the desk. “Signature here.”

I take the tablet and sign my name with a flourish, the ‘G’ a sharp, angry hook.

“ID,” she says and slides a fancy card over the desk with my pretty face adorned on the front from the registration pack. “You are housed off campus?”

I nod.

She hands me a lecture timetable, puts the headset back on and starts typing again, clearly dismissing me.

I roll my eyes and pick up the ID card and shove it in the back pocket of my ripped jeans. Mission accomplished. For now.

Stepping back out into the quad, the afternoon sun is a harsh glare after the polished gloom of the admin building. I squint, glancing down at the schedule. Criminology. Advanced Economics. Business Management. A fucking curriculum for the modern-day gangster. At least it’s on brand.

I’m so busy scoffing at the irony that I walk straight into a wall of solid muscle. I stumble back a step, my hand flying to the hilt of the blade tucked into my waistband out of pure instinct.

He didn’t move. Not an inch. He just stands there, a goliath of a man, blocking my path.

He’s tall, with hair as black as night and eyes as blue as mine, his broad chest as wide as two of me.

His black tee is straining to hold in his muscles.

There’s a cruel twist to his perfect mouth as he looks down at me from his gigantic height with an expression that can only be described as predatory.

“Watch it, arsehole,” I snap, my chin jutting up in defiance. His tattooed arms flex, and I try not to notice. He is one hundred per cent my type. I can picture riding his thick cock, splitting me wide open as I come all over him. It’s a delicious thought.

“You’ve got a mouth on you, girl,” he growls.

“Call me girl again and I’ll slit you open from ear to ear,” I snarl back.

He smirks, and my pussy goes wet.

Fucker. How dare he be all sexy while being a total dickhead.

Before he can respond, I sidestep him and saunter off, knowing he’s watching my arse in my skin-tight jeans.

It gives me a shiver that has nothing to do with the late autumn weather.

I don’t look back. Rule number one: never let them see you’re affected.

But I feel his gaze burning into me, a physical brand on my skin, and the itch to turn, to meet that predatory stare, is almost overwhelming.

I find an empty stone bench tucked away beneath the sprawling branches of an ancient oak, its leaves turning a fiery shade that almost matches my hair.

I drop onto it, the cold seeping through my jeans, and force myself to focus on the flimsy paper in my hand.

My new life, mapped out in block letters and lecture times.

Criminology, first thing tomorrow. Fitting.

My eyes lift from the schedule, scanning the quad.

It’s a fucking shark tank. Cliques of people cluster together, their body language screaming hierarchies and alliances.

The girls in their designer gear, the guys mostly in black, like it’s some kind of uniform.

They all have the same look of effortless ownership, like they were born to rule this place. Like they were born to rule the world.

“Gannon, right? Sorcha?” I look up to see a girl with blonde hair staring at me from a few feet away.

“Yeah.”

“You going to run the gauntlet?”

“Hmm?” I ask with a frown.

She grins, and it’s not pleasant. “I’ve got five hundred on you to win. Get up to speed, or we are going to have a problem.”

“Get up to speed on what? And you betting on me is your fucking problem, not mine.”

“That’s the kind of attitude that will make you win. Make sure you do.” She strides off, leaving me in a state of annoyance and confusion. Gauntlet.

“If you expect me to win, I need to know what the fuck this gauntlet is,” I call after her.

She stops and spins back to face me, her smile a bit more pleasant this time. “It’s the welcome party,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “For anyone new and noteworthy. A series of challenges. To see where you rank. Or if you rank at all.”

“And who decides these challenges?” I ask, my voice flat. I already have a feeling I know the answer.

“The Kings, of course. They run this place. Everyone else just tries to survive in it.”

The Kings. How original.

“And you bet on me?” I scoff. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“You’re a Gannon, that’s all I need to know.”

“And you are?”

“Annastasia O’Shea.”

I recognise the name. “Killian O’Shea is your dad?”

She nods.

I’m impressed. “Are you anything like your dad?”

She gives me a look that screams she would cut a bitch without a second thought, which tells me all I need to know. “The gauntlet starts tonight at ten. The old crypt by the lake,” she says, before turning on her heel for good. “Don’t be late.”

I watch her go, the words settling in my gut like cold stones. A challenge to prove my worth, a crypt, and a bunch of pricks who call themselves Kings. This place isn’t a university, it’s a goddamn hunting ground. I get the feeling O’Shea just painted a target on my back by betting on me.

But I’ll show her that she backed a winner.

I get up from the bench, my body humming with a familiar, dangerous energy.

The kind that comes before a good fight or a good fuck.

My first order of business isn’t going back to my shitty flat to twiddle my thumbs, it’s finding this crypt.

I follow a worn stone path that winds away from the main quad, the air growing cooler as the trees thicken, their branches tangling overhead, heading in the direction I would imagine this lake is situated.

I’m not wrong.

The lake is a sheet of dark, still glass, reflecting the weak sun.

On the far side, nestled amongst a stand of weeping willows, is the crypt.

It’s a squat, granite building, half-swallowed by ivy and time, a single iron-banded door set into its face.

It looks less like a tomb for the dead and more like a cage for something living.

I circle around the building. It’s deserted and locked up tighter than a nun’s cunt. I peek through one of the grimy windows, but I can’t see shit. Shrugging, I step back and survey the land. It looks a bit overgrown for a gauntlet, but I guess I’ll see what happens later.

Moving back to the path, I head back to my flat, the anticipation clawing at me for ten o’clock. I want to prove my worth here, and it’s going to be a lot quicker if I move right to the top of the food chain on my first night here.