Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Laurel
The next morning, I wake to my least favorite alarm clock. Carrson’s foot, shoving me out of bed. I hit the floor with a loud thud, arms flailing to protect my head.
“What the hell!” I scramble to my feet, yanking the blanket off the bed to wrap around myself. He’s already sitting on the edge, shirtless, completely unbothered, his long legs spread, elbows on his knees like this is his throne.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he drawls, eyes flicking over my blanket-toga with amusement. “Time to go back to school.”
“Excuse you,” I snap. “Most people say hello before body slamming someone out of bed.”
He smirks, his eyes lingering a second too long on my bare shoulder where the blanket’s slipped. “Consider it a wake-up call. You should thank me.”
“I should poison your coffee,” I mutter, loud enough for him to hear.
“So violent,” he says, like it’s a compliment. A dark chuckle, followed by, “Careful, Laurel. Someone might think you’re flirting.”
I stalk into the bathroom, muttering curses under my breath. My blanket trails behind me and so does Carrson, because personal space is apparently not a thing he believes in. He leans his hip against the counter, watching as I squeeze out a thin strip of blue-green toothpaste.
“Why do you even like school?” he asks, his voice lazy but curious. “No one likes school.”
“I do,” I say through foam, brushing with more aggression than necessary. “There’s so much to learn. How the body works. Why wars start. What people used to believe, what they painted, how they…” I stop, flushing. “Loved.”
I spit and rinse, trying to pretend I didn’t just get weirdly emotional about education. What can I say? I was raised with a love of learning. It was like a religion in my house. We all prayed to the power of knowledge.
“I’m taking this art history class.” God, why am I still talking? I should shut up. Give him the silent treatment, but Carrson tilts his head like he’s actually listening, and the sad truth is…it’s been a long time since anyone looked at me like that. Like I’m worth hearing.
Besides, I love a good argument. Always have. I can’t help wanting to prove I’m right, even to the wrong people. “We’re learning about the Renaissance now. It’s fascinating.”
“Ah, yes. The Renaissance.” He nods solemnly. “Everyone’s favorite excuse to ogle half-naked people. The original thirst trap. You know there’s a modern version? It’s called Playboy or maybe Only Fans.”
I whirl on him, toothbrush in hand, toothpaste dribbling down my chin. “Don’t you dare compare the Sistine Chapel to centerfolds or cam girls.”
Carrson lifts his hands in mock surrender. “My apologies to the masters.”
I jab my toothbrush at him. “Since you’re such a critic, what’s your favorite class, Mr. Smarty Pants?”
“Smarty Pants?” He arches a brow. “I’ve been called many things over the years, but that’s a new one.”
“Answer the question. Favorite class. Favorite teacher.”
He tosses me a towel. I catch it mid-air and use it to wipe my mouth.
With his arms folded, he says, “Haven’t been to a lecture or taken a test in over two years.”
“Two years?!” I nearly drop my toothbrush. “How’re you going to get your degree?” I’m not thinking of his future at that moment, I’m thinking of mine, of our deal and how it ends when he graduates, a date I already have marked on my calendar with a big red circle.
“What’s the point when every teacher automatically gives me an A?
” He catches the look of horror on my face and grins.
“Relax,” he says, with the kind of dismissive wave that belongs to someone who’s never heard the word no.
“I already know enough. Elite tutors, private advisors, legacy connections. School’s a formality.
” He leans in slightly, voice dropping. “Real lessons happen off the record, and I always graduate with honors.” I roll my eyes as he says, “My role here is more like…on-the-job training.”
I grab my brush and rake it through the snarls in my hair, pretending I’m not rattled by his casual entitlement.
Carrson talks like the world is a game rigged in his favor.
Like he’s holding all the cards, which he probably is.
With my hand that’s not holding the brush, I tug up the blanket that covers my nakedness, tightening my death grip, and ask, “Training?”
He shrugs. “I manage the university. The town—”
“So you’re what? Some evil mid-level administrator with delusions of grandeur?”
He laughs at that, low and amused, like I’m a child who just said something cute. “You could say that. For now.” He pauses. “Later, I’ll be in charge of much…”
“What?”
“More.” He says it simply, like that answers everything.
It doesn’t.
I try to read his face, but there’s nothing, just cool detachment, like he’s already moved on from the conversation. Whatever more means, he’s not telling. And why would he? If I were him, hoarding secrets like pocket change, I wouldn’t spend them on me either.
Which makes me wonder. Why tell me anything at all?
It can’t be because he needs someone to talk to. Someone to listen, the way I do.
Can it?
“After classes today, you’ll go to the Sisters,” he says, shifting topics. “Our sister sorority next door. Rosewood Hall. You stay there until five p.m.”
“What if I want to come back earlier?”
“You can’t. No women are allowed here until the evening.”
“But why?” I hold up my hand, frustrated. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s when rules don’t make sense.
“Partly because women are distracting.” Carrson doesn’t bother to hide how his eyes trail down my neck and over my collarbones and then lower, unapologetically lingering on my cleavage.
I hitch the blanket higher, and he grins, feeding off my discomfort.
“Also,” he adds, “just because I don’t go to class doesn’t mean my brothers get the same freedom. They use the afternoon to study. They’re expected to get good grades, go to grad school, and rise through the ranks of their assigned professions.”
“Assigned?” My stomach dips. “You don’t get to choose?”
“Our job,” he says, his voice dropping low, “is to obey. Do what’s expected. What’s required.”
“If you don’t?” I press. “What if you choose something else? Something you want?”
He reaches out and I flinch, just a fraction, but he catches it, his eyes narrowing like he’s filing that away for later. Slower now, more deliberately, his thumb drags across my lower lip. My breath hitches. The room sucks in, gets smaller. The air thinner. Every nerve goes tight.
He lifts his hand and shows me the smudge of toothpaste he wiped away.
“What I want is irrelevant.” His voice is low, deadly calm. “There’s only one job. Obey.”
I swallow hard, but he isn’t done.
“I obey The Order.” He takes a step closer, gaze steady and unblinking. “And you obey me.”
My breath catches. It’s not a request. It’s a declaration.
I open my mouth to protest, to tell him I don’t obey anyone, but before I can say a single word Carrson leans in close enough for me to feel the heat of him, the controlled threat simmering beneath the surface.
“You don’t have to like it,” he murmurs. “You do need to understand.” His eyes lock on mine, cold and certain. “Your life, and mine, depend on it.”