8. Winter
WINTER
I turn at the sound of my name and light up instantly. “Paris!”
Paris Hastings is impossible to miss. She’s beautiful in an effortless, old money sort of way, but somehow still sweet. I haven’t seen her since we took ballet together when we were in high school, but she hasn’t changed.
Of course, she isn’t alone. She’s flanked by the Moretti triplets.
Identical, down to the sharp lines of their jaws and the lethal aura they carry with them.
The only one I can ever tell apart is Benjamin.
Because while one of the other brothers, either Elijah or Noah, scans the crowd constantly, restless like he’s waiting for a fight, and the other manages an almost-friendly smile that never fully softens, Benjamin’s focus is singular.
He clings to Paris with his eyes, always watching her like she’s the center of every orbit.
Paris is their stepsister, and unless something has changed since high school, she’s the only one who can tell them apart at a glance.
I get it. Because everyone swears Tristan and Sebastian are identical too.
But to me? They couldn’t be more different.
It’s always been easy. I could pick Tristan out in a heartbeat, even if he and Sebastian were wearing identical clothes.
I’d just know him by the way he looks at me.
Paris runs straight into my arms, hugging me tight, her laughter soft in my ear. “You look amazing! How have you been?” She’s so perky and excited, and I love that about her.
“I’m so good. Are you still taking ballet?” I barely have the question out and she’s scrunching up her face and shaking her head.
“I didn’t have the knees for it,” she says with a giggle, and I feel her on that. My legs ache from it, but I enjoy it too much to quit.
Tristan lingers behind me, and out of my peripherals I see him shaking hands with each of the Moretti brothers.
I can’t hear everything that they’re saying, but I realize that he’s talking to Elijah, because he mentions him helping us out when Lilac had a stalker.
Paris squeezes me once more before pulling back, still smiling, but her attention flicks toward Benjamin.
He’s staring at her and doesn’t look away when their eyes meet.
She does though, biting her bottom lip like she’ll get reprimanded for staring at him too long.
My gaze snags on the gold chains around the Moretti triplets’ necks, diamond rings strung through the links, glittering in this lighting.
This piques my interest because I’ve heard of this faction of The Black Crown Society.
They’re part of The Saints, and those rings are meant for some sort of bonding ritual.
I don’t know all the rules, but I’ve heard enough whispers to know those rings aren’t just decoration.
There are ceremonies where the men are expected to choose a Crowned One and present her with a ring, marking her as theirs in front of everyone.
Some of the rumors go darker, and those involve The Sinners.
The two factions split off, from what I’ve heard, because while they agreed on the basic foundation of the society, they couldn’t agree on some very important details.
Apparently, and there’s no telling if it’s even true, there’s a sex element of the ritual, and devotion is proven through things I can’t bring myself to imagine right now.
Supposedly, The Saints are interested in finding a Crowned One who they can worship for life and in exchange, their Crowned One will be devoted to only them.
The Sinners’ lore is what I have a harder time believing.
Apparently they own their Crowned Ones, and will do so by any means necessary.
The girls have to wear a uniform once they’ve been initiated, and there are all of these public displays of ownership.
Castlebrook might not always be the greatest, and it surely isn’t run by the purest minds in society, but at least I don’t have to worry about a wax sealed envelope showing up at my door.
I’ve heard that’s how it happens. You just receive a letter stating that you’re now an initiate, and you must comply or The Black Crown Society will make sure you do.
I want to tell myself there’s no way universities, especially not one as prestigious as St. Augustine, would still allow something so barbaric.
But then I think about Castlebrook. I’ve seen what this school has let slide in the name of keeping their hands clean.
And suddenly, it doesn’t feel so far-fetched.
I wonder if that’s why Benjamin is watching her every move, like he’s been suckerpunched in the gut?
Surely the society wouldn’t allow him to choose his own stepsister as his Crowned One.
Right? And from what I remember, he’s always been infatuated with her.
Paris, oblivious to my thoughts, lifts her hand in a cheerful wave from across the way, all the way over by the popcorn stand. “Blair! Over here!”
Blair Winthrop slips through the crowd, glossy brown hair shining under the bulbs, her smile effortless.
That is, until it collides with one of the Moretti triplets.
I can’t tell which one. But the glare they exchange is rough enough to get my attention.
Blair’s smile crumbles, and before anyone can react, she spins and disappears into the mass of people.
Paris huffs, hands flying to her hips. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself, Elijah.
” Her tone conveys her annoyance. None of them correct her, but it’s very clear to me which one is Elijah now.
He looks absolutely heated. I’m not usually nosy about other people’s relationships, but Blair has always been nice to me.
She’s probably one of the smartest, most level-headed girls I’ve known, and I can’t see her running away from him for no reason.
I can’t help but wonder if it has something to do with him being one of The Saints. Was she initiated into the society? Did he initiate her?
“Do you think she’s okay? She looked pretty upset,” I ask Paris, but she’s glaring at Elijah like he offered Blair up as a human sacrifice or something egregious.
“No, and I don’t think she will be for a really long time,” Paris tells me, pushing up on her tiptoes as if it will help her see over the crowd.
My eyes lock on Elijah’s hand when he reaches up to grasp the ring dangling off the gold chain around his neck, and his expression turns from explosively angry to pained.
What the fuck… did he offer her up? I’m getting ahead of myself.
This is stupid. They probably just got into a heated fight like most couples…
I stop myself right there. The couples I know don’t actually fight.
Hayden and Callum would rather cut their own arms off than do anything to upset Madi and Lilac.
Tristan isn’t my boyfriend, but we don’t fight either. It just isn’t something that we do.
Aside from that, the look on Blair’s face was not that of a girl who had a spat with her hot hockey player boyfriend.
She looked livid. She looked betrayed. She looked absolutely broken.
Without warning, Paris’ hand finds mine, and there’s an urgency as she tugs me forward. “Come on, Winter, we can’t let her get lost.”
I stumble after her, and it seems like everyone is migrating into this area because the crowd grows seemingly out of nowhere, pressing us in on all sides. I glance back, searching for Tristan, for the black messy hair hooding those expressive eyes.
But he’s not behind me. In fact, he’s out of sight completely.
And suddenly, I’m living my worst nightmare.