Chapter 7
Seraphina
Asharp scraping sound jolts me awake, my heart launching into my throat before my brain even registers what the fuck is happening.
I lie frozen in my bed, my eyes adjusting to the darkness as another sound—softer this time, like metal against metal—comes from my door. It’s not the normal drunk giggling of wasted sorority girls trying the wrong room.
“Fuck this,” I whisper, sliding out from under my sheets.
It’s three AM according to my phone’s glowing display. Who the fuck is at my door at this hour? The memory of Lucien sitting on my bed uninvited flashes through my mind, sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
I slip my feet into my slippers and grab my silk robe from my chair, wrapping it around my camisole and boyshorts.
The knife I keep in my bedside drawer slides into my palm with familiar weight—a gift from my father on my sixteenth birthday.
“Just in case,” he’d said with that cryptic smile of his.
Turns out “just in case” happens more often than you’d think.
The sound comes again. Okay, definitely someone messing with my lock.
I move silently toward the door, knife gripped tight in my right hand. If it’s some drunk bitch who can’t tell her room from mine, I’ll have her ass removed from campus so fast her trust fund won’t know what hit it. And if it’s someone else…well, that’s what the knife is for.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I reach the door. I press my eye to the peephole, but the hallway is too dark to make out anything more than a shadowy figure. Male, tall—that much I can tell.
“Who the fuck is it?” I call out, making my voice hard and steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me.
No answer. Just another subtle scrape of metal.
“I’ve called campus security,” I lie, loud enough to be heard through the door. “They’re on their way, so you might want to fuck off right about now.”
Still nothing. But the sounds stop.
I stand frozen, knife ready, listening to the silence stretch. Then footsteps are moving away from my door and down the hallway. The relief that floods through me is short-lived when I hear the stairwell door open and close.
Anger replaces fear in an instant. Some creep just tried to break into my room, and I’m supposed to what—go back to bed like nothing happened? Fuck that.
I throw the deadbolt, yank open the door, and peer down the empty hallway. The stairwell door is still swinging shut.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter.
I’m about to chase after the creep when something catches my eye—a black rectangle attached to the center of my door. I freeze, my breath hitching as I recognize what it is.
A black envelope.
Not just any envelope—one with gold filigree around the edges, the Black Crown Society logo embossed in the center like a fucking brand. My stomach drops to my feet as I stare at it, the knife in my hand suddenly feeling pathetically inadequate.
The envelope is pinned to my door with a small, ornate dagger—one I recognize instantly as BCS craftsmanship with its distinctive curved blade and jeweled hilt.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.”
A cold shiver runs down my spine as I glance down the empty hallway.
This isn’t good. It’s never good. My fingers start to tremble as I reach for it.
Black Crown doesn’t send official messages to just anyone, and they sure as hell don’t send them to someone like me, whose family is barely clinging to the fringes of The Society.
With trembling fingers, I reach out and pull the dagger from my door, watching as the envelope flutters to the floor like a dead black and gold butterfly. I pick it up quickly, the heavy cardstock feels like it weighs a thousand pounds in my hand.
I dart back into my room and slam the door shut, turning both locks with shaking hands. The dagger and envelope burn in my grip as I lean against the door, heart hammering like I’ve just run a marathon.
“Fuck,” I whisper, staring at the black envelope. The golden embossing catches the dim light from my bedside lamp, mocking me with its elegance.
I toss the dagger onto my desk and sink onto my bed, turning the envelope over in my hands. No name, no address—just the Black Crown seal. They didn’t need to address it; the dagger in my door was address enough.
My fingers hover over the seal. Once I open this, there’s no going back. Whatever’s inside—an invitation, a command, a threat—will drag me deeper into the world I’ve been desperately trying to escape for three years.
“Just fucking do it,” I mutter to myself, ripping open the envelope with more force than necessary.
Inside is a single black card, the same gold filigree bordering elegant script that makes my blood run cold:
The Black Crown Society requests your presence at the annual Sinners Choosing Ceremony.
Saturday, October 29th, 10 PM Devereux Estate.
Below the formal invitation is a handwritten note.
Your attendance is not optional. Come alone.
To refuse is to forsake protection.
To accept is to submit to the will of the Crown.
The Sinner seeks what was always his.
Your blood remembers even if you pretend to forget.
It wasn’t supposed to happen to me. There are only a few founding family lines left that have sons who have to participate in this archaic ass shit. There are plenty of daughters of Black Crown families and I shouldn’t actually be an option. Not after everything.
Unless…
No, no fucking way.
My stomach churns as a horrifying possibility takes root. Lucien in my room. The way he looked at me. His words about me belonging to Black Crown.
He’s a fucking psychopath and I wouldn’t put it pass him to do this for no other reason than to ruin my life. For revenge or to play with me like a cat plays with a mouse.
I want to burn the invitation to ash. I want to run. Instead, I tuck the card back inside the envelope and slip it under the athame that I finally notice the inscription along the blade.
For My Little Sinner
The devil called and now I have to answer.
I can’t do anything about it except go and hope that I can get out of it.
Maybe he won’t choose me, maybe he’ll choose another and he’s just forcing me there to embarrass me.
That’s all I can think as I crawl back under my duvet, my body shivering with dread and cold.
I stare at the ceiling, the words repeating in my skull until I can taste them: Your attendance is not optional. Come alone.
I know what comes next; I’ve seen it play out before. The game’s already started, and I’m the newest fucking piece on the board.
I don’t sleep the rest of the night.