Chapter 1 #2
Campus buildings are organized into dormitories, with four large suites per floor that connect to a central shared space, typically used for hosting events. Only two families have their own private floors within the buildings: The Huntington-Russells and the Tafts.
My brothers share our suite but mainly reside in The Brotherhood’s residence, a private building on the edge of campus that neighbors the Tomb, where all their secrecy is kept, leaving me living alone, aside from the frequent, often dramatic visits from Ford.
He usually storms in at dawn, furious about an issue he refuses to explain.
After a string of expletives or helping himself to whatever vodka he can find, he collapses onto one of the many vacant chaises he insists on using instead of the room prepared for him.
Our private Huntington-Russell residence is under tight security, as our family is one of the wealthiest on campus next to the Tafts. We've never hosted in our quarters, and to my brothers’ great pleasure—and my mother's dismay—I've never desired a guest, let alone a social event.
The Taft family, like ours, is composed of politicians, presidents, and cabinet members.
Unfortunately, they’re also impressively dull for people with that many titles.
I’ve only known the older generations in passing, never intimately, but if the current generation is any indication, they’re all insufferable.
One of the elder Tafts once groped me at a Society mixer when I was twelve.
No one said anything, of course. They never do.
His granddaughter, Fanny Taft, is currently flirting desperately in the corner.
I look over to see her leaning so far forward that her breasts are tumbling out of her already intentionally sheer blouse as she chats with another Bonesman, Archibald Franklin.
Archie is smirking as he looks at her chest. Not at all shocking, as out of all the Bonesmen, he’s the most notorious flirt.
Stelle Renbrook leans forward as well, joining the battle for attention.
Archie and I have known each other since we were children.
He’s incredibly close to my brothers and practically grew up at our Estate.
Dex is in the corner of the room, playing cards with another Bonesman. They’re intensely focused on their hands of cards and cigarettes. I realize as I pour myself a glass of wine that there’s nothing here for me at this party any longer.
Fine. I’ll take it back to my suite across the lawn and finish it with the last of my Niccolò Machiavelli. I’m nearly through, and while I’m not quite plotting to overthrow a government, perhaps only my father, I am ready for something a touch less exhausting.
I wave a small goodbye to Ford and Dex, knowing they’ll see me even though they've both slithered off to different sins. My brothers' eyes are always on me, even when I don’t think they’re looking. I’m sure all of the Bonesmen are watching me, too. Controlling bastards.
Balancing the long-stemmed glass of wine, I slip out of the party and head home without the procession of goodbyes I could have said to classmates I don’t particularly like. I’ve never been one for close friends, and this evening wasn’t going to result in finding one.
There's a slight chill in the air as I pull my cardigan tighter over my shoulders and look up to admire the moon. It’s large in the sky tonight, illuminating my pathway brighter than the evenly spaced gas lamps along the path.
I didn’t expect to enjoy the party, but I thought I could suffer through it a little longer than I did. Regardless of my lack of social desire at Eulogia, I still have an image to uphold. My knack for avoidance usually wedges me into the category of spoiled ultra-cunt, and I prefer it that way.
I have enough trouble at our family estate, I surely don’t need to create more at my home away from it. The worse they think I am, the better. It keeps them at a safe distance.
My footsteps echo across the brick path as I spot a tall figure just ahead, standing beyond the glow of the lamplight. I don’t know if he’s menacing because of the shadows, or just because he’s massive. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to make a decision.
A cloud of cigarette smoke suddenly swallows me as I pass, the thick plume hitting me square in the face. I double over in a coughing fit, eyes already stinging with tears. A firm hand claps me on the back, too hard, and presses a crystal tumbler of ice water into my hand.
Without thinking, and far more na?ve than I’d care to admit, I take a grateful sip. As if karma were waiting for the moment, the sharp burn of alcohol hits my mouth, and I immediately spit it out all over the stranger’s chest.
It’s clearly not water.
“Who hands someone a glass of vodka without warning?” I shout, angry at the burn in my chest from the large gulp.
Like a slovenly woman and not the poised aristocrat I am, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and try to steady my breathing. I’m still balancing my glass of wine in the other hand, doing everything I can not to dissolve into another coughing fit.
I take a moment to gather myself.
“Forgive me, I don’t usually yell,” I finally meet his eyes, and immediately regret my tone when our gazes lock.
He could eat me alive. His hair is dark blonde, cut short at the sides and left slightly longer on top. His jaw is strong, and his eyes tilt upward just enough to suggest he’s in on a joke never meant for you in the first place.
Ignoring my words, he just stares, tilting his head slightly. His gaze lingers long enough to make me shift in place.
His lips are full, and I have to clear my throat to pull my gaze away.
“Careful,” he says, his voice low and rough. Throwing the cigarette to the ground and putting it out with a polished shoe. He doesn’t break eye contact as he downs the rest of the drink, his lips closing over the ring of berry lip gloss I left on the edge.
I gulp. Before I can say anything, he’s already walking straight past me, like I never existed.
I turn on my heel, still flustered from the encounter, my pulse thrumming as I watch his broad shoulders disappear into the night. There’s a charged intensity about him, in his presence and his complete disregard for me, that sends an unfamiliar thrill curling in my stomach.
Oh, absolutely not.
“Excuse me?” I call after him, voice sharper than I intended. “Is that it?”
He slows but doesn’t turn right away, like he’s debating whether or not I’m worth the effort. Then, with a lazy sort of arrogance, he turns around. His expression is unreadable, but I can feel the amusement lurking beneath the sharp lines of his face.
“Would you prefer something more?” His voice is low, edged with condescension.
I huff, lifting my chin. “A gentleman would apologize for nearly drowning me in vodka.”
“A gentleman,” he muses, gaze dragging over me in a slow, measured way that makes my skin prickle. “Would also know better than to waste his time talking to a fellow Bonesman’s little sister.”
I narrow my eyes. “Oh, is that what this is? You know my brothers, so you’re sparing me the tragedy of your company?”
His smirk deepens, as if he’s just been waiting for me to bite.
“I’m sparing myself the tragedy of yours.”
I scoff. “And yet, you’re still here.”
“Curiosity,” he says simply.
I cross my arms.
The corner of his mouth tugs upward slightly, like I’ve said a remark that’s mildly amusing but ultimately unimpressive, and I haven’t said anything at all.
“You’re being particularly vague.”
He nods slightly, as if he couldn’t be bothered to waste the energy on a whole movement.
“So you’re one of them,” I say, assessing him now with fresh eyes. “A Bonesman.”
He takes another step forward, and this time, my breath hitches before I can stop it. The air between us crackles, charged with something electric, a mix of curiosity and warning.
“You should go inside,” he murmurs. “Before someone less forgiving than me finds you.”
I should walk away. I should throw my glass of wine in his face. I should toss some sharp remark over my shoulder and leave him standing in the cold. But instead, I tilt my head, holding his gaze like a challenge.
“Forgiving?” I repeat, voice saccharine. “Oh, please. Do tell. What great mercy have you bestowed upon me tonight?”
His expression shifts then, just slightly, but enough for me to catch something more sinister behind it. There was a flicker of a darker impulse beneath his calm exterior.
“I could have you on your knees for your little attitude,” he says smoothly, and my stomach clenches at the implication. “You did spit vodka all over me, after all.”
I clench my jaw, ignoring the way my skin heats. “I’d say we’re even, considering you tried to murder me with it.”
He hums, considering. “Murder’s such a strong word.”
“So is kneeling.”
That earns me a full smirk, sharp and knowing.
“I see why Ford keeps such a tight leash on you.”
I bristle immediately. “I don’t have a leash.”
“Not yet.”
The way he says it, slow and deliberate, makes my fingers tighten around my wine glass.
Instead, I swallow, gathering my composure but finding it hard to keep my face from looking like I’ve sucked on a lemon. “I don’t appreciate such crudeness from a man whose name I don’t know, and I am not a woman who allows anyone to leash her.”
His eyes flicker with an emotion I can’t decipher. “That’s because no one’s done it properly.”
A tremor sparks in my chest.
He watches me for a moment longer, as if challenging me to break the tension first. When I don’t, he steps back, turning away.
“Go inside, Martine,” he says, using my name for the first time, rolling it over his tongue like a word he’s testing the weight of.
Then he’s gone, disappearing into the night as easily as he arrived, leaving me standing there with my heart hammering against my ribs and my wine glass trembling slightly in my grip.