Chapter 10 Blackmoore Academy #2
Dakota gestures down the line. “That’s Callie, Brynn, Evie, Tammy—don’t let her borrow your eyeliner—and that’s Rowen. The only boy here with an actual personality.”
Rowen gives a lazy salute with his juice glass. “Welcome to the madhouse.”
I nod, trying to keep track of the names. My brain latches onto Brynn = red lipstick, Callie = high bun, Rowen = personality. The rest blur into a wash of designer perfume and private school polish.
“I love your hair,” Brynn says, tilting her head slightly. “Those waves are so soft. Is that natural?”
“Oh—uh, yeah.” I tuck a strand behind my ear and try to smile. “Mostly.”
“Seriously, you’re stunning,” Callie says with a little grin. “Like, your bone structure? Unfair.”
I blink. “Oh. Thanks. Um… yours too.”
Smooth, Isobel.
Dakota laughs beside me. “Get used to it. They compliment like it’s a competitive sport.”
“We just speak the truth,” Tammy says, tossing her hair.
I reach for my coffee to hide the heat creeping up my neck. Compliments aren’t something I know what to do with. I spent most of high school trying to be invisible.
Dakota notices. She leans in just a touch and says under her breath, “You’re doing fine. Just eat your toast.”
I glance at her, grateful, and take a bite. The toast is buttery and warm. The tension in my chest starts to loosen, just a little.
“You have a schedule yet?” Brynn asks, spearing a piece of melon.
“Yeah,” I say between sips of coffee. “It was preloaded on my tablet.”
“Ooh, let’s see.” Callie leans in, eyes bright. “What do you have first block?”
I pull the school tablet from my bag and wake the screen. I scroll to the timetable.
“Advanced Literature.” I look around the table.
Callie leans in again, glancing at my tablet.
“Wait—first block is Mr. Carrick’s Lit class?”
“Yeah. Room 204?”
“Oh my god,” Tammy groans. “You got Carrick? I’ve heard he assigns a five-page essay after every unit and calls them ‘casual reflections.’”
“It’s not that bad,” Brynn says, stifling a smile. “Unless you forget to annotate. Then it is that bad.”
“Don’t listen to them,” Dakota says, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Carrick’s intense, but he’s fair. And he actually loves what he teaches, which helps. You’ll be fine.”
“Anything I should watch out for?” I try to calm the hoard of butterflies in my stomach.
“Poetry Unit.” Rowen snorts.
“It’s emotional warfare,” Callie adds.
Laughter ripples around the table, and I find myself smiling.
The noise of the dining hall swells around us—cutlery clinking, low conversations, the occasional laugh echoing off the stone arches.
I look around at the table, at Dakota next to me, at the faces watching me not with suspicion, but curiosity and… welcome.
It’s new. It’s weird. It’s overwhelming.
I’m halfway through my juice, listening to Brynn and Callie argue over some celebrities and who is better looking when Callie stops mid-sentence, her mouth hanging open.
Silence seems to spread around us. I follow Brynn’s gaze over my shoulder.
Four of them.
They move with the kind of presence that can’t be faked—like the world tilts slightly wherever they go. Every head turns. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Chairs scrape as people scramble to get out of their way.
The first one leads the pack. Tall, fit, with a face carved from stone and eyes like polished frost. His hair is nearly black with a cool, ashy undertone. Smooth, sculpted waves, brushed back, not a hair out of place. His uniform is immaculate. His expression is cold, his jaw sharp.
Next to him, a boy with lazy confidence in every step, his tie loosened like he couldn’t care less about rules.
His grin isn’t aimed at anyone in particular, but it feels like a dare all the same.
He runs a hand through dark, tousled hair, laughing under his breath like he knows something we don’t.
A glint of a lip ring on his lower left side.
He’s definitely not as intimidating as the first one.
Behind them, the largest of the group walks with a kind of quiet menace.
Shoulders broad, jaw tight, hands shoved in his pockets like he's holding himself back from cracking knuckles or necks. People clear out of his way like he’s a wildfire in a uniform.
He doesn’t walk so much as prowl. His hair is a light blond, shaved close on the sides, messy on top.
And trailing a step behind is a lean, almost lanky one. A tablet in his hand, earbud in one ear. He doesn’t bother posturing. Doesn’t need to. His gaze flicks over the room once—over round, silver rimmed glasses—before going back to his screen. Brown hair falling back over his eyes.
They pass by tables like no one else exists.
But everyone else sees them. Worships them.
Don’t get me wrong, I have eyes. They are all incredibly good looking. But they scream danger. I’ve had enough of that.
The tables around them seem to bend in their direction, students perking up like sunflowers toward the light—if the light were cold, untouchable, and dressed in black and silver.
I take another bite of my fruit, slow and steady.
This must be Blackmoore royalty.
Quietly, I lean toward Dakota. “Okay, who are they?”
Dakota follows my gaze and smirks. “Oh. That’s the Blackmoore Four.”
“The what?”
“It’s stupid,” Callie cuts in.
“They’re not a real group or anything,” Brynn adds. “Just… a collective legend.”
“They’re all legacy students,” Tammy says. “Super elite, they ran the high school. No one really knows what they’re studying half the time.”
“They’re kind of like the school’s personal myth,” Dakota says, tapping her spoon to her bowl. “Scary-smart. Scary-skilled. Scary-hot.”
I snort. “Great. So, they’re a walking red flag.”
“Basically,” Callie says, sipping her smoothie. “But the kind that makes everyone want to run right into traffic.”
“Do they have names? Or is it like no one dares to speak their name type thing?” I ask the girls, grinning.
“Oh, they definitely have names.” Evie giggles. “I hear girls moaning them all the time.”
Dakota rolls her eyes, leaning into me. “That one”—she nods subtly at the first boy— “is Jace Ravencourt. He’s like the silent leader. He never speaks unless he has to.”
The boys sit down only a table away. Jace looks like an aristocrat. High cheekbones, nice nose, strong jawline.
That’s Ravencourt? Ugh, of course he’s hot.
“He’s… intense.”
Dakota smirks. “That’s one word for it.”
“I’ve named him the cold prince in my head.”
“I love her commentary.” Evie giggles.
“The tan one leaning back like school’s a joke? That’s Luca Silvain. He’s got teeth behind the charm. Don’t fall for it. He flirts with literally everyone.”
I glance at him. Tousled dark hair, lazy smirk, glint in his eye that says he enjoys pulling wings off flies just to see what happens. He catches me looking and winks.
I look away fast, heat creeping into my cheeks.
“Then there’s Tex Ward,” Tammy says. “You don’t want to meet him in a hallway alone. Came from nowhere.”
He’s massive. Brooding. Scar on his eyebrow and sleeves rolled up to show the ink lining his arms. He’s not slouched—he’s coiled.
“And the last one?”
“That’s Noah Vexley. The hottest tech genius. Doesn’t talk much. Quiet, smart, scary when he wants to be,” Rowen finishes off.
I nod.
He’s pale, slight compared to the others. His dark brown hair falling over his glasses while he taps away on a tablet.
I’m unsure if I’m supposed to feel intrigued or warned.
“Want me to walk with you to your first block?” Dakota offers, already collecting her bag.
I blink, surprised. “Sure… yeah. Thanks.”
She flashes a smile—genuine, easy. “Let’s survive your first day, Ashthorne.”
I smile back, nerves still fluttering in my stomach. But suddenly, they feel lighter. Like maybe—just maybe—I’m not doing this alone.
We stand, and the rest of the table calls out good lucks and “you’ll do great” as I follow Dakota into the current of students.
Maybe I will survive this place.
Maybe I’ll even belong.