Octavia
I barely slept, my thoughts keeping me restless and turning over throughout the night.
Yesterday, I spent the day with my sister, Ophelia.
Finding her safe was a relief, but seeing the state she was in tightened something in my chest so intensely I could hardly breathe.
Because I feel like I failed her.
I should have looked after my sister, and instead I left her on her own.
We went to the infirmary, where I stayed beside her while they stitched the wounds, and I tried—pointlessly—to give some clarity about what had happened at the party two nights earlier.
Clarity I don’t possess myself.
I know what happened to me.
I jumped from that damned balcony, nearly shattered my ankle, then ran through the estate searching for Ophelia, Eleanor, Piper, anyone.
But none of them were there.
I couldn’t risk hanging around in case Markev followed, so I took the first car I could—a bloody Lamborghini Aventador, of all things.
Who leaves the keys inside?
Honestly.
Then I checked.
Of course.
Fucking Markev.
That’s who.
I drove straight to Adelaide’s place outside London, where we were meant to regroup.
When I arrived to find it empty, I didn’t linger. I drove back to the docks, took the first ferry to Elaris Isle, and reached the academy just as dawn began to break.
The Lamborghini came with me. I parked it in the academy lot and shoved the keys somewhere safe in my dorm.
I should probably be more concerned about antagonising him. He is hardly stable to begin with, and stealing his car on top of stabbing him is only going to intensify whatever fixation he already has.
But how would he even reach me?
He cannot get anywhere near Elaris Isle without taking a bullet, or several, to the chest.
Only if the Thirteenth Circle allowed it.
The idea crosses my mind, and I dismiss it almost as quickly as it forms.
The Thirteenth Circle runs St. Monarche? Academy, just as the Ferrum Syndicate runs Velmark Academy, and I am part of one while he belongs to the other. They have been enemies for decades.
If he is determined to come after me, he would have to do it elsewhere, in some place beyond these grounds. For now, at least, the academy offers a measure of safety.
Once I arrived, I ran to find the girls, needing to see with my own eyes that they were safe.
Relief washed over me at finding Piper unharmed, but something in her had shut down completely, closed off, silent and unreachable.
Eleanor was nowhere to be found either. When I rang her phone, her father answered, demanded I stop calling, insisted she was with family and perfectly fine.
Something about it felt wrong, but I wasn’t in a position to force the truth out of him.
So I went straight to my sister’s room.
When she opened the door, she looked as if she’d seen a ghost, pale, haunted and disoriented.
Then I saw the blood at her forehead, and we realised together that she’d lost two years of her memory.
I don’t know what happened to her, and that terrifies me more than I’ll ever admit, especially because, while I was fleeing the party, I heard whispers about a boy found dead in the woods.
My mind yesterday was filled with nothing but my sister, the girls, the party and… Milo Markev.
How I failed.
Not just in protecting my sister. I failed to finish the job.
And I don’t make a habit of failing, because in our world, one mistake is all it takes to end up dead.
Everything fell apart at that party exactly as I predicted.
The only one who seems remotely fine, aside from being irritating, is Adelaide, the one responsible for the mess we’re in.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, the covers tangled around my legs.
I exhale and grab my phone from the nightstand, flicking through the screen without purpose until a post pulls me out of my haze.
It’s a picture of Ophelia and me from yesterday, uploaded by one of the academy’s gossip accounts.
The caption reads: “The Bellanti sisters are back. Ophelia stitched up and looking guilty, Octavia smashing phones like the psycho she is.”
Psycho.
I’ve been called worse.
The thing is, I don’t care. I actually rather enjoy it.
If being a psycho means protecting the people I love, then I’ll wear the label with pride.
I do have a slight issue with control, admittedly. I react before I stop to think. I don’t slow down to analyse.
So yes, I smashed a girl’s phone yesterday, but she should consider herself fortunate it wasn’t her head instead.
She was trying to take pictures of my sister while she was hurt, most likely to sell them or post them somewhere, and I was never going to allow that.
I roll my eyes and lock the screen. The phone leaves my hand with a touch more force than I intended, I aim for the mattress, but it ricochets off the edge and lands on the floor with a thump.
“Brilliant,” I mutter.
I pull myself out of bed.
Pushing to my feet, I cross the room and sweep the curtains open.
The view is unchanged, dense, dark woodland stretching out from the edge of the dormitory, the trees packed so tightly together they appear almost impenetrable.
Morning light barely makes it through the canopy, leaving everything muted.
This is my final year at St. Monarche?.
An academy built for the heirs of powerful families, those with names that carry weight in both legitimate circles and the darker ones that prefer not to be acknowledged.
Mafia bloodlines, old money dynasties, corporations with respectable fronts hiding more than they admit.
This place exists to mould us into whatever futures our parents have already decided we will inherit.
St. Monarche? stands on Elaris Isle, a private stretch of land wedged between Scotland and Norway, accessible only to those with enough influence to force their way in. You do not arrive here by accident, and you certainly do not stay unless you belong.
The academy was founded by four families, mine among them.
Over time, a system was put in place to maintain order, or at least the version of it our parents find most efficient.
The Thirteenth Circle.
It exists to handle what our families prefer not to deal with directly. Disputes, punishment, reminders of loyalty. The heirs enforce it, because nothing delivers a lesson quite like consequence administered through someone’s children.
Velmark Academy serves the opposite side of that divide.
It sits firmly on British soil and houses the heirs of families who do not stand with us, the rivals, the enemies, the bloodlines that history has placed on the other side of an unspoken line.
Like St. Monarche?, it was built by five founding families, and as with us, one holds far more influence than the others.
No one seems willing to say where the feud between the Thirteenth Circle and the Ferrum Syndicate truly began, only that it has existed for generations, passed down quietly and deepened with time.
If a family is sworn against mine, they don’t send their children here. They send them to Velmark instead. The arrangement works both ways.
Which is why crossing into their territory two nights ago was a mistake from the moment we stepped through their gates.
I move away from the window, forcing the thoughts aside, and head for the bathroom.
I have no plans today beyond keeping myself from exploding and disappearing into my own head, but first I need a shower.
I head into my bathroom and turn on the water, steam beginning to gather against the glass.
I pull off my shirt, step out of my panties, and move under the spray. The heat hits my skin immediately.
I close my eyes and let the water travel over my face, down my neck, loosening the tension sitting heavy across my shoulders.
Vanilla rises through the warm air as I squeeze shower gel into my palm, smoothing it over my skin.
I wash my hair, working in shampoo and then conditioner.
Once I’m done, I step out, dry off briskly, and reach for my robe.
It’s a soft blush silk with feathered cuffs at the wrists. I slide it on, tie the belt tight around my waist, and feel marginally more human.
I blot the excess water from my hair with another towel, then move to the sink to brush my teeth, rinse, and smooth a light cream over my face.
Back in my room, I sit at my vanity, pointedly avoiding the empty space where a mirror should be.
You took care of it.
The devil whispers, and I shake the thought away.
I apply a lip mask and work a light serum through the lengths of my hair before switching on the hairdryer.
By the time I’m done, I step into the walk in wardrobe and reach for a pair of soft grey sweatpants and an oversized hoodie.
A skeleton clutching a coffee cup is printed across the front, Mentally ill but totally chill scrawled along the back.
I pull it on, settle the fabric over me, and leave my bedroom, hoping I can keep myself busy enough so I don’t have to be in my head, as it’s not a pleasant space to be in.