Chapter 88 Octavia
Octavia
We’re back at St. Monarché Academy.
December has settled in fully now, cold and damp. Switzerland, at least, had snow. Here on the island, it’s just rain.
Everything has gone back to normal.
By normal, I mean broken.
Piper barely says hello, if that. When I do see her, it’s only in passing, her head down, like she’s actively dodging interaction.
Adelaide is back to being insufferable. Whatever truce we managed to form in the Swiss Alps evaporated the moment we returned. We nearly came to blows a few days ago, the video was everywhere, especially on the academy gossip page.
I spend most of my time with my sister, but even that is rarer than it used to be. We orbit each other now instead of colliding, avoiding questions neither of us wants to answer.
Whatever illusion we allowed ourselves in Switzerland, the idea that we were some twisted version of friends, is gone.
Everyone is back to guarding their secrets.
What didn’t change is Markev.
He still follows me everywhere, close that I feel him without needing to look.
Day by day, the tension in him builds, and I know it’s only a matter of time before his restraint snaps.
He’s certified.
That means I can expect anything.
The nights were the hardest when we came back. After sharing a bed with Markev, my dorm felt cavernous… wrong. The nightmares had free rein again, hunting me the moment I closed my eyes.
The guilt came too.
I worked hard to dull it, to keep it manageable. I made a decision, to live in the moment while it exists. To let myself feel without dissecting it, because the second I do, everything will collapse.
And I’m not ready for that.
What I wasn’t prepared for—what shocked me most—was seeing Eleanor step out of the dorm building as we unloaded our bags.
Eleanor.
She was walking perfectly fine, as if she hadn’t disappeared for months.
But it wasn’t her.
Not really.
She looked… fine, on the surface. Her hair freshly trimmed, bangs neat, her clothes clean. No visible bruises, no signs of neglect.
If you didn’t know her, you’d think she’d simply gone on an extended holiday.
But her eyes were wrong.
Empty… haunted.
She was standing in front of us, physically there, but some part of her never made it back.
Her very soul.
Then I noticed who else stepped out of the dorm the men occupied.
Ido Renford.
The fifth man of the Ferrum Syndicate. Gone for months. Back at the exact same time as Eleanor.
That alone was suspicious. The way he watched her made it worse. His eyes never left her, and the expression on his face was… disturbing.
I’d done my research on Ido Renford. Officially, he’d been adopted into an American elite family, born in Japan before his records went missing. Unofficially, there were whispers that he is an assassin tied to the Bratva.
One of the best.
It tracked.
His family legacy is rooted in tech, private security, discreet operations. It also explained how easily he moved among the Markev cousins.
After today’s classes, I returned to my dorm and tried to work on my projects. I started painting, but the noise in my head kept building until I couldn’t take it anymore.
So I left.
Now, after three straight hours of running, I climb the stairs to my dorm. I unlock the door, kick off my shoes, and go straight into the bathroom.
I shower, washing away the sweat and rain clinging to my body. I dry off, move to the sink, and brush my teeth.
It’s late.
I’m exhausted, and ready to collapse into bed.
I reach for my serum and cream and apply them to my face and neck, careful to avoid my reflection in the mirror.
I got rid of some of the mirrors. I should have gotten rid of all of them.
But I didn’t.
Maybe it’s another fucked up form of self-punishment. Or maybe I just never followed through.
Either way, reflections are everywhere. Getting rid of mirrors would mean getting rid of televisions, glass, anything polished.
So no.
I keep telling myself I should just learn to live with it.
I put the cream back, and my arm closes around the blade hidden in the drawer.
I trace it with my fingers. Then I lose the battle and wrap my hand around it.
I don’t know why I do it.
I didn’t in Switzerland. Markev’s promise, to never hurt myself again, crosses my mind.
But I don’t let go of the blade.
Maybe I do it to feel something.
And maybe I didn’t do it in Switzerland because the psycho makes me feel plenty.
But he’s not here now.
And I shouldn’t get attached to the way he makes me feel.
It’s temporary.
It has to be.
I take in a deep breath, as the blade presses against my inner thigh.
When I’m finished cleaning my wounds, I grab the usual T-shirt I sleep in and pull it on. It barely reaches my thighs.
I don’t bother with panties. I tug on a pair of fluffy socks before leaving the bathroom.
A scream lodges in my throat the moment I step into the bedroom.
Sprawled across my bed, very much uninvited, is Markev.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand.
He smirks, clearly about to say something clever, but his gaze drops. To my bare legs, and to the shirt I’m wearing.
The instant his eyes catch on it, darkness flashes through them. The icy blue drains away, leaving black in its place.
It should disquiet me.
It bloody doesn’t.
If anything, I clench my thighs together, because apparently I am just as unhinged as he is, and I have long since stopped pretending otherwise.
He is off the bed in a single movement, stalking towards me like a predator that has finally decided to take its prey.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
I tilt my head back to look at him, biting my lower lip, unable to resist the smirk that forms there.
“A T-shirt,” I say sweetly. “I know intellect isn’t your strong suit, but it’s fairly obvious what I’m wearing.”
“Do not play with me, baby.”
He is on me in an instant. His hand wraps around my throat, fingers tightening, cutting off my air.
“Whose T-shirt is it?” he asks, each word clipped.
“I’m not telling you,” I grit out as his grip tightens.
He leans down and bites my lower lip, and I hiss.
“Very well,” he murmurs. “Don’t tell me.” He presses a hard kiss to my mouth. “I’ll fuck the truth out of you.”
He releases my throat abruptly and steps back.
I don’t even register the movement until it’s too late.
The fabric is cut from my body and falls to the floor. I am left standing there, naked.
His eyes drag over me, openly appreciative.
The tip of the blade trails between my breasts, barely there, the cool edge sliding over my skin in a way that feels disturbingly good.
I shiver.
He watches the reaction closely.
He licks his lips, bends, and drags his tongue along my cheek.
Then he closes the distance.
He takes my mouth, the kiss violent and consuming. I move into it without thinking, tasting mint and cigarettes. It only makes it worse.
Deeper, and more unhinged.
His one hand slides beneath my arse and he lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist on instinct, clutching at his neck.
He crosses the room in two strides and throws me onto the bed.
He drops the blade to the floor and is on top of me a second later.
His mouth claims my throat, biting, licking, before dragging down to my chest. He takes one nipple into his mouth and sucks hard, then switches to the other, nipping more gently as his hand closes around my breast, his thumb circling. He bites down, leaving the mark of his teeth behind.
My fingers dig into his back, my nails scraping his skin as I clench my thighs together, close to coming from his mouth alone.
Then he stops.
I gasp, staring up at him. “What are you doing?”
He smirks. “You don’t deserve to come. Not yet, spitfire.”
I narrow my eyes, furious and aching.
“Whose T-shirt is it?”
I stay silent.
His expression darkens. He stands, leaving me breathless, exposed… desperate.
He moves to the edge of the bed and stills as his eyes drop to the fresh cuts along my thighs.
Fuck.