Evan
one of the best party locations in Spearcrest. It’s split into eight quadrants, with pathways of broad flagstones dividing each quadrant. An enormous marble gazebo overlooks the garden, its wrought iron dome laced with ivy, and cedars and oaks shield it from all the main buildings, so we don’t have to worry too much about getting caught.
Still, I’m in a despondent mood when I arrive at the party.
The thought of hanging out with the other Young Kings—listening to Sev rail on about his fiancée when it’s clear he just needs to get over himself and fuck her, watching Luca make out with any girl he thinks we might want or helping Zach find reasons to start a fight with Theodora—brings me no joy. There’s no girl I want to dance with, nobody I want to talk to.
I’d rather be at home, waiting for one text from Sophie than speak to pretty much anybody at the party.
I make a beeline straight for the gazebo, where the drinks are usually kept. I immediately spot Sev, who looks like some fairy tale prince in tight black pants and a loose white shirt that’s unbuttoned halfway down his chest.
He’s looking around distractedly and running his hand through his pitch-black hair, a sure sign that he’s stressed or nervous. I can only guess he’s looking for his fiancée. For somebody he claims to hate so much, he spends a lot of time thinking about her, talking about her or looking for her—but who am I to judge?
“What’s up, Sev?” I ask, grabbing a bottle of beer from one of the ornate marble plant pots somebody has thoughtfully filled with ice.
“Fuck, nothing,” he says.
His gaze sweeps the crowd anxiously; it’s obvious he’s lying. Instead of pressing him for information, I grab another beer and hand it to him.
“Nothing is right,” I sigh, following his gaze to the crowd. The Sophie-less, pointless crowd. ‘Let’s just get fucked up tonight.”
Sev finally meets my gaze and gives me a grin: his signature Sev grin, full of French arrogance. He raises his beer bottle, tipping the neck towards me. “A la tienne.”
I clink my bottle to his and we both drink—and keep drinking.
Sev is a good person to get fucked with because he can hold his alcohol and at the same time alcohol brings out the more belligerent, ostentatious aspects of his personality. By the time I realise we’re drunk, we’re both holding bottles of red wine and lying half-slumped into lavender bushes. The music surrounds us, and the crowd moves to the beat like an ocean, rising and falling.
“What really pisses me off—” Sev is shouting over the music, his French accent ten times more pronounced now he’s drunk, “is she’s acting as if she’s, I don’t know, so bored with the whole thing. I told her to do what she’s told—I told her how things work here. But she just acts like she doesn’t give a shit about any of it! She acts like she’s not even interested in knowing me. Can you fucking believe that shit?”
“I thought you didn’t want her to follow you around like a puppy?” I shout back, trying to keep his face in focus “Isn’t that what you said at the beginning of the year? I don’t want her to follow me around like a puppy—comme un, a, a…chienne?”
I’m pretty sure that barely counts as French, and Sev shakes his head and waves a dismissive hand.
“Comme un toutou!” he shouts back, but I have no idea what that means, so I just stare blankly at him. Clearly my contribution to this conversation is unnecessary, because he continues anyway. “I don’t want her to follow me around comme un toutou! It’s the modicum of respect to try and at least come to me, to—it’s not like I’m marrying into her family, for fuck’s sake. She’s marrying into mine. It’s my name she’s after, so why the fuck does she think she doesn’t have to listen to a thing I say, or—it’s the disrespect, you know?”
I nod vigorously.
Sev is a lot more worked up about this fiancée situation than I thought. After all his talk about not wanting this girl to follow him around and steal away all his freedom to do what he pleases and fuck around—Sev’s favourite thing to do—I can’t understand why he isn’t happy she’s left him alone.
Actually, I’m pretty sure I know exactly why.
“Maybe you should just go ahead and fuck the shit out of her!” I shout in Sev’s face.
“Fuck her? And let her think for one second that I want her?” Sev’s face goes red. “Mieux vos la mort!”
I have no idea what he’s saying—something about death, which does not bode well—but since his fiancée is French, I’m sure she’ll be able to handle his bilingual wrath better than me.
“You wouldn’t be doing it because you want her, though,” I explain slowly, working out what I mean as I speak. “You’d be doing it to remind her of her place here. She won’t dare disobey or disrespect you if you fuck her into submission. Right?”
Sev’s cheeks are flushed, but he’s nodding now. I can tell he likes the idea. Grim determination draws his thick black eyebrows together. “Yes—yes, you’re right, man!”
Before I can say anything to convince him, he’s struggled upright from our lavender bush and is standing in front of me, sweeping his hair back with one hand. “She’s my fucking toy—why shouldn’t I play with her?”
Looks like Sev doesn’t need to be talked into this idea, because he’s clearly only too happy to talk himself into it. “Right—exactly.”
I extend my hand to him, hoping he can help me up, but he’s already striding away in a determined zigzag. He disappears into the darkness of the peace garden and I sigh and roll myself up.
Time to go latch on to another Young King and inspire him to action, since I’m powerless to do anything about the things I want.
I’m walking slowly and carefully back to the gazebo when I spot a face in the corner of my vision. I stumble to an abrupt stop and turn my head so fast I almost pull a neck muscle.
The world crystallises. Have I blacked out and woken up into some sort of dream?
Because right there, standing amongst the trees a little away from the broad flagstone paths, is Sophie fucking Sutton.
She looks good, too. I don’t even think I’ve ever seen her in a dress, but the look still screams rule-abiding prefect with the personality of an uptight librarian: black fabric, square neckline, long sleeves. Her hair is loose on her shoulders, the lustrous brown strands too thick and heavy to fly in the wind.
She’s standing with Araminta, the girl from my Science class. They are holding hands and dancing to the music, with Sophie twirling Araminta around then catching her by her waist.
I veer in their direction. My mind has gone blank—blank except for the single thought of Sophie, and Sophie’s long brown hair, and Sophie’s waist in my arms and her thighs around my hips. I walk with grim determination.
Tonight, I’m going to put my hands on Sophie. I don’t care what excuse I find, or how weird I might come across. But tonight—as soon as possible, in fact—I’m going to touch Sophie.
A blur of pink and gold fills my vision, blocking Sophie from my sight and stopping me in my tracks. I look down and let out a sigh of barely repressed frustration.
“What do you want, Rosenthal?”
Seraphina Rosenthal, the Rose of Spearcrest, stands in front of me with wide doll eyes and an innocent smile on her face. She’s wearing a bright pink corset stitched with dozens of actual roses, a puff of tulle skirts, fishnet tights and combat boots.
Her colourful exuberance is a direct contrast to the austerity of Sophie’s plain black dress, and as a result it holds no power over me.
I gaze down at Rose, wondering whether I could fancy her if she wore her long gold hair in a severe centre parting, wore big boots and matronly outfits. Somehow, I doubt it.
If it was that easy, then I could get over Sophie and finally live a normal, happy life.
“Won’t you dance with me, Evan?” Rose asks, drawing closer. “It’s my favourite song.”
“Uh… I’m busy right now.” I shrug. “Maybe later?”
“Oh, you’re busy?” She flutters her eyelashes. Her make-up is a work of art, pink and gold glitter artfully decorating the bright blue of her eyes. “Anything I can help with?”
“Uh, no.”
I side-step her and resume my lurching journey over to the trees, where Sophie is now leaning against the rough trunk of an oak, talking to Araminta and a boy with dark hair. I don’t recognise the boy, so I can only assume he’s in Year 12, but he leaves almost as soon as I arrive anyway.
Araminta turns with a start when I appear at her side and her eyes immediately narrow. Sophie’s reaction is almost imperceptible: a slight raise of one eyebrow.
“Can we help you?” Araminta asks icily.
“I wannna—” I look straight into Sophie’s eyes. She holds my gaze and says nothing. “I wanna see if Sutton’s having a good time.”
“She’s having a grand time,” Araminta snaps.
It’s clear she doesn’t like me. I can understand why. But she could be stabbing me straight in my chest right now and it still wouldn’t be enough to draw my attention away from Sophie’s direct gaze.
“I thought you were scared of getting caught,” I say to her.
“I thought I deserved to have fun,” she answers drily.
Her voice is like a match set to my alcohol-fuelled veins. Heat rushes through me. “What kind of fun, Sutton?” I step a little closer. “You’d have a lot more fun with me.”
“I doubt it,” Araminta snaps. “Come on, Sophie, let’s go get another drink.”
She takes Sophie’s hand and pulls her away. Sophie follows without protest, but she turns her head slightly as she goes, and pokes her tongue out at me.
That’s when I realise she might be a little tipsy.
The sight of her tongue peeking out between her pursed lips is like an electric shock right to my system. I am instantly and embarrassingly aroused, but I resist the urge to follow Sophie. It’s clear Araminta doesn’t want me around them, and if I’m honest with myself I know exactly why.
I turn and jump when I find myself once more face to face with Rose. The doll-like expression of innocence and sweetness is gone, replaced by a disdainful sneer.
“Really, Evan? Her?”
I sigh. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sophie. Fucking. Sutton.”
This is dangerous ground. Rose is a powerful influence in Spearcrest—not enough to call my power into question, but enough to make Sophie’s life unpleasant in the way it used to be.
“I’m not even angry,” Rose says (a blatant lie, since her face is flushed with fury), “I’m just disappointed. Don’t you know you could do much better?”
My jaw clenches. The mist of alcohol seems to evaporate in the sudden gale of annoyance blowing through me. “If I wanted to hear your opinion on anything, Rose, I’d ask for it. But since you have nothing intelligent or relevant to contribute to a conversation, you might as well keep your mouth closed.”
“Don’t be so fucking defensive, Evan. It’s a bad look.” She gives an airy laugh which doesn’t quite manage to make her appear as careless as she wishes. “Over Sophie Sutton of all people? Just because she acts stuck up and dresses like she belongs doesn’t mean she’s one of us, or that dating her would be anything more than a fucking charitable act.”
I stare at her as she speaks, at her expensive clothing and empty blue eyes, and my fury goes out like a blown candle.
“You’re really fucking pathetic, Rose.” Her eyes widen, but I don’t stop. “You might be wearing the prettiest dress and the most expensive makeup, but it doesn’t hide what you really are: some vapid, brainless, jealous fucking baby. Grow the fuck up, yeah?”
Then I turn around and walk away from her. And it might just be the alcohol, but for the first time, I realise there isn’t a single person at this party I actually want to spend time with.
Well—one person—but no matter how close I get to her, she’s forever out of reach.
“Fuck this,” I mutter to myself, and leave.
belt of trees on the way back to the dorms when I collide with a figure as it emerges from behind the enormous trunk of an oak. I throw my hands out to catch the figure as it stumbles back and look down into a pair of dark, hooded eyes.
“Fuck.” Sophie gives a low, lazy laugh. “Why is it always you?”
She lays a palm on my chest and pushes me away, but I keep a hold of her arms. Now my eyes have adjusted to the shadows, I can see a little more clearly. Her hair is still parted down the middle severely, but her cheeks are flushed and her lips are gleaming.
She smells of vanilla and coconut rum.
She smells fucking divine. I have to use all my willpower not to bury my face in her neck and breathe her in like some deranged sicko.
“Where are you going, Sutton?” I ask, forcing my voice to remain light.
Her hand is still on my chest, but instead of pushing me away again, she curls her fingers into my T-shirt, digging into my chest. “I’m leaving before I get myself in trouble.”
Her rough voice claws across my skin. With the alcohol still in my system, my barriers have all crumbled down, and there’s nothing to protect me from the effect of that unbearable fucking voice. Blood rushes straight to my cock, and I grow so hard so fast I have to clench my jaw to suppress a groan.
“Trouble, Sutton?” I slide my hands slowly from her arms to her shoulders, gently cradling her neck and slowly drawing aside strands of her hair so my fingers can rest against her skin. She doesn’t make an attempt to stop me. “What kind of trouble?”
I slide my thumb gently up and down her neck, my eyes on her lips. They’re wet and parted in a scornful half-smile—they look good enough to fucking eat, and for a moment I have the wild urge to slide my thumb into her mouth, to part her lips just so I can press my finger against her tongue.
I want to taste the alcohol on her breath, I want to claim her mouth with mine, to kiss her so fucking good she’ll never be able to even dream of kissing anybody else.
But Sophie with some alcohol in her is bolder than I could ever have expected. She tilts her head back and arches her neck, watching me from under her heavy eyelids.
With her hand still fisted in my T-shirt, she lifts the fabric, exposing my stomach to the cold. Her eyes rake over my skin, my abs.
She smirks. “More trouble than it’s worth, I reckon.” And then she drops my T-shirt and pats my chest with supreme condescension.
I tilt my head, keeping my voice low and calm. ‘Liar. Everybody knows you want me, Sutton.’
She must have either had too many drinks or she’s got low tolerance, because instead of her usual glare, she laughs. ‘You’re about as wanted as a brain tumor.’
“You’re one vicious little fucker, aren’t you?” I tighten my fingers around her throat ever so slightly, but she doesn’t seem alarmed at all. Her cheeks are darkly flushed now, and her teeth tug slowly on her bottom lip.
“Oh no,” she says, low and rough and mocking, “I’m not going to make you cry, am I?”
“In your dreams.”
“You don’t belong in my dreams, Evan Knight,” she rasps. “You belong in my fucking nightmares.”
And then, to my complete and utter surprise, she fists my collar and pulls me down, dragging my lips to hers. I open my mouth in a half-moan. Her lips part and I glide my tongue against hers, tasting rum and sugar.
I’m so fucking hard I’m certain I could come without being touched. My mind is a crimson blur of urgent lust. Lifting her up against me, I hurtle forward, slamming her back against a tree trunk. Her legs hug my hips the way they did in the pool. Her fingers dig into my neck, pulling me closer.
“Fuck, Sutton,” I groan against her mouth. “You taste so fucking good.”
Kissing Sophie Sutton feels exactly as dangerous and forbidden and exhilarating as I always imagined it would. But it also feels completely right, profoundly satisfying, like the final piece of a puzzle slotting into place.
And it feels good, so good I could fucking die.
Her open mouth and the squeeze of her thighs around my hips tells me she’s enjoying this as much as I am. Who would have thought Sophie Sutton could be like this? Austere Sophie, tightly wound, so fucking controlled—would would have thought she could kiss so good, arch her back with such abandon?
I want more—so much more. Now I know how good it feels to kiss her mouth, I want to kiss the rest of her—every part. I want to touch her, taste her. I want—I need—more of this, more of her.
My hand slips up her leg, gripping her thigh, dragging her skirt up. Her skin is hot through her tights—there’s too much fabric, all I can think of is tearing her tights off, pushing up her skirt, taking off her dress and—
And then her hand clutches my throat and she shoves me away.
I freeze, staring at her in shock and confusion. Her lips are gleaming and dark. Her eyes are wide and panicked.
She pushes against my chest again. I immediately move away, setting her carefully down. She wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, tucks her hair back behind her ears and straightens her skirt.
“Sutton—” I can barely think, my mind foggy with lust, my entire body a flame. “What—”
She slaps her hand down on my chest and laughs up at me.
“Fuck-ups like this,” she says, “are why I should never drink.”
And then she just turns and runs away with a mad giggle. I stand, frozen in shock and still hard, and watch as she disappears into the night like some sexy, despicable fucking Cinderella.
