Theodora
a barrage of work. There is coursework to complete, endless essays, and of course, university application deadlines looming.
I complete mine perfunctorily and submit them early. It’s a bittersweet feeling: applying for courses and universities I would love to attend for the sole purpose of hiding the fact I won’t be going. Being one of the highest achieving students in the school is a double-edged sword, with Mr Shawcross, our head of year, personally overseeing my applications. If I were to not apply, questions would be asked, and Mr Ambrose himself might get involved. This isn’t something I can let happen.
The time I spent at the Blackwood estate taught me something important.
Happiness, the thing I thought would always be unattainable to me, is within reach.
It’s just not something I can keep forever.
But if I can hold on to it, just for a while, just for now, then I will.
I’ll cling on with all my might.
And that’s exactly what I decide to do with what’s left of my time at Spearcrest.
Happiness means allowing myself to sink into my studies, to enjoy my learning. It means sitting in the library with Zach in our spare time and letting him coax food past my lips. It means allowing myself to lean into him while we both work side by side or letting him drape his blazer, still warm from his body, around my shoulders when I’m cold. It means letting him draw me into the shadows beneath a tree when he’s walking me back to the sixth form girls’ building and kissing him breathlessly in the cold night air.
To the rest of the world, we’re exactly the same as we always were. During our literature classes, our discussions are as heated and argumentative as ever. In the Apostles meetings, we debate like warring politicians in the House of Lords, tearing at each other’s ideas with verbal talons.
Worst of all are the parties. The tantalising proximity, combined with low lighting and loud music and the burn of alcohol in our veins, makes for a deadly cocktail of risk and temptation. The safest approach is to stay away from each other, but that’s almost impossible.
Inevitably, we always find our way back to one another.
Then the air between us becomes electricity, zapping at our skin, a slow, relentless torture. Our bodies want to touch, our mouths want to meet, but we can’t.
So we do what we do best. We argue and debate and fight.
Any topic will do—and even when we end up on a subject we agree on, Zach will take on the role of the devil’s advocate. Anything to keep our conversation going, anything to justify standing so close.
Anything to help us hold on to whatever shreds of self-control we have left.
holiday is short and feels even shorter, the last month blurring into an endless trail of gruelling exams. By that point in the year, there are only four of us left in the Apostles programme. Everyone, including myself, is exhausted and burnt out.
So, of course, the Young Kings throw a party. They always throw parties right after exams—probably to offer some sort of release for everyone’s pent-up stress. Post-exam parties usually start off slow and sluggish, then derail into violence or debauchery—or both.
And maybe that’s why I let Camille Alawi pick my outfit for me.
Normally, I stick to my collection of pale dresses and keep my make-up natural and conservative. My presence at these parties is a formality, and I keep my appearance as such. But this time, it’s different.
This time, I go to the party for the release.
The stress of exams and the Apostles programme, the end of my time at Spearcrest looming ever closer, and the pent-up tension of always being so close to Zachary without being able to do anything—they’re all getting to me.
Making me feel like my skin is burning and I need to find a way to douse the flames if I don’t want to crumble into a pile of ashes.
“This one,” Camille says, pulling a dress from out of her closet. It’s crammed so full she has to physically shove herself against her clothes to extricate the dress. “I’ve been dying to see you in this one, Theo.”
I look up from the bed where I’m sitting while Rose tongues loose waves into the ends of my hair.
“Red isn’t my colour,” I say, looking at the dress Camille is triumphantly holding out.
“But it could be,” she says. “Trust me on this.” She waves an arm. “I’ve seen it in a vision.”
I give her a dubious frown. “A vision?”
“Trust me,” she repeats.
My hair done, I stand up, and Camille wastes no time in pulling my silk dressing gown off me. She glances at my underwear, a simple pale blue set, and shakes her head.
“You’re going to have to lose the underwear for this dress.”
“I’m not going out without underwear.”
“Panty lines are a fashion faux pas,” Rose points out from the bed where she’s now lounging.
“Put the dress on,” Camille says pacifyingly, “then decide.”
She helps me into the dress, cool satin sliding like water against my skin. I turn to the mirror, but she stops me with an arm.
“Hold on,” she says. She pours three messy shots and hands them out. “Alright, girls. Shots for good luck on three. One, two, three.”
I drink my shot, more to soothe my nerves than anything, and wince at the burn of alcohol and the taste of tequila. I hate tequila.
“Alright, you can look.”
I turn to the mirror. The dress is a simple A-line shape, but the laced back is low, almost to my hips, and the skirt is so short it stops right at the top of my thighs.
“See?” Camille says, propping her chin on my shoulder. “I told you red could be your colour.”
Camille can be a liar sometimes, but not this time.
The colour of the dress—the deep, lush red of garnets—perfectly offsets my skin. The laces make the dress hug my waist and hips, the short skirt lengthening my legs.
I turn, admiring myself, marvelling at how different I look. My first thought is of Zachary’s reaction, and I almost jump when Camille laughs and says, “I can’t wait to see Zachary Blackwood’s face when he sees you.”
Rose gives a wicked giggle. “It’s going to be the face crack of the century.”
Camille nods eagerly. “Bishop Blackwood is finally going to break.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me. “Come on, Theo, lose the undies, girl. Don’t you want to drive him a little bit crazy?”
“You two are so immature,” I say.
But when we set off for the party later, I’m not wearing my underwear.
me, Zachary doesn’t give me the satisfaction of a face crack, let alone the face crack of the century. He simply lifts an eyebrow and tilts his head as if in a silent question.
I raise my glass to him across the crowd. This time, the party is in the chapel—one of the Young Kings must have coughed up a substantial bribe to get their hands on the key.
It feels a little sacrilegious to be getting drunk and dancing to loud, pulsing music under the blank eyes of the candlelit statues of saints, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping anyone.
Camille pulls me along with her, and I lose sight of Zachary.
“Forget him!” she yells in my ear over the music. “He’s got a stick shoved up his arse anyway. Let’s find some cute boys to dance with.”
I follow her reluctantly and take my opportunity to escape when I spot the drinks piled on the altar. There, I bump into a hulking shape and look up into a pair of narrow dark eyes.
“Hey,” Iakov Kavinski says.
“Hi, Iakov.” I glance down. “What are you having?”
“Vodka,” he says. He hands me the bottle. “Want some?”
“What are you mixing it with?”
He laughs but doesn’t answer as if I’ve just told a joke.
“Ugh, you’re just chugging it?”
He shrugs. “You don’t want some?”
“Give me the bottle.”
He gives it to me, and I drink, then hand him the bottle back with a grimace. “God, that’s disgusting.”
“Yea.” He grins.
Behind him, I spot Camille, who’s frowning as she looks around—probably searching for me and the drinks I promised to bring back. Ducking behind Iakov, I use him as a barrier.
“Who’re you avoiding?” he asks.
“My friend Camille, she’s… she wants to dance.”
“You don’t feel like dancing?”
“Not really. Do you?”
Iakov shrugs. “Most of the time, I just feel like smashing my own skull open against a rock.”
That’s when I realise he’s drunk.
“Then who would be Zaro’s bodyguard?” I say, hoping to lighten the tone.
“She’ll find some other stupid fucker to follow her around like a dog.”
“You’re not a stupid fucker, Iakov.”
“Yea.” He gives a growling laugh and a swig of his vodka.
I grab his arm and start pulling him towards the dancing crowd. “Come on, Iakov, cheer up. Life gets better.”
“Sometimes it gets worse.”
I freeze and turn back to look at him. He grins a joyless grin that sends a shiver down my spine.
“We’re in the same boat, Dorokhova, headed to the same hell.” He suddenly slings his arm around my neck, almost sending me crashing into the floor. “C’mon. Let’s dance like the doomed fuckers we are.”
This time, when he hands me his vodka bottle, I take deep, long swigs.
a crazy person to a soundtrack only he can hear, which I’m certain must be music consisting only of heavy metal and the screams of the damned.
At first, it’s a little scary—and then, it’s just fun. I imitate him, flinging my arms around and shaking like I’m mad. He laughs, throwing his head back, and I laugh too.
Then a dark shadow appears between us.
“Having fun, you two?”
Zachary is dressed all in black, with the top button of his shirt undone. His hair is impeccable, and his handsome face is set in an austere expression.
“Bishop Blackwood, welcome.” I curl an arm around his neck and press the length of my body against his. “You should dance with us.”
“Oh, is that what you two are doing? Dancing?” Zachary’s tone is acerbic, but he rests his hand on the low of my back, tangling his fingers with the laces. “Because you two look like you’re out there fighting demons.”
“I’m dancing,” Iakov shouts hoarsely over the music. “Don’t fight my demons—they’ve already won.”
Zachary casts a look at the bottle of vodka in Iakov’s hand. “Clearly.”
“Do you like my dress?” I ask in his ear.
“He likes your dress,” Iakov answers. “Trust me.”
“You’re drunk,” Zachary sighs. He looks from Iakov to me. “You’re both drunk.”
“I’m a little tipsy,” I admit.
“I’m stone-cold sober,” Iakov says. “Tell your woman you like her dress, Blackwood, for fuck’s sake.”
“I’m not his woman,” I say hastily, pulling away from Zachary.
“I like your dress,” Zachary says. He crooks a finger and tugs on one of my shoulder straps. “I adore it, in fact.”
I cast Iakov a worried look, struck by the sudden fear he knows more than he should, but he grabs both mine and Zachary’s heads in his big hands, leans forward, and says very gravely, “You two should really fuck someday.”
And then, with a roaring laugh, he stomps off into the crowd.
“You’ve not told him,” I say to Zachary with some surprise.
“Of course not. I haven’t told a soul.”
“You really are a good man, Zachary Blackwood.” I sigh, drawing closer to him. “A true saint.”
He clenches his jaw. “Oh, if you knew the nature of my thoughts right now, my Theodora, you’d know I’m far from a saint.”
I turn slowly, moving into the music, and flick at the hem of my skirt with my fingers. “And what is the nature of those thoughts?”
Zach takes me by my hips, pushing into me from behind, the hard bulge pressing against me, making clear the nature of his thoughts.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs in my ear. “I’m not a saint, Theodora, believe me when I say that.”
Then he pushes me away and turns me to face him. His eyes have a feverish glow to them as he bends to speak quietly to me.
“One of us needs to leave right now.”
“Why?”
“Because my self-control is holding on by the merest of threads, and I suspect you might be naked underneath that pretty little dress of yours.” He straightens his clothes, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “So unless you wish for me to fuck you right here in the middle of this party for all to see, then I suggest one of us leaves now.”
