The library was supposed to be my sanctuary. I'd barely made it ten feet from my dorm, the phantom grip of Dmitri's fingers still circling my wrist, when the intercom's electronic shriek tore through the hallway. I flinched, the sound like a needle jammed into my ear.
"Attention, students of St. Aurelia."
The Principal's voice was dry, a dead thing scraping over stone. My stomach clenched. A mandatory assembly. Not optional. The words were a collar. Around me, doors flew open, and the polished hallway filled with a sudden, churning current of blue blazers. I got caught in it, jostled, my shoulder clipping a doorframe. I couldn't find my breath.
Inside the Cathedral, the cold was a living thing. It climbed my legs, settled in my lungs. The gothic arches didn't inspire awe; they loomed, threatening to collapse. And then I felt it, that specific, burning pressure between my shoulder blades. I didn't turn. I knew. He was here. Dmitri. His gaze was a hand on the back of my neck, possessive and inescapable.
The Principal stood before the monstrous rose window, a black stain against the colored glass. "Tradition is the bedrock of this institution," he droned, and the words echoed, multiplying until they felt like a swarm in my head. "No tradition is more sacred than the Winter Masquerade. This Friday, you will wear the masks of your choosing, but remember: even behind silk and velvet, the standards of St. Aurelia remain."
A low, hungry murmur rose from the pews. The Masquerade. I knew what it was. A beautiful butchering block. My palms were slick. I focused on making myself small, on disappearing into the wood of the pew. When it was over, I moved like something hunted, head down, weaving through the dispersing crowd. I just needed the library. I needed a dark corner where I could think without feeling his eyes on me.
I turned into the quieter corridor of the music wing, my footsteps too loud on the parquet. I was almost past the first practice room when I heard it. A laugh. Crystal-clear and sharp as a scalpel.
Lady Schuyler.
My feet glued themselves to the floor. My blood didn't just run cold; it froze, solid and heavy in my veins. I stumbled back, pressing myself into the shallow alcove of a water fountain. The marble was icy against my spine.
"The unmasking will be the highlight." Her voice slithered under the door, calm, conversational. A chill dripped down my backbone. "I've seen to it that the 'scholarship girl' receives a very specific ensemble. A little parody of ambition. It's a masterpiece of humiliation. By midnight, she won't just be an outsider; she'll be a punchline. The Saints will be cleansed of her… stain."
The words weren't just words. They were spiders crawling into my ears, laying eggs in my brain. An execution. Not with violence, but with ridicule. A tremor started deep inside me, a vibration of pure, undiluted dread. My hands fumbled for the strap of my violin case, my fingers thick and stupid. Move. You have to move. But my legs were stone.
Somehow, I unstuck myself. I shuffled away from the door, my movements jerky. I didn't run. Running was a confession of fear. I just drifted, hollowed out, toward the courtyard doors.
The grey daylight was a shock. It offered no warmth. I took two steps onto the gravel path.
A shadow unpeeled itself from the archway. It wasn't a person approaching; it was an avalanche.
A hand clamped onto my shoulder, hard, calloused, unquestioning and wrenched me around. The world spun in a sickening blur. My back slammed into a stone pillar. The impact was a fist to my lungs. All the air left me in a ragged whoosh. The rough stone bit through my blazer.
Dmitri.
He loomed, blocking the weak light. His usually perfect hair was disheveled, as if he'd been pulling at it. His eyes, that controlled sky-blue, were the churning, dangerous grey of a hurricane.
"You were supposed to be in your room." His voice was a low, furious rasp. It wasn't loud. That was worse. It was intimate with its anger. His breath was hot on my cold cheek.
I tried to suck in air. "Dmitri, let go—"
"I told you." He leaned in, his body caging me against the pillar. He wasn't just near me; he was against me. The hard planes of him pressed me into the unyielding stone. I could smell him, his expensive cologne, leather, crisp linen, and beneath it, the sharp, metallic scent of his rage. It was overwhelming. It filled my head, left no room for my own thoughts. "I was explicit. Stay. In. Your. Room."
"I'm not your pet to lock up!" The words burst out, high and thin, frayed with a panic I hated. "I have to exist here! I can't just… disappear because you're having a tantrum!"
His free hand came up, not to strike, but to frame my face. His thumb dug into the hinge of my jaw, a pressure that was just shy of pain, forcing my gaze to his. His grip on my shoulder was a brand. "This isn't a tantrum. You are blind. The Schuylers don't play games. They orchestrate ruins. And you're walking through the rubble because you're too proud to take the safe path I made for you."
Tears of hot, helpless fury burned behind my eyes. I wouldn't let them fall. "I heard her," I spat, my voice shaking traitorously. "In the music room. I know about the dress. I know she wants to make me a joke. Hiding won't save me. It just makes me an easier target."
For a long, terrifying second, he just stared. His gaze raked over my face, the fear I couldn't hide, the defiance I clung to like a shield made of glass. I saw the furious calculation in his eyes, the sheer frustration that I was a problem his commands couldn't solve. The silence between us was thick, suffocating. It vibrated with a terrifying electricity that had nothing to do with hatred.
Then he moved.
His hand shot past my ear and slammed into the pillar.
The crack of flesh on the stone was obscene. I jerked, a full-body flinch I couldn't control, my eyes squeezing shut for a heartbeat of pure, animal fear.
When I opened them, his face was inches from mine. His breath was uneven.
"Fine." The word was a guttural sound, torn from his throat. "You want to walk into the lion's den? Then you don't go in wearing your pathetic rags of pride. If you set foot in that Masquerade, you go as mine. Not a scholarship student. Not a charity case. Mine."
The word landed in the pit of my stomach, heavy and hot. A claim. A collar. It sparked a horrified, thrilling shame that made me nauseous. "What does that mean?" My voice was a broken whisper.
"It means you survive by my rules." His hand left my face, dove into his inner pocket. He pulled out a small, flat box wrapped in matte black paper. It felt dense, heavy with unspoken threat. He didn't place it in my hand. He shoved it against my palm, folding my numb fingers around it with a brutal, final pressure.
"Do not open this until you in your room," he commanded, his storm-cloud eyes holding mine, drowning me. "And Isabelle?" He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing my ear. A violent shiver wracked me. "If you leave your room again before sunset, I will lock you in. Myself. I will slide the bolt and I don't care who hears you screaming. Try me."
He pushed off from the pillar, releasing me so abruptly I swayed, my knees buckling. He turned and was gone, his coat a black wing snapping in the still air.
I stood there, glued to the cold stone. My heart was a frantic, caged thing beating against my ribs. My shoulder throbbed. My jaw ached. The cold of the pillar had seeped into my marrow. I looked down at the black box in my hand. It seemed to suck all the light from the courtyard.
I don't remember the walk back. Stairs, doors, muffled voices that sounded like they were underwater. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely fit the key into the lock. I fell into my room, slammed the door, and threw the bolt. The metallic thunk was the only solid thing in a spinning world.
I stood with my back against the door, violin case still hanging from my limp hand. I was trembling, a fine, constant vibration I had no power to stop. The box was a lead weight in my other hand. His words echoed in my head
Mine.
Slowly, I walked to my bed and sat on the very edge. The mattress felt like it might give way. I stared at the box. Opening it felt like putting my hand into a beautifully wrapped snare. A trap set by the most dangerous creature I knew. But not opening it… that was a surrender. And I had nothing left but the will not to surrender.
My fingers, clumsy and cold, picked at the perfect, tight seam of the black paper. I pulled the slender ribbon. It slithered away like a snake. The paper fell open.
I lifted the lid.
My breath stopped. The air vanished from the room.