[Warning: Trigger scene]
"Please," I begged, trying to swallow back the tears at the back of my throat. "Can’t we at least inform Kael? He’s supposed to oversee first-year placements. This has to be documented properly."
"The Student President outranks the First-Year Coordinator," he replied coldly, refusing to slow his pace or loosen his hold. "His word is final."
"But the academy has procedures!" I insisted digging in my heels. "There are rules about mentor assignments! Students are supposed to have a choice to choose who they want as their mentors!"
"You’re a new student, Eamon. You’re not yet a first-year student. You don’t get choices. You get opportunities. And you should be grateful someone as important as Marcus is taking a personal interest in your development."
He dragged me through the corridor until we got to the elevator. Despite all my twisting and turning, it didn’t stop him from throwing me in with ease.
"I haven’t eaten all day. I need to rest. I feel sick. Please, tell Slater..."
We were in the elevator now, and it was moving. He pulled me forward, staring down at me.
"You can eat all you want and rest all you want, Eamon. As a mentee of the Student President, you automatically get excluded from a lot of things students like you are obligated to do. You’ll like it, don’t worry."
The elevator stopped, and he pushed me out, then continued down the hall, past a corridor that seemed to grow more isolated as we walked. There were fewer doors, and the floor was as quiet as a graveyard, except for a few people dressed in the Academy’s colours; they all seemed busy.
So, they barely looked our way.
When we arrived at the Student President’s quarters, I noticed that it was located in a wing that seemed entirely separate from the main halls and corridors.
No student or staff member was wandering about. We finally reached a large double door marked ’Student President.’
Peter pulled out a key and unlocked it.
The door opened into a lavish sitting room that screamed privilege and authority. Rich furnishings, a fireplace, bookshelves lined with expensive and rare books – it looked more like a faculty apartment than student housing.
The door clicked shut instantly. That was the only time Peter let me go. He walked across the room to a door on the opposite wall. He disappeared into it for a moment, then returned.
"That’ll be your room," he said, jerking his thumb toward the door he’d just come out of. "And if you want to survive at this Academy, you’ll do exactly what the Student President tells you to do. No questions, no resistance, no complaints."
I took a shaky breath, trying to calm my nerves. I reached for Peter’s hand, holding it as I begged him.
"Remember how you helped me at the train station, I am begging you, please," I went on my knees, forcing the tears that had gathered in my eyes back. "I don’t think this is appropriate. Can’t you see there’s been some mistake? He looked at me like—like he wants to—"
Peter rolled his eyes. "He wants you. You should feel honoured."
"But I’m a boy!" I cried out, angrily swiping at the tear that had rolled down my cheek.
Peter scoffed and brushed past me dismissively, heading for the main door. "The only mistake would be disappointing Marcus Webb," he said without looking back. "Trust me, you don’t want to do that."
I crawled with my knees, holding his leg. "Peter, please..." I begged.
He shook me off. "Get used to it," he muttered. "This is how the world works."
I managed to rise to my feet, staring at the closed door and wondering if I was cursed. I rushed to it and pounded on it with my fists.
"Somebody help me!" I called out, "Please. Anyone—help me!"
The only thing that greeted me was the sound of my voice echoing back to me.
I kept at it for several minutes, but the silence that followed only confirmed what I’d already suspected—these quarters were positioned in an area where no one would hear my calls for help.
I stopped knocking. Fighting the exhaustion, I crouched down to examine the keyhole. I’d seen people pick locks in movies countless times. How hard could it be?
Maybe... maybe I could pick it. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a bobby pin I’d brought along as extra protection against pickpockets. My hands shook as I tried to straighten it into a usable shape.
I inserted the pin slowly, jiggling it gently. Come on, come on...
"What do you think you’re doing?"
The voice came from directly behind me, sending a cold shiver down my spine. I spun around to find Marcus standing in the sitting room, his blazer tossed over one shoulder, sleeves rolled up. I didn’t hear him enter. There must have been another entrance I hadn’t noticed.
"I—" I stammered, scrambling to my feet and pressing my back against the door. "We were told we could choose our mentors. That the school doesn’t influence those decisions."
Marcus chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Are you saying you hate me? That you don’t want me as your mentor?"
He stepped closer, and I pressed myself harder against the door, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"No, that’s not what I meant, Student President. I think there might have been some confusion. I am a boy and..."
"Call me Marcus," he corrected, lifting a hand to brush my cheek.
I recoiled, swallowing back the bile that rose in my throat; every instinct in me was screaming at me to run. But there was nowhere to go.
"Your scent is unique," he whispered, leaning closer and pressing his nose to the curve of my neck. "Beyond the sweat and fear, I can perceive it. So different. So unlike all the other boys here."
The observation sent a chill of terror through me. If he could detect something different about my scent, how long before he figured out exactly what that difference was?
I squirmed, trying to pull away as his hand slid down my spine and gripped my bottom.
"Don’t touch me!" I gasped, shoving him.
That only succeeded in bringing me closer to him. He smirked, clearly enjoying my distress. Somewhere below us, I could feel something hard rubbing against my thighs.
"Yes," he murmured, his hands moving to grip my shoulders. "Fight me. Resist me. It makes everything so much more interesting."
In one swift motion—faster than I’d ever seen a werewolf move—he spun me around and pushed me toward the sofa. I fell onto it hard. The room spun, my vision swam, all from exhaustion, hunger and sheer terror.
I tried to stand, but I couldn’t get my legs to obey me.
When I managed to look up, I saw that Marcus was beginning to unbutton his shirt; his eyes had gone dark with desire, which made my stomach turn.
I tried again to scramble to my feet and only succeeded for three seconds before my knees buckled and I fell back to the sofa.
Hours of poor sleep, inadequate food and constant stress, even before I came here from putting up with Darian and his overbearing family, had finally caught up with me. I was too weak, too dizzy to fight.
Marcus tossed his shirt aside, exposing his lean torso.
"I won’t force you to do what you don’t want, I promise. I want to go slow with you, Eamon. Just let me feel you up a bit."
He began to climb onto the couch.
The room darkened; my heart screamed in my chest.
This is it. No one’s coming. I’m not strong enough to fight...
Just as he reached for me, a knock on the door echoed through the room.
I felt Marcus freeze as his head turned toward the main door.
The knock came again, more insistent this time.
"Marcus?" called a voice from outside. "I need your signature on this document. Open up, I know you’re in there."
Marcus cursed softly under his breath and stood up. He reached for his shirt, brushing hair out of his face with a hand.
"Don’t move," he told me, then walked to the door. "Who’s that?" he asked, looking into the monitor.
"It’s me," the voice replied, "Hurry, I don’t have all day."
I remained on the couch, trying to stay conscious.
I heard Marcus sigh before he went to unlock the door.
"Why the hell didn’t you bring the documents when I was in my office. I’m trying to rest, man."
I couldn’t hear the other person. Marcus’s voice was sounding from afar now.
The sound of a fist slamming into flesh. There was a grunt, followed by a thud.
I forced myself up with every bit of strength I have, rolling out of the sofa. The door was open; if only I could crawl out, then everything would be fine.
But I was just in time to see Marcus crash into the wall across from the door. He slid down to the floor, looking dazed, with his lips bleeding.
And standing above him, fist still clenched and eyes blazing like wildfire.
Our eyes met for a moment, and I heard him say. "You keep this up, and I will make sure you never become a First-year."