24

I don’t have enough courage to shower off the chill in the bathrooms. The frostiness of the snowball fight, of the mountain air, and of Courtney’s constant glowers has made for a cold night in the dorm room.

I ignore her.

Got to get this uniform off. That’s my priority. Even the snowjacket, while not damp, is cold to the touch.

I’m freezing, even after stripping down to my underwear, by the roaring hearth, and cooking my flesh on the heat. I rotate like a rotisserie chicken, until my skin is scalded red.

Only then do I rush for my bed and the dry, warm clothes I laid out.

Courtney’s gaze follows me, as searing as the hearth.

She stays sat on her own mattress, basket-legged and sour-faced.

I tug on thermal tights before I step into grey sweatpants. The t-shirt I clammer into is lined with wool, but the real warmth comes when I fight my way into the corduroy sweater.

There’s a scoff that comes from the bed over. Courtney huffing away again, luring in my stubbornly avoidant gaze.

I don’t look at her. Instead, I close the curtains and fall back on my bed.

I can’t be mad at her for being mad at me.

Courtney and James are my friends. If I’m a target, they might be collateral. Maybe even targeted to spite me.

Still, I can’t bring myself to face her.

She will only ask why I did what I did.

And honestly, I have no answer beyond I snapped . The resentment outweighed the consequence. The hatred outwitted the smarts. Self-preservation caved under a glaring opportunity, one that I might never get again, to just get him .

With a snowball, a fist, whatever it is—I just needed to get him, even if only once.

Now, sprawled on my back, hearing the clock of my watch tick by, I know two things:

1. I’ll pay for that, more than I ever have before

2. It was fucking worth it.

I glance at the golden face of my dainty watch. It isn’t lost on me, the irony that Dray himself gifted me this very watch just two New Years’ ago.

Now, it’s time to face him.

The hands are nearing their encounter at the 12 .

Almost midnight.

Same-night detentions aren’t the kind I got for punching Oliver. That was five evenings in a row of writing down lines on a notebook, copied from a chalkboard, and Master Novak overseeing in the study hall.

This one will be brutal.

It will be physical labour.

The dread is cold in my gut.

I peel myself off the bed and slip out of the curtains. At the foot of my bed, black rubber boots are sat, waiting. I snatch them.

Courtney says nothing as I leave the dorm room.

I close the door softly behind me.

On the other side, I step into the rubber boots.

I take the staircase down to the grand parlour—and since it’s so close to midnight on a weekday, it’s empty, save for some seniors still scribbling down assignments at the desks, and a pair of Snakes on the couch by the fireplace.

I don’t have the energy to glower at them.

Tucked up against the couch’s curved leather arm, Asta spares me a dark look before she returns to her Italian Vogue.

Serena is the one who lingers her stare. It’s brimmed with pity. Her mouth is stroked across her face in a flat line.

I turn my cheek to her and make for the noticeboard.

The list is up.

Fresh crisp paper tacked to the cork.

I run my gaze down the long, long list of detention victims.

My gaze lingers over Piper. Paired with Mikhal. And attendance required at the stables.

I grimace for them.

The stables are tucked at the back of the school, but still outside, in this weather, in this cold, in this mist.

I read on.

OLIVER CRAVEN.

His name will come first, by the alphabetical order of our first names. I read that he’s paired with Teddy, and that they are to attend to the kitchens.

Lucky fuckers. Probably chopping fruit and veg, washing dishes, snacking on whatever they can when the staff turn their backs.

I drop my gaze to my name.

OLIVIA CRAVEN.

ATTENDANCE REQUIRED AT: WEST DUNGEON.

TASK: SORT brOKEN ITEMS INTO WASTE soaks into my hair; smears up my backside.

The bags are gone. These were bagged fertilisers.

Fucking makut.

The prick vanished the bags. And I was so consumed, distracted by his vicious words that I didn’t even notice.

Now, I notice.

It’s hard not to when I’m caked in shit.

I choke on a defeated cry and slump in the shit pile.

Dray looks down at me, glacier. “You know it, don’t you? That is why you always hide out from his calls. You know your father only tolerates you—his greatest shame.”

My face wobbles before the sobs strike.

“A disappointment,” he adds, a murmur I hardly hear over the raspy sound of my breaths.

He cuts his hand through the air—and the fire in the corner dies, fast. Just smoke now, thick dark smoke swirling up into the hole in the ceiling, then swept away by the winds lashing outside.

His glacier eyes run me over before he draws away and makes for the door. Without a backwards glance, he’s gone through it, and made sure to slam it extra hard.

My heart stops.

The groan of the lock is deafening.

It clangs into place.

My face twists.

I don’t even try to get out of the manure pile and fight the now-locked door.

I just cry.