Page 75 of Godless Saints

Carrick’s grin turned feral. “You gonna cry to my father, Lovchy? Or are you finally growing a pair and handling this yourself?”

Aleksei looked at Carrick’s hand on my collar. “Remove it.”

“Or?”

“Or I let your brother explain why Carrick lost standing tonight. Again.”

The silence stretched. Carrick’s fingers tightened for one dangerous second, then dropped. Aleksei pulled me up, grip efficient and impersonal, turning to face the gathered Thorn students with the calm of a man who owned the room by right.

“Thorn is not feared because it bites anything that moves,” Aleksei said, his voice carrying clearly across the drive. “Dogs do that. Thorn is feared because it chooses where to put its teeth. Tonight, we choose not to embarrass ourselves over an Aster trespasser.”

No one argued. The laughter died. Carrick’s face twisted with something ugly and promising, but he stepped back. Aleksei didn’t release my arm as he walked me down the drive, back toward Aster Court. My knees burned. My palms stung. The split in my lip kept bleeding. My hands shook.

“It is a dangerous game,” Aleksei murmured once the lights of Thorn had faded behind us, “what you and Cillian are playing.”

“There is no game.”

“Then you are even more foolish than I thought.” He glanced sideways, rain flattening his light hair. “Stay away from him. Not because I care who he fucks. Because Carrick saw enough to start guessing. Men like him don’t need truth. They need pressure.”

My chest felt too tight. Every step pulled at the raw ache between my legs.

I had begged Cillian Ashbourne to fuck me.

They saw me leaving Thorn Court. By tomorrow the Gallery would explode. Father would look at me with nothing but contempt. Aster would cut me loose. Goodbye Patronage Seat. Everyone would say I was owned by the Irish mafia. Corrupt. Weak.

I can’t do this anymore.

But Cillian looked at me like there was nothing wrong with me. Like every disgusting piece of me was worth worshipping. Especially the parts my father spent years beating out of me. Even when I dismissed him, when I was cold and performatively indifferent, he never tried to hurt me back.

Does that mean I’m being manipulated? I don’t believe he used the Writ on me. I don’t. But the doubt won’t leave. It’s been rotting in my head since Saint Lucia. Because for once I felt seen.

Fuck. There’s no way I can see him now. But I want to. God help me, I want to. I can’t.

My voice came out thin. I hated it. “Yeah. I get it.”

At the Aster steps I stopped, turning before he could leave. Blood, mine, or someone else’s, marked his cuff. “Aleksei.”

He stopped.

“Thank you.”

Aleksei studied me, expression unreadable. “Go be with your own now.”

My own.

The words should have settled something. They didn’t. The doors shut behind me with a soft, final click. Blood dripped onto marble. One slow drop. Then another. My split lip throbbed. My palms burned. My knees shook. The silence hurt worse.

My mind reached for him, anyway. He made me feel seen before I was ready. Safe before I’d earned it. And stupid enough to want more.

My feet stopped before the stairs. I had already calculated the fastest route back through the rain.

I pulled out my phone again. It was blowing up. Message after message from Cillian lighting up the screen.

SAINT LUCIA REGRET:

Are you hurt?

Declan’s fucking dead when I find him.