“Ma’am, we have arrived at the airfield,” the pretty brunette attendant told me, her face hovering quite close to mine. “Please make yourself presentable and then exit the cabin via the front stairs.”
The way she said presentable made me think that I looked like a hot mess. That wouldn’t surprise me, my blond curls were somewhat unruly. Usually I braided them before sleep, otherwise I woke up with tangles and side-fros that were not at all attractive. In my excitement last night, I’d forgotten to do that, which meant I had quite the mission ahead of me.
My bag was already waiting in the bathroom, and I took a two-minute shower, brushed my teeth, and changed into one of the few sets of clothing I owned. Wards of the state weren’t exactly flush with fashionable clothing, and the money I’d earned from my part-time diner job was supposed to be for college. My jeans and ribbed long-sleeved shirt would have to do. Just like America, January in Europe was cold—in most places—and I assumed wherever we’d landed was no different. But winter coats were an expensive luxury, so I’d just have to grit my teeth and bear it.
When I was dressed, I stared forlornly at my curls. As predicted, they were everywhere. Fixing them without a ton of product was impossible, but thankfully they were long enough to pull into a messy bun. I left a few tendrils falling around my face to hopefully give it an “I meant to look like this” vibe. I lined my blue-green eyes with kohl and then added some mascara, grateful that, for the most part, I looked well-rested and alert.
As cliché as it was, today was the beginning of my new life. This was my best chance to change my circumstances, and whether it was god or fate driven, I was taking it with both hands and wringing every single opportunity from it.
Game face on.
No one bothered me as I got ready, but somehow I already knew Mr. Wainwright was waiting impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, probably staring at that expensive watch. With that in mind, I hurried through the rest of my preparations, threw everything into the duffle bag that held all my worldly possessions, and rushed through the cabin and down the stairs.
I’d been so busy trying to get down the stairs—and stop the chattering of my teeth that had started the moment I left the warmth of the plane—that I hadn’t noticed there was someone waiting at the bottom. Not until I almost bowled him over.
As I stumbled on the last few steps, the guy I’d almost knocked into reached out a hand to steady me.
“Oh, whoa. Sorry,” I said, shifting back with a visible shiver.
He chuckled a deep rumbling sound as he straightened me. “No problem, milady.”
Accent. Got me every time, and this guy had it in spades.
Pulling back even farther, I took in the guy before me. He was a few inches taller than my five-foot-seven height, with light brown eyes, light brown locks, and a lot of facial hair he was clearly trying to tame into a beard. I guessed he was a few years older than me, and he had an easygoing smile and twinkling eyes.
“The name is Brandon Morgan, and I’m here to get you safely to Arbon Academy.”
He held out his hand, and I shook it quickly, noting how warm his leather gloves were against my frozen skin and wondering why his name was familiar.
“My father is the dean,” he added, and it all clicked into place. The letter. This was Dean Morgan’s son.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, pulling my hand back feeling more than a little out of place.
Brandon was dressed impeccably—like a dark charcoal custom suit, matching overcoat, shiny black dress shoes, open-collared dress shirt, and a watch that made Mr. Wainwright’s look like a child’s piece.
“Come on, Violet,” he said cheerfully, “you don’t have to be nervous. I’m going to take very good care of you.”
I blanched at his use of those particular words, especially when he followed that up by taking a slow visual sweep of my body. My shudder this time was only partly from the cold seeping into my bones.
Ugh. He was one of those. “Listen, Mr. Morgan”—fuck using his first name and letting him get any more familiar—“I don’t know what you think about me, but I’m not interested in whatever you want to take care of. I’m here to get an education and get the hell out of my crappy life.”
He watched me closely, almost like I was a science experiment he was trying to decipher, before another one of those charming, perfect-white-teeth smiles crossed his face.
“It pays to remember that you’re the charity case of our school,” he said, and his voice was so pleasant that for a beat the derision in his words didn’t quite register. “I’m offering you this advice as a courtesy. It would be safest for you if you’re seen and not heard. Sneak in and out of class, sit in the back corner, and don’t leave your dorm otherwise. That is how you survive.”
His tone was not at all threatening, but somehow it still felt like he’d attacked me. Gritting my teeth, some of the euphoria I’d been feeling faded as my actual reality emerged.
This was a school filled with rich, entitled assholes. People who’d never had a rough day, never gone to bed hungry, and never had to fight off men in the middle of the night because they thought their ward would be an easy mark.
Arbon was a school that almost never took in charity cases. Once every five years…
And that meant just one thing: I was going to be a sitting duck.
“Why would any of you even care enough to notice me?” I murmured, my eyes locked on him the way you would stare down a predator.
I sensed that if I looked away, he’d attack. So swelled up with confidence and swagger. Little did he know, I was no ordinary orphan to be pushed around. He should be worried about pissing me off, because I would take great pleasure in using the few skills I possessed to destroy him.
Brandon chuckled in his creepy, serial-killer way. “Oh, love. You’ve got no idea. Arbon Academy is nothing like the brochure. It’s brutal and cutthroat. We’re bred to scent blood and destroy the wounded. Frankly, you don’t stand a chance.” He crossed his arms and smirked. “I’m in the betting pool wagering you don’t last the first month.” He ran his gaze down my body before returning to my face again. “Although, now that I’ve seen you in your trashy American flesh, I wouldn't mind if you stuck around a little longer. If you want to suck my dick, right here, like the good little American whore you are, I might even keep you safe from the vultures.”
Oh my god. This guy had me grinding my teeth together. Not only were they betting on me before I’d even arrived, but the mere thought of sucking his dick was enough to have me dry retching.
Fucker.
This was a test though, this moment with Brandon, and however I handled it would probably set the tone for the rest of my time at the academy. I could not let them win. Not now. This school was my ticket out.
“Okay,” I said casually, dropping my bag. I saw the surprise in his eyes. I took a step closer. “Whip this little dick out, and I’ll spare you the half a minute I’m sure it’ll take.”
He blinked at me.
“Come on,” I pushed, my breath fogging in the frosty air, “chop-chop. Dicks don’t suck themselves, you know.”
Red was rising from his neck into his cheeks—he was pissed—but before I could find out if he was going to call my bluff—