Roman remained entirely frozen on the threshold, his knuckles turning a stark, bloodless white against the brass doorknob.
He did not need to read the academy’s housing registry to know exactly who was currently desecrating his quarters.
There was only one heir in the entire Vanguard tier who possessed a bloodline heavy enough to make the ambient magic in a reinforced pureblood suite actively recoil.
Chase Vargan.
The heir to the renowned House Vargan of the North.
The legendary truant.
And the exact brooding, combat-crazed nightmare Jett had spent the last three hours wishing into a shallow grave.
And right now, that very nightmare was casually tracking mud across Roman’s sanctuary.
“…No,” Roman said at last, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if refusing to acknowledge the reality before him.
“Absolutely fucking not.”
The Alpha heir looked at him without an ounce of concern.
“Problem?”
“I’ll tell you the goddamn problem.” Roman gestured broadly around the room, his low-level telekinesis flaring so sharply in his irritation that the heavy mahogany door slammed shut behind him with a violent crack.
“What the fuck are you doing in my suite?”
Chase stared at him, his yellow eyes flat and unimpressed.
“I live here.”
”No, you don’t.”
”I do.”
”You don’t,” Roman snapped, taking a predatory step forward, the temperature in the room instantly taking a nose-dive.
“This room was logged under private single-occupancy as of yesterday noon. I paid the housing registrar a frankly obscene amount of gold coins specifically to ensure I wouldn’t have to tolerate the breathing habits of a feral, unwashed dog who treats the academy schedule as a loose suggestion.”
Chase pulled his second boot off with a heavy, wet thud, letting it drop carelessly onto the polished marble right next to a damp streak of courtyard mud that was actively bleeding into Roman’s imported silk rug.
If he was affected by the vampire’s insult, he gave nothing away.
“Take it up with the Warden then,” Chase drawled.
“The eastern towers flooded during the storm, so the registrar had to shuffle the displaced students into whatever vacancies were left in the residential wings. I got assigned this dump three hours ago while you were out playing prince of the courtyard.”
What?
Since when?!
Roman was about to retort when his gaze slid to the mud on the rug.
Then he looked at Chase’s heavy trousers, which had been tossed with absolute, criminal indifference directly over Roman’s meticulously sorted and hand-pressed silver-threaded silk shirts on the vanity chair.
A tiny, dangerous twitch formed at the corner of Roman’s eye.
“You threw your garbage on my silks.”
“It’s a chair, Laurent. People put clothes on chairs.”
“Those are hand-woven textiles from the Velorian Silklands, you absolute barbarian.” The trousers were ripped from the chair before Chase could even react, sailing across the room with enough force to strike the stone wall before crumpling onto the floor.
“I spend an hour arranging my wardrobe by fabric weight and colour spectrum and you barge in here smelling like wet gravel and violence, tracking filth across my floorboards?”
Chase’s posture changed instantly.
The unbothered expression vanished, replaced by a sudden, heavy rise of purebred pressure that poured from his shoulders like physical lead.
He slid off the bed, his bare feet hitting the marble with a heavy grace as he stood to his full height, looming over the space between them.
“Touch my gear with that cheap parlor trick again,” Chase rasped, his voice dropping into a deep, animalistic growl that literally vibrated the glass panes of the balcony, “and I will rip those hand-woven silks down your throat. I don’t give a shit about your labels, parasite. I’ve been running tracking drills in the bogs for fourteen hours, I’m tired, and I’m not moving my stuff because your delicate aristocratic sensibilities are having a crisis.”
Roman let out a short, breathy huff through his nose, his crimson eyes flaring to a brilliant, unhinged neon in the dark.
“Delicate?” He murmured, leaning just enough to bring their faces inches apart.
“Let me introduce you to the structural reality of this room, Vargan. You are an administrative error, and you are going to pick up your pathetic little boots, turn around, and sleep in the courtyard gravel where you belong.”
Chase did not flinch.
He leaned in right back, his teeth bared in a tight, menacing line that showed a flash of elongated fangs.
“Make me, Laurent. Try it. I’d love nothing more than an excuse to throw you off that balcony before sunrise. I don’t give a fuck what you paid. My name is on the dynamic registry outside that door, which means half this square footage belongs to me. Deal with it or get out.”
“You are telling me to get out?” Roman scoffed, a sharp, disbelieving sound that carried zero warmth.
“You expect me to evacuate my own suite? I would rather burn this entire wing to the ground with both of us inside it before I yield a single square inch of my property to a creature that clearly doesn’t understand the concept of a bath.”
“Then start the fire, bloodsucker,” Chase growled, the heavy pressure in his voice actively rattling the crystal decanters on the side table.
“Because I’m not moving a single piece of my gear. You want a private room? Go sleep in the hallway.”
“I would heavily suggest you lower your tone,” Roman warned.
“If you think I will tolerate your territorial barking all night while I have an eight o’clock commitment tomorrow morning, you are severely miscalculating the limits of my patience. Pack your things. Now.”
“No,” Chase snapped, his jaw tightening until the bone clicked.
“You pack yours.”
For three long seconds, the air between them grew so dense with raw, competing stare that the ambient light runes in the ceiling flickered frantically between bright crimson and a harsh, volatile amber.
Two of the academy’s most lethal heirs stood completely frozen, a single breath away from dismantling the entire structural foundation of the western wing over a shared piece of velvet.
Then, with a low, disgusted curse, Chase tore his gaze away first.
But he did not walk to the door.
Driven by pure, territorial instinct and a complete refusal to share an inch of space with a vampire, the Vargan heir gripped the solid mahogany frame and the massive mattress itself.
With one explosive display of monstrous strength, Chase ripped the entire king-sized bed completely in half.
Wood splintered violently, and the fabric tore down the middle with a deafening screech.
Before Roman could even process the sheer sacrilege of the act, Chase used his foot to violently kick his half of the ruined, splintered frame all the way across the room, slamming it right against the far wall to form his own isolated, chaotic perimeter.
He dropped onto his newly engineered single mattress, dragging the torn velvet over his shoulders without a single shred of remorse.
“Keep your fucking hexes and your precious silks on your side of the chalk line,” Chase rasped, turning his back completely.
“If you breathe too loudly, I’m breaking your ribs.”
Roman let out a high-pitched twitch of a breath, a sound so dangerously close to a violent fracture in his noble composure it made the remaining crystal decanters ring, his mind completely fracturing.
Eyes wide in horror. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
He looked at his own half of the bed, now a pathetic, exposed single mattress with ragged foam and broken mahogany trim weeping dust onto the floor.
Then he looked across the room at the feral barbarian who had just turned a luxury suite into a demolition site.
“You tore the fucking bed in two, you moron.” Roman could not believe it.
His chest heaved slightly, eyes fixed on the exposed layers of premium wool and shredded spring-coils.
“Do you have any idea what that was?” Roman said.
“That mattress was a bespoke allocation. Hand-tufted. Layered horsehair and structural silk. I personally rejected three separate structural blueprints from the artisans before this term started. And you,”
He took a step closer to the invisible boundary line, “you feral brute, you just used your disgusting, oversized paws to split a masterpiece of orthopedic design because you couldn’t handle the concept of a shared perimeter? You have the spatial awareness of a stray gargoyle!”
Chase did not even shift.
He just pulled his half of the ruined duvet higher over his broad shoulders.
“Shut the fuck up, Laurent. It’s a box with feathers in it. It sleeps exactly the same. Go complain to your tailor.”
“Feathers?” Roman’s mind felt like it was genuinely fracturing.
He pressed a bloodless hand against his forehead, looking at the ragged edge of his ruined sanctuary.
“…He thinks it’s feathers. I am sharing a roof with an illiterate animal.”
…
The next morning arrived far too quickly.
Lecture Hall Seven was already filled by the time Lillian slipped inside.
She paused briefly at the entrance, immediately feeling the weight of several gazes turning toward her—the absolute worst feeling ever.
She had simply become accustomed to feeling like she was always one wrong movement away from causing a disaster.
Taking the empty seat at the back, Lillian quietly placed her books down and began going through her notes since the professor have not arrived yet, hoping that if she focused hard enough, the embarrassment from yesterday would eventually disappear.
But every few minutes, her mind returned to the exact same conversation.
Or rather, Stella’s interpretation of it.
She had spent nearly an hour trying to explain that no, Roman Laurent did not like her.
He was not interested.
He was simply being Roman Laurent.
And that she does not harbour any crush on him either.
Fortunately, just before sleep finally took hold, Stella was convinced.
Lillian sighed quietly, resting her chin against her hand as she stared at the unfinished notes in front of her.
Maybe if she stopped thinking about it, it would go away.
A few seconds later, she heard whispers from nearby.
“Is Roman coming?”
“Probably. He’s always late anyway.”
Lillian looked at the empty seat Roman had occupied yesterday before quietly lowered her gaze back to her notes.
That was… oddly reassuring.
At least she would not have to deal with embarrassing flashbacks again.
She could go back to simply sit quietly, listen to the professor, and avoid becoming the center of attention.
She took a deep breath, picking up her quill to finalize her schedule when the bench beside her shifted as someone sat down, the sudden movement carrying a heavy finality that made the ink bottle on her desk rattle.
Lillian halted, her hand freezing mid-air as a shadow fell over her parchment.
“Hello,” a smooth, gravelly voice asked.
Lillian glanced sideways, her pulse spiking slightly in surprise.
The person was an upperclassman, clearly.
Tall and all muscles, carrying the rigid posture of someone accustomed to physical conditioning.
He wore the dark, charcoal-grey Vanguard uniform, though Lillian could not help but notice the high, stiff collar was fastened tightly all the way to his jawline, almost uncomfortably so, like he was trying to hide something.
He had sharp, hard-edged features and dark hair swept back from his forehead.
At a glance, he looked perfectly composed, but there was a faint, tense strain around his mouth, and his eyes, dark crimson and hyper-focused, scanned her face with a calculation that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
Lillian slowed her breath, her quill hovering over her parchment.
She did not recognize him.
She was a sophomore after all, and students from the upper Vanguard tiers rarely paid attention to those outside their circles.
Most of them moved through the academy surrounded by their own reputations.
So the fact that one of them had chosen to sit beside her in a crowded lecture hall, let alone start a conversation, was more confusing than anything else.
…Is he talking to me?
“Quiet morning, isn’t it?” he remarked, his voice carrying a raspy roughness, as if he were recovering from a severe sore throat.
He offered a small, easy smile that did not quite reach his eyes.
Lillian shifted slightly in her seat, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was.
“…Um. Yes. I suppose so…”
The stranger casually leaned back, resting one arm over the back of his chair.
His gaze drifted to her notes before snapping right back to her.
“I noticed you were sitting alone,” he said, his tone conversational, yet entirely too deliberate.
“Thought I’d offer some company. A lot of people in this tier can be intense. It’s always nice to find someone who prefers the quiet.”
Lillian’s internal alarms gave a tentative ring.
Not because it was rude.
Actually, that was the problem.
It was almost too polite.
“Thank you,” she said carefully.
The stranger smiled faintly.
“You don’t have to sound so suspicious.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
Because he was right, she had sounded suspicious.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine.” He waved a hand casually, stopping her apology before it could begin.
“You just look like you’re trying to figure out why I’m speaking to you.”
Lillian immediately looked away.
Unfortunately, she was not very good at hiding things.
She heard the stranger let out a quiet breath that sounded almost like amusement, but she did not dare to glance back anymore.
Her heart was pounding so fast she thought she might combust.
In spite of that, she quietly glanced at his uniform again, especially at the insignia etched on his left chest.
The distinct markings belonging to one of Valerius Academy’s most prestigious circles.
The Vanguard.
They were not ordinary students from what she heard.
They were selected carefully, chosen from the most capable members of their respective kin.
Combat ability, magical aptitude, lineage, influence.
The academy did not simply allow anyone to claim the title.
People fought years to earn a place among them.
And this person was sitting beside her, talking to her, like it was completely normal.
Lillian forced herself not to move away because that would be rude.
And because drawing attention to herself would be worse.
But a small, uncomfortable thought had already taken root.
Why was a Vanguard member sitting in a second-year lecture hall?
Why was an upperclassman taking interest in someone he had never spoken to before?
And why did it feel like every word he said had been carefully chosen?
Her mind immediately went to the one explanation she had been trying desperately not to think about.
Had they found out?
Had someone discovered what she was?
Because maybe this was not a casual conversation.
Maybe he was testing her, watching her, and waiting for her to slip so that he could drag her out of this hall and present her to the vampire council.
“You’re Lillian Shaw, aren’t you?” The question came so suddenly that she flinched.
Slowly, she turned toward him.
Fear etched on her face, her voice was barely a whisper.
“…How do you know my name?”
The stranger’s smile remained.
But for the first time, Lillian noticed something colder beneath it as he lightly said, “Everyone knows names around here.”
The stranger’s smile remained fixed, but the cold weight behind his crimson eyes pressed down on Lillian like a physical hand.
Her breathing went shallow.
Her fingers clamped onto her quill so tightly the wood began to groan.
He knows.
They found out.
I’m going to be—
THWACK.
The absolute, deafening violence of a solid leather boot connecting with the back of the stranger’s chair shattered the suffocating tension in the room.
With a startled, choked gasp, the stranger flew forward, his chest slamming hard against the edge of the wooden desk as the bench beneath him violently splintered.
The impact sent him collapsed in a sprawling, undignified heap between the rows.
The sudden impact made Lillian gasp, flinching backward into her seat as the entire lecture hall fell into a dead, absolute silence.
Immediately, Lillian turned her head.
Standing directly behind the ruined chair with both hands casually tucked into his trouser pocket was Roman.
He looked immaculate.
His crimson eyes were entirely devoid of their usual lazy amusement, burning instead with a sharp focus that made the air in the lecture hall instantly drop by ten degrees.
“You’re in my seat, Montrose,” Roman jeered.
The stranger pushed himself up from the floor, coughing violently as he clutched his bruised ribs, his face contorting into an expression of unadulterated fury.
“Laurent, you crazy piece of—”
“And more importantly,” Roman interrupted, completely ignoring the outburst as he stepped over the splintered wood, his gaze shifting down to a pale, utterly paralyzed Lillian, “what the absolute hell are you doing in a sophomore lecture hall?”
He flicked his eyes back to the trembling third-year on the floor.
“Did you lose your way to the graveyard, or are you genuinely that eager to become a corpse?”