Adeline’s pov~
I lifted my head, letting the cold, deadpan wall of my hatred show through the darkness of the fabric. "Get out of this room, and stay the fuck out of my way. All of you. I told Zyran, and I am telling you—I don’t want anything to do with the Four Kings. For fucks sake, just leave me alone!"
The silence that crashed down after my scream was absolute, heavy, and suffocating.
Blake and Keiran stood frozen. For all their lethal Lycan authority, for all their power and dominance, they didn’t know how to handle the sheer, broken desperation in my voice. They were warriors bred for combat, but right now, looking at a battered, scentless girl fiercely guarding her own shattered dignity, they realised that pushing me any further would only break me into pieces.
Blake’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. He slowly raised his hands in a tense gesture of surrender, his dark eyes burning with a protective fury that wasn’t directed at me, but at whoever had left those marks on my face.
"Fine," Blake said, his voice thick with a dangerous, quiet tension. "We’re leaving."
Keiran didn’t say a word. He just stared at the deep shadow of my hood for one long, agonising second. His dark eyes were calculating, storing away every single detail—the dark purple bruise, the dried blood, my sheer panic. He didn’t believe a single word of my lie, but he slowly stepped back from the edge of my desk.
Without another sound, the two massive Kings turned and walked down the tiered aisle.
Click.
The heavy wooden door shut behind them, sealing me back inside the quiet tomb of the classroom.
The exact second the latch clicked into place, the white-hot adrenaline that had kept me upright vanished, ripped from my veins like a pulled plug. The agonising fire in my crushed ribs roared back to life, stealing the breath straight out of my lungs.
I sank back down into the wooden chair. Slowly, painfully, I folded my arms over the cold, scratched surface of the desk and let my heavy head drop down onto them.
With shaking fingers, I yanked the thick fabric of my black hood forward as far as it would go, creating a dark, impenetrable cave around my bruised face.
I was entirely alone again.
The tears I had fought so violently to hold back in front of them finally broke free, falling hot and fast, soaking instantly into the dark fleece of my sleeves.
I didn’t sob out loud. I couldn’t afford to make a sound. I just lay there in the absolute silence, letting the agonising waves of physical and emotional exhaustion wash over me, hiding my broken pieces from the kings and the cruel world outside.
I kept my face buried deep in the dark fabric of my sleeves, listening to the distant, muffled cheers echoing from the arena outside. The world was moving on, but I was stuck here, completely alone, feeling like the walls were closing in to crush me.
Why did I slap him? The question looped in my mind, a frantic, terrifying whisper.
I had spent a whole year learning how to blend into the shadows, how to be invisible, how to swallow my pride just to stay alive. But today, when Zyran stood there looking so perfect and untouched—after ordering a nightmare that almost destroyed me—something inside my chest had just snapped.
A sharp, violent throb in my shoulder cut through my thoughts, forcing a soft gasp of pain from my lips. I pulled my face up from my arms, my breathing shallow as I carefully touched the edge of my bruised cheekbone. It felt swollen, hot, and ruined.
Suddenly, the heavy wooden doors at the back of the classroom creaked open.
My body went completely rigid. My heart stopped. I didn’t move, barely even daring to breathe as the distinct, heavy sound of slow, deliberate footsteps echoed against the stone floor.
Then, the scent hit the air. It wasn’t the warm, familiar scent of Raven, nor was it the aggressive smell of the standard guards. It was a sharp, crisp scent of winter ozone and expensive spice.
Zyran.
My stomach dropped into a bottomless, icy pit of dread. He hadn’t stayed at the arena. He had tracked me down to the one place I thought I could hide.
I didn’t turn around. I kept my hood pulled low, my spine locking into a rigid wire as the footsteps stopped exactly at the entrance of my row. I refused to move. I pressed my face even deeper into the dark fabric of my arms, drawing my knees up slightly under the desk to curl into myself. I wanted to disappear into the wood. I wanted the shadows to swallow me whole, so I wouldn’t have to face the monster standing right there.
"Look at me."
His voice wasn’t the smooth, mocking baritone he used in the courtyard. It was low, quiet, and carried a sharp, dangerous edge of absolute authority that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I didn’t stir. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, my breathing shallow and ragged, ignoring the command of a King. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. If he was here to finish what he started, he would have to do it to a ghost.
A heavy, irritated breath escaped his lips. The next thing I knew, the slow footsteps closed the distance, stopping right beside my desk.
Before I could even brace myself, a fist gripped the thick fabric of my black hood and yanked upward.
"Ah—!" A sharp gasp of pure pain tore from my throat as I was violently pulled off the desk. The sudden movement wrenched my damaged shoulder, sending a white-hot flash of agony straight through my cracked ribs.
Zyran dragged me up until I was forced to stand on my trembling legs, his grip tightening on the hoodie to hold me in place. His dark eyes were blazing, his jaw clenched so tightly the red handprint I had left on his skin stood out in stark, angry contrast. He looked ready to snap my neck for what I did in the courtyard.
"I told you to look at—"
His words died instantly in his throat.
Because of the angle at which he was holding me, my hood fell completely back, exposing my face to the harsh light of the classroom.
Zyran froze. The absolute fury in his expression suddenly shattered. Up close, there was no hiding it. The deep, ugly purple bruise covering my left cheekbone was fully visible, and the split on my lip was raw. He saw it clearly.
His grip on my hoodie loosened, his fingers trembling slightly before his hand dropped entirely to his side.
Zyran stared at me, his eyes scanning the damage on my face with a terrifying, unreadable intensity. The aristocratic arrogance was entirely gone, replaced by a dark, volatile storm.
"Who did this to you?" he demanded, his voice dropping into a guttural, lethal growl.