LUCIAN POV
It’s morning. I’m already in the car when he comes out the front door, backpack over one shoulder, doing that thing where he pretends he’s not nervous and fails, badly.
I don’t say good morning. I don’t look at him twice. I just watch him fold himself into the passenger seat, careful and small, like he’s afraid to take up space, and all I can think is, this is going to be a long semester.
"Morning," he says anyway.
I put the car in gear and ignore him.
He doesn’t try again, and I give him credit for that. Some people just keep talking, hoping silence will eventually break for them. But he just stares out the window, hands tight in his lap, so quiet you can feel the effort he’s putting into not looking scared.
Good. He should be a little scared.
I take the turn out of the estate too fast, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch him grabbing the door handle. There’s a small, mean part of me that almost relaxes at that. So I take the next one even faster. The car grips the curve hard enough that he slams into the window, hard enough that I hear his breath catch.
"Lucian—"
"You’ll live." I don’t slow down.
He shuts up. Just grips the handle tighter, knuckles white, staring dead ahead, like if he avoids the speedometer, he can pretend it’s not happening. Fine. I’m not driving to make him comfortable. I’m driving to prove a point.
Next time, you won’t ask to come.
I actually believe that, at least until we stop outside the school gates. I park half on the curb, engine still running, and he looks at me like I’ve forgotten something.
"This isn’t the entrance."
"It’s close enough." I don’t look at him. "Get out."
He hesitates, so I say it again, flat. "Get out, Max."
He listens. Out he goes, standing there for a second on the curb with both hands on his backpack straps, flicking his eyes between me and the school gates like he’s trying to recalculate. I almost feel it that thin, useless twinge of something and I smother it down fast.
I lean across the seat before he can leave. "One more thing."
He turns.
"If anyone asks how you know me, you don’t. We’re not brothers here. We’re not anything here. Don’t talk about the house, or my father, or any of it. Got it?"
His face flickers hurt, maybe, or just tired. I don’t look too close. "Clear," he says, almost whispering.
I drive off before he’s even turned around.
By the time I park and walk across the main courtyard, I’ve convinced myself I’m done thinking about him.
People notice me just like always. Not loud, not obvious. The sound of conversations drops a notch.
Some heads dip, just at the edge of a bow. A couple of older betas actually bow, quick, like it’s muscle memory they never questioned.
I ignore them all. I don’t need to put on a show to be respected; I just walk, and the crowd splits for me like it always does.
"Cross."
I don’t turn around. Only one person says my name like we’re friends and pretends it sounds natural.
Theo falls in beside me, sunglasses shoved into his hair like he’s trying too hard. His dad runs half the shipping contracts my father’s company needs. On paper, we’re equals. In reality, Theo knows exactly where he stands, and it’s not there.
"You look like hell," he says, sounding way too cheerful. "Rough night?"
"Don’t."
"Fine, fine." His hands are up, but he’s grinning. "Heard your dad’s new wife moved in this week. With the kid." His smile gets sharp, pushing for something. "That true?"
"None of your business."
"So it’s true." He laughs under his breath. The smug kind that makes you want to punch walls. "Human, right? Heard he’s human."
I don’t answer. Just keep walking, letting my silence weigh enough that even Theo who usually can’t take a hint finally drops it, falls back a step and remembers who I am.
I don’t think about Max again until I walk into International Trade Law and see him already there, three rows back, alone, pen in hand, notebook open. He must’ve come early, picking the emptiest spot in the room.
We spot each other at the same moment. His face changes like he thinks maybe he should say something then you can see it, the moment he remembers the car, and the curb, and everything I told him. So he puts his head down and stares at his notebook, like I’m a stranger.
Good. He learns quick.
I sit across the room from him, as far as I can get, and tell myself the weird, tight feeling in my chest is just irritation. Nothing more.
But it doesn’t feel like irritation.
I don’t pick at that thought. Just open my laptop and refuse to look his way for the rest of the lecture.
I tell myself it doesn’t take effort at all.
It’s a lie, and deep down, I already know it.