Page 12 of The Prince of Power

“I don’t know.” Ava glances around the area. “Thornecroft is a really weird name for a fraternity. I’ve never heard of one that wasn’t Greek letters. And the fact that the frat president is called Lord Prior is bizarre, but then again…” She arches a brow. “I don’t think a bunch of rich frat boys are smart enough to execute a conspiracy.”

“Probably not,” I say immediately, and that seems to surprise her. She was hoping to needle me.

She’s so out of her depth, and it stirs something dark inside me.

I want to conquer her.

I nod toward the table behind me. It’s laden with crystal glasses and decanters of wine. “Do you want a drink? This wine is from the Thornecroft cellars, and it’s only for the Big Four.”

Her brows knit together. “That doesn’t seem very fair. Special treatment for the Big Fi— I mean four. It’s strange that people are acting like Ben Cartwright never existed. Even Thornecroft members.”

My pulse kicks up. Holy fuck, she’s brave bringing up Ben’s death in front of me of all people. Rhett’s face is bright red as he stares at Ava, looking like he’s ready to drag her away.

“Did you know Ben?” I ask.

She shakes her head, licking her quivering lip.

Good, Ava. You at least have the sense to be afraid now.

I arch a brow. “Strange that you sound outraged on his behalf while implying that none of his closest friends care.”

“I’m sorry.” She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “That was really…rude of me. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sure you must all be grieving.”

“We are,” I say sharply.

“Oh…” Her expression grows softer. “Oh, Damian. I’m really sorry.”

Oh, Damian.

Fuck, I like the sound of my name on her lips.

“I have the social skills of a ten-year-old,” she says. “Just ask Rhett. I’m obsessed with school to an insufferable degree. Talking to people is more of a concept than a skill.” She sets her hand on my arm, making my stomach jolt. “I can’t imagine losing one of my closest friends.”

The hairs on my arm stand up. The softness in her voice, the touch of her hand—it knocks the air out of me.

Who does she remind me of?

I clear my throat. “Ben and I weren’t close.”

It’s true, but why does it send a pang to my chest? I liked Ben, but I always knew he’d have to go. I’d prepared myself for it, expecting to get the order from my father by my senior year.

Ava’s hand falls off my arm, and I find myself bereft of her warmth. “Oh,” she mutters.

“You’re right that people are pretending he never existed. It was tacky how quickly the university named me president of the frat.”

She nods gravely, her gaze searching my face. I step closer, just enough to catch the faintest hint of her scent, the same clean and sweet fragrance that called me when I touched her in the garden.

This time, I’m transported. I’m standing near a small creek with the briny scent of ocean in my nose. My ears are filled with the bubbling water and her sweet voice. The angel.

Oh fuck.

That’s who she reminds me of.

The girl on the island. I only knew her for three months. A single summer. I was six, and sometimes I wonder if she was only an imaginary friend conjured by a lonely boy who couldn’t comprehend the world his father was trying to prepare him for.

The thought makes my chest tight, but it’s not nostalgia that makes me want this girl.

She’s the perfect virgin sacrifice. A pinnacle of purity. An angel. Not the soft kind, but the kind with eyes like judgment and wings lined in fire. The kind that guards temples with a flaming sword.

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