Page 5 of Ruin Me
Thayer, the dark-haired one I saw talking to thefaculty member, steps forward. So, three down, blondie to go.
As they scuffle to get their buy-ins sorted, I take the opportunity to slip back outside into the bright sun, sweating like a whore in church. That was intense.
Scurrying away quickly before anyone sees me lingering, I hurry around the old building and become somewhat of a cropper around the corner.
“Watch where you’re going!” The sharp command cuts through the campus noise just as I collide with a solid chest. My books scatter at my feet, pages fluttering like trapped birds.
“Sorry, I—“ My apology dies as I lock eyes with Callum. He stands in front of me, all height and dark hair, a statue come to life. His gaze holds mine, and for a second, I’m caught in the space between intimidation and fascination.
“Need a hand?” His voice is smooth, a low rumble that vibrates through me.
“Thanks,” I mumble, crouching to gather my scattered thoughts alongside my books. His fingers brush mine as he hands me a textbook, the contact sending an unexpected jolt up my arm.
“Vogue Jameson, post-grad, if my intel is correct.” Callum doesn’t wait for my nod. He says it like he knew this information before I ever set foot here. “A word of advice, Vogue. Keep what you see to yourself, and you might just enjoy your time at Crestmont.”
My mouth goes dry.Does he know I was snooping?
“Is that advice or a threat?” I challenge him, standing to face him squarely because that’s who I am. I was raised in a tough neighbourhood. Yes, I know when to ignore shit, back away and keep walking, but I don’t back away from direct confrontation if someone gets in my face, and I never let anyone see weakness.
Weakness gets you stabbed where I come from.
His lips twitch, almost a smile, but not quite. “Just a friendly suggestion.”
“Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind.” My voice is steady, but inside, my pulse races. I slide past him, books clutched to my chest, shaken.
“See you around, Vogue,” Callum calls after me, his voice wrapping around my name like a secret I’m not aware of yet.
As I hurry away, his words linger in my head, and I wonder who exactly these four guys are to wield such power over a campus.
I barely catch my breath before I’m weaving through the maze of students in the crowded hallways. Only a few seconds late, I slip into the lecture theatre and into the nearest seat just as the professor poses a controversial question to the class, setting the stage for an intellectual showdown.
“Absolute power corrupts absolutely,” Professor Hargrove declares, scanning the sea of faces for a challenge.
“Does it?”
A voice cuts through the still air, and all headsturn, including mine. “Or does it simply reveal the corruption that was always there?”
Quentin rises from his seat, and I blink. This is a post-grad course, so what is he doing in here? I was sure those guys were third-year undergrads, but maybe not. Or maybe he’s here on advanced placement?
The professor, a middle-aged man with a reputation for enjoying the sound of his own voice, seems almost pleased by the interruption.
“Explain,” he prompts, leaning back against his desk with a smug smile.
“Power doesn’t change people,” Quentin asserts, his tone even, his gaze implacable. “It strips away the pretence, showing us who they really are. It’s not the power that’s corrupt—it’s the person wielding it.”
The room is silent except for the sound of pens scratching notes and keys tapping on laptops, the collective breath of the class held in anticipation. Quentin’s eyes scan the audience, challenging us to disagree. But nobody speaks. Not even me, and I’m usually not one to back down from a good debate.
“Interesting perspective, Mr Ravenscroft,” the professor allows. “But can you provide examples where power has been used for absolute good?”
Ravenscroft.Fancy.
“Every tool has the potential for creation or destruction,” Quentin replies. “It depends on who holds it and what they value. If we only focus on the negative, we fail to see the opportunities for positive change.”
I absorb his words, intrigued by his confidence. He’s got a point—a dangerous one—but it’s delivered with such conviction that I find myself nodding along.
Quentin’s eyes meet mine and bore into them, asking questions I don’t have the answers to. My gaze drops to the tattoo on the side of his neck. A snake wrapped around a dagger, and I lick my lips. I want to know more—about them, about this dance of power they lead so effortlessly.
The rest of the lecture continues when Quentin takes his seat again, with Hargrove droning on, but my thoughts race, trying to piece together the puzzle that is The Crowned Syndicate. The allure isn’t just in their looks or the whispers that follow them like a second shadow—it’s the power they wield without even trying, the way they seem to bend the world around them to their will. They’re a cocktail of danger and seduction, and it’s intoxicating, but it’s not just about being drawn to the bad boys; it’s about understanding the game they’re playing. Thebusinessthey’re running. It’s like they’re chess masters, and everyone else is playing ludo. In some twisted way, I get it. Growing up where promises were as thin as paper and every day was a hustle, I recognise the look in their eyes. It’s survival, ambition, and the desire to rise above your story.
