Page 12 of Pucking Unhinged
Tristan’s hand clamps around my wrist the second we step through the gates. His navy sweatshirt hood is up, his shoulders seem tight again, and his green eyes flick over the crowd. “Stay close to me,” he mutters, and I feel bad that we came here. He doesn’t like crowds, and to be honest, never do I.
I hear a female voice say not so quietly, “That’s the Castlebrook goalie and his little rag doll.” It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. In fact, I hear it quite often whether I’m meant to or not. They say it like it’s pathetic. Like I should be embarrassed. The truth? I like it. I like the way he leads me through chaos, claiming space that would otherwise make me feel like I was going to be swallowed whole.
I realize that Tristan heard it too, because he jerks to a stop, and he’s looking around for the culprit. I rub my hand over his forearm to get his attention until he glowers down at me.
“It’s not the insult they think it is,” I tell him. “Don’t let some prissy bitch ruin our night.” He smiles at my choice of words, just like I knew he would. We’re walking again, and I turn my head and look straight at the two girls I know said it. Well, one of them did, and the other laughed. I flip them off and smile prettily before leaning my head against Tristan’s arm. He’s so damn tall, I can’t rest my head on his shoulder.
“I don’t like them talking about you at all. For any reason,” he finally says, but he’s looking around, scanning the area. I know what Tristan is thinking, and I won’t pretend it’s not on my mind sometimes too. Especially when we were dealing with Madi and Lilac’s stalkers. In the back of my mind, every single note made me wonder if it was the lunatic who wanted me. That the manwho got away the night of the carjacking could still come back for me. I know it bothers him that he hasn’t found him yet, and most of all that he hasn’t eliminated the threat. I definitely understand why Tristan keeps me so close. Why he refuses to let go.
With the arm Tristan isn’t holding, I pull out my phone and text Madi because I realize that we’re just walking and have no idea where to meet everyone. Since the bikes had to park in a different lot, I have no clue which entrance they came in.
A second later, my phone buzzes. I open it expecting a location, but instead it’s a broody selfie of Hayden standing in front of a ride, arms crossed like he owns the place. I can practically hear him muttering:Don’t text my girl.Half serious, half joking. So Hayden.
Tristan glances down at the screen, then rolls his eyes, muttering something about Hayden being insufferable.
The carnival is definitely the spectacle we thought it would be. Bright lights are strung high and literally all over the place. The Ferris wheel is turning slow in the distance, and music is clashing from every corner. Vendors shout over one another, and there are college kids with painted faces. A group of girls painted like tigers pass us and Tristan frowns. “If Callum gets that shit all over the house, I’m going to need an alibi,” Tristan says dryly.
I hold my pinky up to him, offering him a promise to be his alibi, and it makes him smile. Performers in glittering costumes float through the crowd along with clowns who have painted on their grins. Some are women dressed like fairies with shimmering wings, and there are some men in princely capes. The ribbon dancers with long pieces of silk whipping and curling through the air, catching the lights are my favorite. Their pointed feet, arched backs, their bodies bending with the fabric. I stop walking just to watch because they’re so ethereal.
Tristan’s palm slides up to the back of my head, thumb brushing the nape of my neck. He isn’t even watching the dancers. His eyes are on me, his mouth curved in the smallest, softest smile. It makes my chest ache. Sometimes, I swear he wants to kiss me and now is one of those times.
“Winter?”
WINTER
Iturn at the sound of my name and light up instantly. “Paris!”
Paris Hastings is impossible to miss. She’s beautiful in an effortless, old money sort of way, but somehow still sweet. I haven’t seen her since we took ballet together when we were in high school, but she hasn’t changed.
Of course, she isn’t alone. She’s flanked by the Moretti triplets. Identical, down to the sharp lines of their jaws and the lethal aura they carry with them. The only one I can ever tell apart is Benjamin. Because while one of the other brothers, either Elijah or Noah, scans the crowd constantly, restless like he’s waiting for a fight, and the other manages an almost-friendly smile that never fully softens, Benjamin’s focus is singular. He clings to Paris with his eyes, always watching her like she’s the center of every orbit.
Paris is their stepsister, and unless something has changed since high school, she’s the only one who can tell them apart at a glance. I get it. Because everyone swears Tristan and Sebastian are identical too. But to me? They couldn’t be more different. It’s always been easy. I could pick Tristan out in a heartbeat, even if he and Sebastian were wearing identical clothes.
I’d just know him by the way he looks at me.
Paris runs straight into my arms, hugging me tight, her laughter soft in my ear. “You look amazing! How have you been?” She’s so perky and excited, and I love that about her.
“I’m so good. Are you still taking ballet?” I barely have the question out and she’s scrunching up her face and shaking her head.
“I didn’t have the knees for it,” she says with a giggle, and I feel her on that. My legs ache from it, but I enjoy it too much to quit.
Tristan lingers behind me, and out of my peripherals I see him shaking hands with each of the Moretti brothers. I can’t hear everything that they’re saying, but I realize that he’s talking to Elijah, because he mentions him helping us out when Lilac had a stalker. Paris squeezes me once more before pulling back, still smiling, but her attention flicks toward Benjamin. He’s staring at her and doesn’t look away when their eyes meet. She does though, biting her bottom lip like she’ll get reprimanded for staring at him too long.
My gaze snags on the gold chains around the Moretti triplets’ necks, diamond rings strung through the links, glittering in this lighting. This piques my interest because I’ve heard of this faction of The Black Crown Society. They’re part of The Saints, and those rings are meant for some sort of bonding ritual. I don’t know all the rules, but I’ve heard enough whispers to know those rings aren’t just decoration. There are ceremonies where the men are expected to choose a Crowned One and present her with a ring, marking her as theirs in front of everyone. Some of the rumors go darker, and those involve The Sinners. The two factions split off, from what I’ve heard, because while they agreed on the basic foundation of the society, they couldn’t agree on some very important details. Apparently, and there’s no telling if it’s even true, there’s a sex element of the ritual, anddevotion is proven through things I can’t bring myself to imagine right now.
Supposedly, The Saints are interested in finding a Crowned One who they can worship for life and in exchange, their Crowned One will be devoted to only them. The Sinners’ lore is what I have a harder time believing. Apparently they own their Crowned Ones, and will do so by any means necessary. The girls have to wear a uniform once they’ve been initiated, and there are all of these public displays of ownership. Castlebrook might not always be the greatest, and it surely isn’t run by the purest minds in society, but at least I don’t have to worry about a wax sealed envelope showing up at my door. I’ve heard that’s how it happens. You just receive a letter stating that you’re now an initiate, and you must comply or The Black Crown Society will make sure you do.
I want to tell myself there’s no way universities, especially not one as prestigious as St. Augustine, would still allow something so barbaric. But then I think about Castlebrook. I’ve seen what this school has let slide in the name of keeping their hands clean. And suddenly, it doesn’t feel so far-fetched. I wonder if that’s why Benjamin is watching her every move, like he’s been suckerpunched in the gut? Surely the society wouldn’t allow him to choose his own stepsister as his Crowned One. Right? And from what I remember, he’s always been infatuated with her.
Paris, oblivious to my thoughts, lifts her hand in a cheerful wave from across the way, all the way over by the popcorn stand. “Blair! Over here!”
Blair Winthrop slips through the crowd, glossy brown hair shining under the bulbs, her smile effortless. That is, until it collides with one of the Moretti triplets. I can’t tell which one. But the glare they exchange is rough enough to get my attention.Blair’s smile crumbles, and before anyone can react, she spins and disappears into the mass of people.
Paris huffs, hands flying to her hips. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself, Elijah.” Her tone conveys her annoyance. None of them correct her, but it’s very clear to me which one is Elijah now. He looks absolutely heated. I’m not usually nosy about other people’s relationships, but Blair has always been nice to me. She’s probably one of the smartest, most level-headed girls I’ve known, and I can’t see her running away from him for no reason.
I can’t help but wonder if it has something to do with him being one of The Saints. Was she initiated into the society? Didheinitiate her?
“Do you think she’s okay? She looked pretty upset,” I ask Paris, but she’s glaring at Elijah like he offered Blair up as a human sacrifice or something egregious.
