Page 7 of Wicked Bonds
“Refusal isn’t an option, Miss Smith. The contract is binding.” Wickersly leans forward like a cobra about to strike, her hands folded. “However, not all is as grim as it appears. The academy offers you a rare opportunity to honor your obligations while also developing your potential.”
Potential?
All I can think about is the dying plant in my backpack. But then my brain flashes back to the asshole’s broken fingers, the way the air sparked and bent around my anger, how I didn’t even have to say anything for something in the world to rearrange itself for me. “And if I accidentally set the place on fire? Do I get community service, or is it straight to magical juvie?”
She doesn’t dignify that with a smile. “We have extensive measures to ensure the safety of our students and staff. The more pressing matter is whether you understand the seriousness of your position. You are not here for punishment. You are here because your bloodline made a deal. One that they are bound for eternity to honor.”
There’s a beat of silence as she watches me closely. She looks like someone who’s used to getting compliance by sheer force of will, a gorgon in a pantsuit. “What if I, you know, run away in the middle of the night?”
She clicks her pen. “If you attempt to run, the Accord will ensure your return. And your remaining time would be… less pleasant. I would recommend for your own comfort that you apply yourself to your studies and acclimatize. The alternative is less desirable.”
I stare at her, waiting for a punchline. There is none. “Then what? I’m just the Coven’s bitch forever?”
“Two years of immersive education, during which you will serve the Crescent Moon Coven. In return, you will have access to resources, protection, and liberties that most can only dream of.” She says it like she’s promising me a company car and a dental plan.
“Wow. So generous.”
For the first time, her mask cracks. Barely. Her lips thin slightly. She’s annoyed. “Your dormitory is Room 304. Your class schedule will be provided. You are expected to conduct yourself with discipline and decorum. If you have questions, you may direct them to Lucien.”
“Do I at least get a meal plan?”
She blinks, as if the concept baffles her, and then moves on. “You may go. You have a busy week ahead of you.” She closes my file. The conversation is over.
And just like that, I’m dismissed.
Room 304 turns out to be a single, and it’s on the third floor, up a spiral staircase so narrow I’m genuinely worried my hips will get stuck.
Spartan as hell, but I’ve slept in worse. The good news? It’s private, with a solid door, not the curtain that gave me zero privacy in my last room, and a bed that doesn’t appear to have any suspicious stains. The bad news? The only decor is a brutally ugly painting of a goat-headed figure leering over a baby cradle. Wonderful.
I toss my backpack onto the bed. The succulent, predictably, has already wilted. I poke it, and a single leaf falls off in protest. “Mood,” I say, and flop onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling.
If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend this is just a particularly weird Airbnb. It’s clean, it’s warm, and the sheets smell faintlyof flowers. I pull the blanket up, but sleep is a no-show. My brain won’t shut down. I keep thinking about what Wickersly said about my bloodline and contracts. My mother must have known, that’s why we were always on the run. It makes sense now. But goddammit why didn’t she tell me any of this? I could have protected myself better. Might have known the Crescent Moon Coven was coming for me. I slam the back of my head into the plush pillow as tears gather at the outer corners of my eyes. As much as I want to be angry at my mother, I also still miss the hell out of her. It was just the two of us for so long. She called us the dynamic duo, and I’d roll my eyes every time she said it, reminding her that was Batman and Robin, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be Robin.
I don’t realize I’ve drifted off until I wake up with a start. I check the time: 3:00 AM. The witching hour. Nothing good ever happens at 3:00.
Then I realize I hear the sound of someone breathing. Someone very close.
I go rigid under the covers, doing that thing where you convince yourself if you don’t move, you’re invisible. There’s a second, maybe two, where I convince myself it’s my imagination, that it’s just the building settling, or exhaustion playing tricks on my brain.
But then I hear it again, an exhale, the slight hitch that comes before a word.
“Go away,” I say, instantly feeling like an idiot. The first thing I do is talk to the intruder in my room. Just like the morons who get murdered in horror movies.
Silence.
Then, “You’re awake.”
The voice is male, deep, and amused. There’s a faint distance to it, like he’s standing at the bottom of a well. I edge the blanket down just enough to see the room, eyeing every dark corner. The goat painting stares back, unhelpfully.
“Show yourself,” I say, sounding more ballsy than I feel.
There’s movement by the window, then figure just kind of appears, like he materialized from thin air. Literally, because he’s see-through in places, like someone forgot to color him in. There’s a weird flicker to him, like a glitch in a video game, and my heart does a slow, horrified somersault.
He’s tall, he’s handsome, and I’m pretty sure he’s a ghost.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I say.Lies.
He smiles. “You should be. Most girls scream.”
