“House tradition,” the note had said. “All Veriton girls must explore the ancient catacombs during House Week. Failure to participate results in automatic expulsion.”
Right. Because nothing screamed “legitimate Academy requirement” like threatening expulsion over spelunking.
I’d stared at that note for a solid ten minutes, weighing my options. Stay in my room and prove I was a coward? Or walk directly into what was obviously a trap and prove I was an idiot?
The thing is, I was tired of being careful. Tired of second-guessing every invitation, every smile, every seemingly friendly gesture. If Calla wanted to corner me in some dusty underground chamber, fine. At least this time I’d see it coming.
Plus, if I was being honest—which I tried to be, even when it made me look stupid—there was a tiny, masochistic part of me that was curious. What was her endgame here? Public humiliation? Physical harm? Or just the psychological satisfaction of watching me panic in the dark?
Only one way to find out.
So here I was, walking into the obvious trap like the stubborn idiot I apparently was.
The stone door slams shut behind me with the finality of a tomb. I whirl around, my heart hammering against my ribs as the torches flicker and die, plunging the chamber into absolute darkness.
“Well,” I mutter to the suffocating blackness, “this is going exactly as expected.”
“Enjoy your stay, piglet!” Calla’s voice echoes from the other side of the door, followed by cruel laughter that fades into silence.
I press my palms against the cold stone, searching desperately for a handle, a keyhole, anything. Nothing. Just smooth rock and the growing certainty that I’ve walked into another trap.
“Unbelievable.”
I spin toward the voice, my blood turning to ice. Prince Henry emerges from the shadows, his coat dripping with moisture, his hair plastered to his forehead.
“You!” I gasp. “What are you doing here?”
“Apparently serving as collateral damage in your little adventure,” he snarls, his eyes blazing with fury. “I was walking past when Calla’s pets decided to slam the door. Locked us both in.”
“This was meant for me,” I breathe, understanding flooding through me.
“Obviously. Though I’m sure they’re delighted by the bonus entertainment value.”
The chamber is small, maybe twelve feet across, with rough stone walls that weep moisture. The air tastes of mildew and ancient secrets. I wrap my arms around myself as the cold seeps through my uniform.
“Let me guess,” Henry says, leaning against the opposite wall. “You received an official-looking invitation? Complete with threats of dire consequences if you didn’t comply?”
“House tradition,” I mutter, sliding down the wall to sit on the damp floor. “They said I’d be cursed with failing grades.”
“You are cursed,” he replies dryly. “You’re trapped in a dungeon with me.”
Despite everything, I snort with laughter. “And you’re soaked to the bone. How’s that royal privilege working out for you?”
“About as well as your social standing, I imagine.”
We fall into tense silence, our breath forming clouds in the frigid air. Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. The cold burrows into my bones until my teeth chatter audibly.
Henry notices. Without warning, he shrugs off his heavy coat and tosses it at me.
“No,” I say immediately, not touching the garment.
“You’re freezing.”
“So are you.”
“I’m not the one turning blue.”
“I don’t need your pity.”
“It’s not pity, it’s pragmatism. If you die of hypothermia, I’ll be blamed for murder.”
I glare at him but pull on the coat anyway. It’s massive on me, smelling of cedar and something darker—leather, perhaps, or smoke. The warmth is immediate and overwhelming.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
“Don’t mention it. Literally. If this gets out, I’ll deny everything.”
We settle into an uneasy truce, eventually sitting back-to-back for warmth. I can feel his spine against mine, solid and reassuring in the suffocating darkness.
“Do you think they’ll come looking?” I ask quietly.
“When the scandal becomes more valuable than our suffering.”
“Comforting.”
“You wanted honesty.”
I rest my head against the wall, feeling the weight of exhaustion pulling at my eyelids. “I’m tired of being everyone’s entertainment.”
“Then stop giving them material,” he says, but there’s no cruelty in it.
“I don’t know how. Everything I do seems to make it worse.”
“Maybe that’s the point. Maybe they’re afraid of what you represent.”
I turn slightly, trying to see his face in the darkness. “What do I represent?”
“Someone who refuses to break. Someone who fights back even when the odds are impossible.”
His words hang in the air between us, more intimate than any physical touch. I feel something shift in my chest—not forgiveness, but understanding.
“I don’t hate you right now,” I whisper.
“Progress,” he murmurs, and before I can overthink it, his arms circle around me.
The hug isn’t gentle or hesitant—it’s desperate, like he’s been holding back for hours and finally snapped. His chest presses against my back, solid and warm, and I can feel his heartbeat hammering through his shirt. One arm wraps around my waist while the other pulls me closer, his hand splaying across my ribs like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me.
“This is probably a terrible idea,” I breathe, but I don’t pull away. If anything, I melt back into him, my head finding that perfect spot against his shoulder.
“Definitely,” he agrees, his voice rough against my ear. “But I’m fucking freezing, and you’re the only warm thing in this godforsaken dungeon.”
Practical. Of course he’d make it practical. Except there’s nothing practical about the way his thumb traces small circles against my hip, or how his breath hitches when I shift against him.
“Just for warmth,” I mumble, already knowing it’s a lie.
“Just for warmth,” he echoes, but his arms tighten around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
Sleep comes eventually, born of exhaustion and this ridiculous, complicated boy wrapped around me like he’s claiming me. I drift off to the steady rhythm of his breathing, the scent of his coat mixing with something that’s purely him—cedar and arrogance and the kind of trouble I’m apparently too tired to resist.
Dawn arrives with the grinding of stone and a flood of merciless light. Voices explode into the chamber—gasps, whispers, the sharp intake of scandalized breath.
“Well, well,” someone says. “What have we here?”
I blink awake to find Henry already standing, his expression carefully neutral. He extends his hand to help me up, and I take it without thinking.
“Quite the cozy arrangement,” Calla’s voice cuts through the crowd like a blade. “How romantic.”
“Shut up,” I snap, but Henry’s grip on my hand tightens—a warning.
“Careful, Ashbourne,” he murmurs. Then, louder: “We were trapped. Nothing more.”
But as we step out of the chamber into the crowd of goggling students, Henry does something unexpected. He pulls his coat tighter around my shoulders, his hand lingering at my back.