Stonewall Nobles: A Dark Enemies-to-Lovers Romance Page 2

  It takes me a moment to catch what he means—the outing for junior politics class that’s meant to take the younger pupils around the court in the heart of the city. It’s supposed to help them better understand why we live under a harsh rule where we can never vote as citizens, but watch the government appoint one of their own instead. But the truth is, there’s no benefit—not for us, anyway. Those of us at the bottom of the ladder.

  “I’m one escort short,” says Drake, “and realized that you need some good points on your records. It’s a win-win. I get the praise; you get a gold star on your papers.”

  If I had been drinking water, Drake would be wearing it. I sputter in complete shock and stare disbelievingly at him.

  He simply looks at me.

  “Excuse me?” The disbelief clings to the laugh in my tone. “You want me to help you keep track of the juniors?”

  “Are you hard of hearing, dreg?” he quips.

  The laugh vanishes and I sneer at him, “How dare you,” I hiss. “You have the nerve to come over to me, insult me, waste my time, and ask me for a favor? I’ll give you a favor. Go fuck yourself, save everyone else the horror.”

  I grab my things in one, flurried sweep and hug them to my chest. With a seething look at his stony face, I kick back my seat.

  Blaze, wearing a small smile on his lips, winks goodbye before I storm out of the hall.

  Before I charge through the door, I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder.

  Drake is smirking at me—a look so subtle that it churned my gut mercilessly.

  Nothing good ever came from one of those looks.

  5

  Carrying the weight of the day in my backpack, I pile out of the doors, lost in the mass of students.

  Mum told me once that her school—before the war—had hundreds of students, close to a thousand! I can’t imagine that, not for me. There’s only seventy-six of us all up, and that’s including every noble teen in the city, plus me. The rest of the Blancs my age work trades. They learn on the job. I’m different. Not special, not the savior of the remnants of the world or any of that garbage, no. I’m just different and you’ll see why.

  I’m headed into the city to meet the secret weapon I have, the one that secured me a place in Stonewall Institute, that keeps me enrolled by the skin of my teeth, and pays for what I need.

  My dad.

  A noble and high official in the government.

  I see his face before I see him—posters of his face are pasted all over the inner-city buildings above slogans like ‘Unite Against the Beasts’ and ‘Together we’re Stronger’. All the things that sound nice, but humans aren’t nice. We’re wretched, and votes go to hate.

  It happened in my hidden history books too many times, and it’s going to happen again.

  The mere fact that I have to meet my dad in secret says it all, really. We meet once a month, and this afternoon it’s down a lost lane of a single coffee and cake shop used mostly by journalists interviewing officials to fill the weekly news-leaflet.

  He’s already sipping a cappuccino when I get there.

  There’s no bell above the door to announce my arrival. Like I said, it’s a private café—no one here wants to be seen.

  If I want service, I have to go out back and order, through the door next to the coffee pots.

  I don’t have to order. The perks of having a rich noble dad, even if he doesn’t publicly accept me as his daughter until the ‘time is right’ as he says, I get coffees and cakes I can’t otherwise afford.

  Dad’s the only customer until I slip into the chair at the table next to him. We don’t sit together. Can’t risk it.

  For pretense, I pull out my artbook—the personal one—and flip open to an empty thick-papered page that makes the most satisfying sound as I flatten it out.

  “How’s your mother?” He speaks into his mug. “Does she need more money?”

  “Someone broke in a couple of weeks ago,” I say, my pale hair curtaining my face as I start a half-assed sketch of the coffee shop. “Stole all our back-up funds.”

  I feel something touch my thigh and look down just as he slips an envelope full of paper-notes under my leg. Double as thick as the one last month.

  “I heard your flats were raided,” he tells me, stirring cream into his coffee. “I wasn’t aware it was a robbery.”

  “What else would you call it?” There’s a bite in my tone, but with him, there always is. He has his reasons, but as far as my daughterly rights go, his reasons can bite me. “The Force raid us, they break in when we’re not home, take art and whatever they think too good for our kind. That’s robbery.”

  I can see him smile into his cup. “Things will be different soon.”

  I say nothing and focus on the tiny painting on the wall, trying my best to imitate it in my artbook.

  “Tavs,” he presses. “I really mean it. Soon, we will unite as one people, and you and your mother will come live with me—”

  “What makes you think she wants to?” I snort. “You had a fling when she was a cleaner, before even those jobs were taken from us. Do you think she cares about you anymore? You broke her fucking heart, and hope some money will heal it.”

  “I had no choice, Tavs. Your mother knows—”

  “You had a choice. You chose to be nominated for Supreme Minister.” I wipe charcoal stains off my fingers and onto the tabletop. “How’s that going by the way?”

  As Dad mutters all about his campaign, everything I learned already just from the news-leaflets and listening to the radio every day, I sneak the envelope of money into my bag, then put away my things.

  He pauses mid-sentence, as if realizing I’m ready to leave. “You just got here,” he says. “I ordered cake.”

  I look at my table, then his. The only cake in sight was the half-eaten one on his table.

  “I’ve had my fill of sharing, thanks.”

  With that, I kick back my chair and leave him in the café alone. It’s not just that we might be caught together that I leave early, but I have these sudden urges of violence when I’m around him.

  I blame him.

  I blame him for knocking up my mum and, therefore, bringing me into an unbalanced world where I’m treated like scum every day. I didn’t fight the Great War. I held no rifle in my hands, or drove planes and dropped bombs on innocents.

  That was two generations ago.

  And I’m paying for their mistakes?

  I blame a lot of things on a lot of people, but being with Minister Claude ignites all of those dormant feelings, and all I want is to get away from him. With the money, of course. It pays for my books, school uniforms, lunches at school and, obviously, food and gas for the lanterns at home. His money bought me a radio for my birthday last year. Guess I haven’t lost my love for it yet.

  As I walk down the lane, away from the city, I tug my bag-strap over my shoulder and head for the slimy lanes that lead to what’s left of the Trim. It’s a shortcut, through the rubble, but I’ll make it home before dark. But before I make it a few steps away from the shopfront, I catch a pair of black, bottomless eyes watching me like vacuums.

  I startle.

  Blaze stands at the mouth of the narrow street, hands in his pockets, and his olive-skinned face tilted to the side. In this late-evening light, he looks like a menacing shadow.

  His eyes are abysses, and they have their sights on me.

  A cold dread spreads through my stomach like lead, and I pull my stare away from his. I know he’s figuring it out. Putting the pieces together. Me, interviewing a high minister, my place at Stonewall, how I never seem to get more than red marks on my records when I should be expelled.

  It’s all there, in his eyes.

  I rush down the street and veer off into the lane shrouded in shadows. Shortcuts can never be happy meadows.

  Especially not when I have the awful feeling I’m being followed.

  6

  I hurry down the lane.

  I m
ake it half way before the dreaded noble catches up with me and round in front of me, blocking my way home.

  “Blake,” I greet curtly. My tone is barbed.

  Blake studies me, silent. Then he steps closer and stops as he towers over me. Those black pits he calls eyes drag over my body, as if the mere sight of black jeans and a worn t-shirt is something to be observed.

  Then he says, “For a dreg, you clean up well.”

  I only hear the insult.

  “I can’t say the same about you,” I snap. “No matter how well you dress, you can never rid yourself of the ugliness within that grotesque heart of yours.”

  I yelp as he suddenly grabs me and slams me against the mossy wall. “Maybe you clean up well because you’re only part dreg. Isn’t that right? Your secret daddy is the reason you’ve gotten all you want.” He laughs at himself and shakes his head. “Can’t believe it took me so long to realize. But I bet you’re good at keeping secrets.”

  I stare at him, wild eyed, at the Blake I always thought as passive. An observer to the fights, never one to start them.

  I was wrong.

  He stares down at me with coal-black eyes. His signature smirk dances on his mouth.

  “I long to see that fear in your eyes,” he tells me, hands pressing into the wall on either side of my head. I have the urge to slip away, but he’ll only catch me. “Ever since you slapped me…”

  He trails off and shakes his head.

  It takes my memories a beat to kickstart and drag me back to two years ago. I’d slapped him, yeah, but it was after he shoved me into the school pool fully dressed.

  “It’s all I could think about,” he confesses, and it is a confession. “I concocted so many ways to invoke that fear in you ... So many.”

  My shoulders tense and I swerve my gaze around, searching for a way out. I’m trapped between him and wall, within a narrow lane that leads to the Trim. No one passes through here, not often anyway.

  I’m fucked.

  Blaze’s smirk slowly slips away from his tanned face that’s so close to mine. The hollowness in his black eyes have my heart beating madly.

  He lingers his lips near mine. I can feel his breaths tickling against my skin, warm cocoa invading my mouth. I have the ridiculous urge to lean into him, into that scent he’s carried with him for years. Remnants of an old crush I was foolish enough to have a while ago, but at the wrong time…too late.

  Blaze whispers a confession against my still mouth, “And now that I see the fear in your eyes, I find myself … enchanted.”

  I sneer, “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Blaze, but if you don’t let me go…” What? What can I do? “You have no right to touch me,” I finish lamely.

  A sincere grin of humor twists at his lips, but it is still cruel … devilish. “Report me,” he teases. “Tell daddy. It will change nothing—I am a true noble, and you’re just the bastard child of one who tries to keep you his dirty little secret. Do you know what that means?”

  The color rushes down my face until I’m drained and lightheaded. I stare up at him, heart hammering inside my chest. His words cut, deep. But I try not to show it.

  I square my chin. “It means you’re an entitled rich boy who barely detached himself from his mother’s bosom, and acting out in retaliation. It means you’ve had everything handed to you your entire life, and had false beliefs engrained into your psyche—and most of all, it means you’re a pathetic excuse for a human being.”

  Despite what I said, I fear my eyes will give me away. Run away from him, the problems licking at my heels, and the horrible truth that he knows who my dad is. A secret that can destroy lot of people.

  Blake’s grin fades. “It means,” he seethes, “I pride myself on getting everything I want, whether I earn it, steal it, or take it; whether it resists or submits … It only matters that I have it.”

  I burn with fear and fury.

  I shift my leg and raise it to knee him in the groin.

  He’s quicker.

  Blake evades the attack easily, and shoves his leg between mine.

  I cry out as I’m hoisted her further up the wall. My toes barely graze the ground. He’s holding me up with just his leg between mine, and the hands he presses into the wall on either side of my head.

  Eye-level, his mouth is dangerously close to mine.

  “It’s good to know my words were registered,” he whispers cruelly.

  Shakily I spit, “What would you want with a dreg? That’s what I am, right? That’s what you call me. I’m just a dreg to you.”

  “That you are,” he agrees throatily. “A dreg with big hazel eyes that betray every fleeting emotion that fills you. They turn green when you cry, brown when you study, amber when you’re afraid.” He runs his gaze over my face as if taking in a long-lost piece of art found in the rubble around the city. “Your locks are so luscious I want to snatch a fistful each time I see you. A dreg is what you are, but … you are one so tempting it’s surely sinful.”

  I inhale sharply as his lips touched mine.

  I’m frozen. And he kisses me.

  His mouth is warm against mine, soft skin so plush it makes me long for pillows I’ll never possess. I almost melt into it, fall into the arms of a crush I had so long ago.

  But I knee him in the balls instead.

  Blaze grunts and staggers back from me, half knelt over. He looks up at me, his black eyes glittering like tar, and—

  he smiles.

  I run home, leaving him there in the lane.

  7

  The flat is empty when I get home.

  It’s late, but not late enough to worry. Sometimes the train back to the city is delayed. The workers can only leave when their quotas are met.

  I eat water oatmeal again with some hard bread, then leave some on the table for mum when she gets back. I make sure her bed is made before I tackle the couch with sheets, pillows and blankets. It’s where I sleep. My own space.

  I kick a lot in my sleep, and mum snores. It’s easier this way.

  As I wrestle the sheet onto the couch, I hear the loud murmurs from the flat under us. Arguing, again. There’s only so much energy we should spend on hating each other, we need to save all that strength for the nobles and—when the time comes—the executioners. I don’t want to go down without a fight. But not a fight before bedtime. That’s just annoying.

  I plop down on the bed-couch and pull out my private artbook from my school bag. Under the gas lantern light, the sketch chocolate-orange hues. I smile at the similarity of his skin tone. I’m sketching Blaze.

  Don’t hate me, I know it’s weird. But since I first had that crush on him years ago, he became my favorite person to sketch—just because of how difficult it is to truly capture him. Every look he gives is different, but the differences are subtle. Minor. He smirks, but he has dozens of those. He glances, but his eyes burn in a hundred different ways. Drake, too.

  They’re my favorites to draw, but I wouldn’t admit that even on my deathbed.

  Tonight, I add a smile to Blaze’s lips. Swollen lips, twisted in a lively smile—the look he gave me before I ran off.

  My lips still tingle from the secrets he kissed me with and the poison snaking through me.

  I hated myself for liking it.

  As I slam the book shut, I think back to the first year I attended Stonewall. It was with the rest of them, all as juniors, but not being a noble gave me a strong, new-girl vibe. Outsider. A peasant trying to mingle with the wealthy.

  Drake started it all.

  It wasn’t on my first, second, or even third day at Stonewall. His hatred of me took time to build. And then, months into the year, he caught me after a sweaty lesson in combat class.

  ***

  When I reached the second corridor and turned onto it, Drake stepped out of an alcove and blocked my path.

  Looming like an old tower untouched by war, Drake cruelly stared down at me with those pitiless eyes that seemed to empty, yet so full o
f poison. The grey-blue of his eyes swirled with dangerous intent, I swallowed and stepped back.

  “What do you want?” I asked, and even as I heard the question spit from my tongue, I realized that I was tired of asking the same old questions on repeat.

  Like that broken CD walkman I had in my bedroom, always skipping and ruining my favorite songs, playing the same line over and over again.

  Drake’s lips parted, still forming a whisper of a sneer, and he went to reply.

  I held my hand up to stop him and said, “You know what?” I said exasperatedly. “I don’t care.”

  I shoved by him, slamming my shoulder into his.

  Before I could take my next step, I gasped as I was slammed, hard, against the wall, chest-first.

  My face was turned to the side against the cool, rough stone and I winced from the impact against my tender breasts. Drake’s hand held my head in place and he came up behind me, slowly, and pressed his body against mine.

  My hair rustled as his lips brushed against the shell of my ear. He whispered, “Do you know what exceeds foolish, little kittens?”

  His silky whisper was so quiet that I almost didn’t hear it over my own loud breaths. He chuckled darkly and answered his own question—

  “Venomous snakes.”

  I didn’t reply, my voice had caught in my throat.

  I couldn’t reach my keys or cry for help, my lungs were being crushed.

  “What, no words of bravery to chew out?” he mocked darkly, barely a whisper. “Yet you’re brave enough to step foot in these halls.”

  I choked out hoarsely, “I have as much right to be here—”

  He hissed – literally hissed – a warning against my ear. The hairs on the back of my neck rose and a shudder ran down my spine.

  My eyes widened, and my heart thudded loudly – I was sure he could hear it.

  Suddenly, he stepped away from me and I whipped around to face him, wild-eyed.

  Drake was staring down the corridor at nothing – or what appeared to be nothing. “You might want to be a little more careful, dreg. As filthy as you are, a pretty thing like you will be devoured in these corridors … so many snakes slithering around.”