Page 1 of Collared

PROLOGUE

I see you.

I see you all the time.

Sweet, sweet angel.

Does your disheveled, honey-blond hair, that curls all the way down to your ears, reflect your character? Your angular fringe is messy—a golden mop of silky strands— and long enough to be casually swept aside to strategically hide parts of your handsome face. Something tells me you do that on purpose. Perhaps, because you don’t want to be noticed. You don’t even realize that it has a completely opposite effect.

A predator like me notices.

You have a sweet, light demeanour and paired with surprisingly dark, angled eyebrows that frame those clear eyes. I have yet to discover what color they are, but if I had to guess, I’d say something between crystalline blue or light sea green. It suits you and your oval shaped face that gives the perfect canvas for those rough hewn cheekbones. You’re so fucking sexy every time you flash a smile.

You smile a lot.

Surrounded by your friends, those dorks you also share a dorm with, with your classmates and random guys from the football team, or even the cheeky grin you use with the damn ladies working in the canteen. Yeah, you share your smile with everyone out there.

Everyone you interact with. But not with me.

Because you don’t want to notice me.

I know what the other students think of us. That we’re cruel motherfuckers who think we are above everyone else.That we judge everyone by their status and that we are beyond intermingling with mixed company. Rumours… mostly they’re just lies, whispered assumptions shared in the locker room or hallways. We too are expected to participate in group projects, school team sports and sit in the same cafeteria as every other student of Saint-Laurent. There isn't even a separate library for commoners. But as rumours tend to, there’s some truth mixed in there as well. And so much more that is kept from prying eyes.

The thought brings a dark smirk to my lips. If these poor bastards even knew the smallest of the secrets that are kept away from them. The amount of debauchery and sex that happens around them without so much as an inkling of awareness from any of them.

So, in that sense they are right. We—the aristocracy—own this place. Why? It is simple. The ranks in Saint-Laurent start at the top, with the ultra-rich—I’m talking old money here— then dip to the super rich, before sliding down to the newly rich. Ultimately, they collapse to the cold floor where a handful of guys are scooped up. Those who are here on a scholarship. My eyes flick to the far corner, landing on the table occupied by the four poor bastards. Far away from the others, they are seated together. One student for each year. Minus Dominique. Our charity cases. Local students who come from Saint-Laurent, the town, and who have somehow stumbled into the VIP room.

Who says that the privileged don’t have big hearts?

You, Thurel, are part of the newly rich. I outrank you by not one, but two invisible levels, and you know it. So you won’t look at me, won’t acknowledge my existence. You walk around Monterrey Castle with your friends, focusing on their boring conversations, sharing your angelic smile to everyone who wants it, and sit down as far away from the center of the universe as you can.

Far away from me.

But, no matter. Soon I will be your entire universe, angel.

I saw the way you looked when they practically made you sign that agreement.

I got off to that image at least three times that night alone.

Even now, when you’re sitting less than twenty meters away from me, enjoying your lunch with your boring friends, I can see it radiating off you in brilliant waves - innocence. Sweetness. I wonder what you will taste like on my tongue—your skin, your lips and your cock. I want to lick that scent, absorb it and indulge in it, savor it before I devour it. Making you a part of me.

The thought sends a surge of heat through my core that leisurely settles in my groin.

In exactly two hours you will receive the invitation for tonight’s games.

Will you show up, mon Thurel?

Or will you decide to stay within your carefully curated box of habits and tap out even before the game has begun?

Keeping my gaze focused on him, I meander within my own thoughts. I chose you, Thurel, when the Elders selected me for participation in the Wicked Chase. Because I want you.

A new buzz of activity breezes past me, as some of our brothers join the large table that proudly decorates the center of the canteen. Students are dotted around, either finishing up lunch or busy in the process of filling their plates..

Someone barks out a laugh, followed by a loud bang and the clattering of cutlery. What’s next is a rising hurricane. People stand up in curiosity, wanting to see what the hell’s going on, but staying out of reach just in case things continue to escalate.

One of our guys is holding another student by his collar, the poor guys’ feet practically dangling above the ground as he sputters and wheezes around the tight grip cutting his air supply. Around them are broken plates and splashes of food and drink litter the floor.

“Louis!” Someone calls out from beside me, his smooth voice morphed into a warning. Gaël Deveraux, Louis’s cousin. Speaking of the ruthless rich. That entire family breathes pretension, but then again, so do the rest of us here. And we love it. We thrive in it.

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