Page 2 of Collared

Louis tilts his head, giving us an angry side eye, his hand still squeezed around the student’s throat, nostrils flaring with rage. He’s the twin with the temper, though I still wonder what this guy has done to rattle his cage. Right now, his lips are pressed into a thin line, and a vein pulses visibly in his neck. He sends us a wolfish grin, then drags his gaze back to the guy, whose cheeks have turned red as he continues to mutter a string of unintelligible words. My guess? Apologies, for whatever he did. Maybe it will work, but then again… it’s a bit for sport for us as well. No wonder students avoid this table in a wide circle.

How boring.

And then Thurel’s gaze connects with mine. He’s still sitting across the canteen, but close enough for me to catch a clear vision of his monolid, almond shaped eyes as they are staring right at me. They widen, then flicker, as if he is as surprised as I am that he finally connected with me. Sucking in a harsh breath, my greedy glare takes in everything it can, as rapidly as I can. Putain, Thurel really is beautiful, with a Roman nose and a long, slender neck. So. Fucking. Edible.

I catch the moment his cheeks flush, but it only lasts for a second, because then he jumps out of his seat, those damn curls covering a good part of his face as he collects his tray and leaves. The school uniform we all wear—navy-blue pants with a jacket and a white shirt—fit him like a glove. I watch him leave, ass looking firm and round, each cheek a perfect handful I will gladly worship. My hungry eyes can’t seem to get enough of those endless, slender legs. With hunched shoulders he practically runs out of the canteen, his pathetic friends already on his tail.

Two more hours and I will be sent more footage. This time of him receiving his invitation for tonight.

Mon petit Thurel, est-ce que tu vas courir pour moi ce soir, mon ange?

Will you run for me tonight? I will chase you.

The thought makes me go feral again.

Let me catch you?

I’ll be good to you, angel. I promise.

1

THUREL

Monterrey Castle.

Once a mere painting that hung above Papi’s chair back home in our apartment in Paris, now a reality I have lived in for nearly two years.

The 17th century castle is impressive, with white towers and large, oval windows. A fascinating string of historical scenarios are immortalized into stones and lead. Its inhabitants, fellow students attending Saint-Laurent Boarding College for boys, one of the most prestigious schools in the world, are both terrifying and surprisingly easy to get to know. My group of friends, at least.

The castle is surrounded by acres of forest, and according to history, was inhabited by monks after its rightful owner, some fancy lord, got killed in the early 18th century.

I love history, and Monterrey Castle sure has plenty of it. If only the walls could talk... In the library you can find an extensive collection of books about the castle throughout history. For example, the monks offered shelter to the elite families of our society after they fled Paris during Bastille Day, otherwise named as the French Revolution, in 1789.

Rumors have it that some of our students today are direct descendants from those families. Perhaps that explains the presence of so much testosterone and ego, of condescension and lack of interaction. They feel as though they are better than us.

Perhaps they are.

Truth is that we live by a ranking system here in Monterrey Castle, and I'm not at the top. Sure, the spacious apartment I grew up in with my grandparents, after Mom and Dad passed away, is situated in one of Paris's most prestigious neighborhoods. We have always been comfortable. Okay, more than that, I guess. Truth is, I don’t really care much for money. And before you ask, I can already say that…I don’t know what I am searching for.

I simply don’t know. Perhaps whatever makes my heart tick. I haven't come across anything special enough in life yet, nothing that makes me feel alive. It’s kind of lonely in here, you know? In my mind, in my heart. But then it isn’t, because I’ve got my grandma. Mamie has always been there for me. She and Papi are my rocks, my stand-in parents, the ones who cheer for me, take care of me, believe in me. We were great together, until a few years ago when our world crumbled down when Papi passed. Yet Mamie and I somehow managed to repair our foundation and solidify our home, knit together as our tears seeped through the cracks. Nevertheless, the fort held, and we became closer than ever. I thought it was always going to be me and her, in Paris. I thought I would be okay with that.

And then I graduated.

One evening, Mamie sat me down and pointed toward the painting above Papi’s chair. Monterrey Castle, she said, would be my home for the coming few years.

I wish I could say I fought her suggestion. Yeah, sure, I was shocked and unwilling to go at first, I didn’t want to leave her alone. But when she shared that both Dad and Papi attended Saint-Laurent Boarding College when they were young, my soul had wept with so much more than purely joy, or loss. It created a yearning in me to discover, to dig and to find more. I never knew my parents. And though my younger self had spent hours and hours flicking through photo books, and firing off questions directly from my curious heart, I’d never actively known them. Sometimes there would be the whisper of a memory, but it was always too fickle, too unsteady for me to grab and cradle against my beating core.

There was something else there too. Was it hope? An anticipation to reach for something more in life? I huff at the thought. Well, whatever that yearning was, it managed to stay hidden for nearly two years, safely tucked away in the shadows of my thoughts. Until it shot through me like an electrical surge catching me completely off guard. The yearning was back, it awoke with a simple invitation, only to hurtle out like the weirdest, most unsettling whirlwind as it struck me on its way to explosion.

An invitation to become part of a secret brotherhood.

After I received a suspicious evocation roughly two weeks ago, I found myself being escorted by two older gentlemen to some fancy-looking office in the South Wing, a wing that’s only used for personnel. If that wasn't mysterious enough, they then told me that someone had chosen me for their mysterious selections, and that I could expect a formal invitation once they'd performed their background check on me.

Someone had chosen me?

They ignored my unspoken questions. Dressed formally in colors that matched our school uniform, they fired some off for themselves, carefully scrutinizing my interests.

Did I have any ideas for my future?

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