Page 26 of Claiming Pretty

“Then may the best brother win.”

AVA

“It’s not a competition,” I called weakly after Ty and Ciaran as they wedged themselves in the doorway of my new dorm, each one stubbornly trying to exit first.

Their shoulders collided, and the resulting glare-off would have been comical if it wasn’t so exhausting. They broke free, nearly taking the doorframe with them, and thundered down the narrow staircase toward the moving van parked below.

I sighed and sank back against the mattress of my four-poster bed, staring up at the soaring cathedral ceilings.

The top “attic” level of Rochester House, one of Darkmoor’s oldest residence halls, exuded a gothic charm that bordered on the eerie.

The slanted walls seemed to lean inward, creating a sense of intimacy—or perhaps quiet foreboding. Exposed wooden beams crossed the ceilings like the skeleton of the ancient structure, their dark grain polished smooth by time.

Dormer windows punctuated the walls, their glass panes warped slightly from age, letting in faint streams of afternoon light that dappled the wooden floors with a muted glow.

This top level contained three small bedrooms, each with its own quirks—crooked ceilings, uneven floors, and odd corners that seemed to belong to another time.

A shared living space sat at the center, where mismatched furniture and faded rugs gave the impression that generations of students had made their mark.

The kitchen, though compact, had a vintage charm with its antique fixtures and a window overlooking the sprawling campus grounds.

The bathroom was tucked away at the end of the hall, its claw-foot tub and tarnished mirror adding to the Victorian aesthetic.

It was beautiful in its imperfections, hauntingly lovely, and undeniablyDarkmoor.

We’d all agreed that staying at the McKinsey manor was too dangerous now. The Society undoubtedly knew I was back, and the mansion was practically a beacon for trouble.

Moving into Darkmoor’s dorms, especially as the new school year started tomorrow, seemed like the best option.

The twins, however, had turned my relocation into a testosterone-filled competition.

I wanted to help. I really did. But the thought of navigating those creaking, narrow stairs alongside two competitive forces of nature was a recipe for getting crushed.

Besides, every time I so much as moved to help, they would scowl and shove me back, ordering me not to lift a finger.

It was the only thing they seemed to agree on.

“This needs to go by the window,” Ciaran said after they’d returned, his voice as cool and steady as ever, holding one side of my beloved leather tufted chair.

Ty, gripping the other side, yanked it sharply in the opposite direction, toward the cozy reading alcove where I’d placed the vintage lamp I found last summer with Lisa.

“Ava likes to study at night,” he shot back. “You’d know that if you’d spent anyrealtime with her.”

They glared at each other, their tension crackling like electricity in the air. The chair wobbled dangerously between them, its weight amplifying the silent battle of wills.

Physically, they were identical. If not for Ty’s haunting illustrative black tattoos ghosting down his arms and Ciaran’s more traditional sleeve, it would have been impossible to tell them apart.

But their energies couldn’t have been more different.

Ty was composed, like the calm before a storm—cold, unflinching, and deliberate.

Ciaran, on the other hand, was wild, his emotions always on display. He was a storm that never let up, raw and rabid, a heartbeat away from losing control.

“Just put it there,” I said, pointing at a random stretch of slanted wall, halfway between the window and the lamp.

That location made absolutely no sense, but it was the quickest way to stop them from tearing the chair—and each other—apart.

At first, their bickering had been amusing.

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