Page 59 of The Kings
Snorting at my conversation with myself, I head back downstairs to see that Raphael and Tarquin flank Eliza, with James close by, their postures relaxed but alert. She’s gorgeous in a pure white dress that clings to her curves, the thin straps loose on her shoulders as she looks up at me and wolf-whistles. She is the centre of our universe, the Queen we orbit, and tonight, she shines brighter than any jewel in the room.
“Aww, gee,” I chuckle. “Don’t look so bad yourself.”
Eliza’s green eyes are alight with the thrill of the night, yet I see the steel behind them. She’s untouchable, a Hughes through and through, and as much as this is her celebration, it’s also a display of power. Her victory at the combat contest wasn’t just about skill; it was a message to anyone who dares to challenge her.
I move closer to her, close enough to catch the scent of her perfume, a mix of danger and desire that has become my addiction. “You good?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“Always,” she replies, the corner of her mouth lifting in a smirk that tells me she’s more than ready for whatever this night throws at us.
We’re a united front, as we leave the townhouse, the Kings and their Queen, moving across campus and into the Grand Hall, weaving through the crowds that part for Eliza like the sea did for Moses. I watch every hand that reaches out to congratulate her, every smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes. There’s lust and envy, hatred and admiration in equal measure directed at her, and it takes all my willpower not to react.
James grunts as someone steps too close, his arm shooting out to create space. The message is clear: back off or face the consequences.
Eliza turns to me with a smile. “So, I’m thinking this shit goes all the way up the ladder. Who is responsible for organising the combat contest? The Heads of Faculty? The Vice-Chancellor? Hell, the Chancellor?”
“Vice,” I reply.
“He’s meant to be neutral,” she murmurs, casting her glare over to Vice-Chancellor Peters. “So, who got to him?”
“And with what?” I ask.
Raph growls. “All things to find out.”
Staff and students with too-smooth smiles and eyes that linger too long circle around Eliza, sharks drawn to blood, and I feel the urge to remove them all from her presence.
I scan the crowd of next gen students and influential figures milling about. They’re all here for one reason: to pay homage to the Queen of Castle University’s combat arena.
“Cheska Harris,” I murmur, watching the daughter of a high-ranking family from the East End. Her green eyes flash like emeralds, envy etched deep within them as she takes in Eliza’s effortless elegance. Beside her, Felix Chapman—the son of a notorious loan shark—can’t seem to look away from Eliza, hisdesire as transparent as the crystal flutes of champagne being passed around.
“Watch Chapman,” I mutter to James.
Across the room, Eliza is approached by Michael Keele, who has a reputation as a cunning strategist preceding him. “Congratulations, Eliza,” he says, his voice smooth as silk yet laced with an edge sharp enough to cut. “Your performance was exhilarating.”
“Thanks,” Eliza replies curtly, as if she doesn’t give a fuck, which I’m sure she doesn’t.
“Perhaps we can discuss some strategies together sometime,” he suggests, leaning in just enough to make his intentions clear without crossing a line.
“Maybe,” Eliza responds noncommittally, her smile tight.
A cluster of students from the university’s second-years, known for their illicit activities, watch the exchange with hawk-like interest. They whisper among themselves, sizing up Eliza as if calculating how to use her to get ahead.
“Those vultures are getting too close,” I say, tension coiling in my gut as I eye their leader, Marcus Flint, a kid whose ambition is only outmatched by his cruelty.
“Eliza knows what she’s doing,” James reassures, but his hand resting casually near his concealed weapon speaks volumes of his readiness to intervene.
A hand snakes around Eliza’s waist, pulling her closer to a lad I recognise from the finance side of the underworld—a slick type with more money than sense. Young and a bit stupid.
I shoulder him roughly with a look that could kill before Eliza can deal with it herself. “Hands off.”
“Fuck you,” he says, paying no attention until I grip his lapel and force his eyes to me.
“Say that again?”
He blinks and shrugs me off, scurrying away like a rat.
“Ugh,” Eliza spits out. “Why do people think they can touch?”
Tarquin mutters, “Prick probably thinks he’s got a shot.”
