Page 32 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

11

That night I visit the Death Room again.

The eyes of dead animals gleam at me as I step into a room half-bathed in darkness with pinpricks of candlelight, the glow of amber fire sweeping across the garnet-hued damask rug on which Captain Porthos lounges, twitching in his slumber. His master colonizes the leather wingback chair with his whole body, his legs spread beneath a broadsheet, at which his face — half-blackened with shadow — frowns.

I fixate on his elegant hands, on the curl of his long fingers and the neat roundness of his nails. On the cling of gray fabric around his legs, the furrow of material around the curve of his inner thighs. The blond hair, the serious face, the expensive leather shoes polished to an immaculate shine. Everything about Oscar Munro is like looking at a blueprint of Rory far in the future, a Rory haunted by loss and pain and harsh realities.

A Rory who’s lost so much to radiate power.

The ruler of a country, not a school.

A political titan, not a bored schoolboy.

The Westminster King.

When Oscar Munro’s eyes rise above his newspaper and land on me, my heart skips a beat. It’s like walking up a ladder and missing a rung. The world slides from beneath me, an uncontrollable shift, as I realize I may have a problem.

On some level, I’m attracted to Oscar Munro.

I didn’t expect this — of course I didn’t. He’s Rory’sdad, old enough to be mine. But his smooth, disembodied voice on the radio is no match for the energy that thickly encompasses the man himself. There’s magnetism to him the way there is to Rory, but deeper, darker, a pull that I can’t resist. He’s a man brooding inside a gothic palace, a man ensconced inside his dark and stormy heart.

He’s a man, not a boy, and that…

I don’t know why that’s so appealing.

“You came,” he says, in the tone of one who expected no less. “Sit.”

I do as he says, settling into the armchair in front of him. I give Captain Porthos’s wiry gray fur a quick stroke, watching his belly expand and contract in pure relaxation.

“If only we were all so in touch with our primal instincts,” Oscar Munro remarks, watching me carefully. “Sleeping, eating… Instead, we must preoccupy our restless minds with the inane musings of other’s restless minds.” He holds up his newspaper pointedly and stashes it onto his side table, as though it’s not even worth the paper it’s printed on. He nods down at Captain Porthos. “You think he’s ruminating on the ill-informed words of a Camford-educated political columnist? No. He does not think. He reacts with instinct. It’s the thing that makes animals more evolved than most humans, the ability not to get bogged down in nonsense. Primal instincts cut through it all.”

He pours himself a glass of whisky, his glass already containing the last drops of a previous dram. “Tell me. How are you enjoying your time here?”

I lean into the chair, trying to source some comfort from the hard leather. “It’s… fine.”

The manor is too big.

I’m alone for most of the day.

Everyone here is fighting.

My hormones are in overdrive and I just want to have sex.

Oscar Munro raises a brow. “In which case, I must inform the staff to improve standards to something better than mere adequacy. I’ve heard a prince has joined us today.” His drawl is tinged with sarcasm.

“Luke is…” Frothing? Enraged? Ready to burn the Lochkelvin estate to the ground? “Excitable.”

He blows out a sharp breath, a peal of laughter hidden inside. “Excitable. Yes, I imagine so.” He crosses his ankles, leaning his pointed chin upon his fist. “My son keeps the company of charlatans and crooks and tells me little in return. Unfortunately, I’m away for most of the day but you’re well-placed to inform me of the goings-on within my own house. I am particularly interested in Lucas Milton.”

He doesn’t know, I remind myself. He doesn’t realize how much I know of the plot to expose the House of Milton and bring down the monarchy.

“I’m surprised,” I begin delicately, “that Luke’s even allowed in here. I’d heard you were not… favorable to the monarchy. Won’t people talk?”

He waves the worry away as though it’s pointless. “Why should they talk? We’re perfectly secluded. No one exists within a radius of us for miles. But if people want to talk, let them. Let them believe the prince is here for me and not my reckless, undisciplined son. It’s enjoyable, not playing every single card in my hand.”

“Reckless?” I ask with a frown.Undisciplinedis also a push. But then I remember this is Rory we’re talking about. Rory, who keeps others locked in the shower to torture. Rory, who has sex in the school library and brags about his status as the Prime Minister’s son.

Yeah. That Rory.

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