Page 9 of Spearcrest Knight

My luck runs out on a Friday night.

I’m sitting in a corner of the study hall, annotating my copy of Othello when the doors slam open. The study room is suddenly flooded with the sound of voices and laughter. I stay low and peek around my table lamp.

The Young Kings, their female counterparts, their friends and sycophants are all pouring into the study hall, holding bottles of Dom Perignon and boxes of pizza.

Their parties are notorious throughout campus, but their smaller gatherings are what people really care about. They are intimate little affairs held in some unlikely part of the school where they won’t be caught. Rumour has it all sorts of debauchery go down at these events. Everyone in the school secretly longs to be invited, to be chosen to spend time with the elite amongst the elite.

EvenIused to be curious about those scandalous get-togethers.

But certainly not curious enough to stay now. Unlike the Spearcrest elite, ifIget caught, therewillbe consequences. Both from the school and my furious parents.

And I’m not about to get in trouble in my final year at Spearcrest. Not when I’m applying to the kind of university I don’t have the wealth or influence I need to get into.

I cringe behind the little ledge of my desk, hoping to go unnoticed. With quick, quiet movements, I close my books and shove them into my backpack. I can hear them talking and laughing as they settle themselves around the room, filling the air with the pounding of music and the clinking of bottles and glasses.

Hopefully, their heads are too far up each other’s arses for them to notice me. I finish packing my stuff and shoulder my backpack.

Then a lazy voice crawls like ice up my spine.

“Leaving so soon, Sutton?”

I look up.

Evan Knight out of his uniform is a perfect cliche of the all-American boy. In his plain white t-shirt and jeans, he looks like a Calvin Klein model. Tall and athletic, he has broad shoulders and big, sun-kissed arms.

He always returns from summers in the US like he’s been dipped in sunlight: his sandy curls bleached almost silver in places, his skin polished gold. His clear blue eyes, set in that handsome tan face, are bright as gemstones.

As beautiful as he is, it means nothing to me.

Because behind his lazy drawl, his easy laughter, his golden skin and cerulean eyes, I know how ugly Evan Knight really is.

“I wasn’t invited,” I say, dropping my eyes to avoid his amused gaze.

“No, something tells me you don’t get invited to many parties,” he says lightly. “That’s what happens when you’re a total buzzkill. But it looks like the party’s found you. Don’t you wanna see what the fuss is all about?”

I glance over his shoulder. The other "kings" are busy pouring glasses of champagne for beautiful girls. I spot Seraphina Rosenthal—the Rose of Spearcrest—and suppress a shudder. She hates my guts and will never miss an opportunity to make me feel like shit if she can.

So far, none of them seem to have noticed me, which is probably the only reason Evan is alone.

Normally, he’s always surrounded by his little gang, their sneers and snickers. I can’t remember the last time we spoke alone. I don’twantto remember the last time we spoke alone.

“I’m alright,” I say as politely as I can manage given how much my skin is crawling with alternating ice and fire right now. “I’m pretty sure the last thing this party needs is a prefect in attendance.”

“What are you going to do, Sutton?” His voice depends as he lowers it, the curl of his lip is mocking. “Tattle on us? Write our names down on your little clipboard?”

“No clipboard.”

I tuck my chair in and try to make a beeline for the door, but Evan is fast. He’s hopped off the desk in the time it takes me to go around it. Now he’s standing right in my way, close enough to touch.

Close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne—cedarwood and frost—and feel the heat exuding from his skin.

“No clipboard,” I repeat, showing him my palms. “No pen. Nobody’s going to find out about your little illicit shindig, so you can relax. I’m just heading back to my dorm.”

But he stays in my way, looking down at me.

In Year 9, we used to be identical heights, chin to chin. Now, he's annoyingly taller than me. Meeting his gaze from this close requires tilting my head back. Something I have no intention of doing.

So I keep my eyes firmly fixed on his trainers, which are much too scruffy for the amount of money he’s doubtlessly spent on them.

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