Page 39 of Crown of Steel

I don’t want to be bad. I’ll be good. I’ll be better.

My heart thuds wildly and my eyes fly open. This fucking bed’s too big. I can’t breathe. The flutters slowly evaporate my foggy mind, making me see clearly again. Half past twelve.My tired gaze sweeps over the chess board that lays on the otherpillow, and I blink at my latest move. My knight stands strong between an equally white pawn and rook, causing a direct threat to the flank of his army. I wonder what he’ll do next. A small, tired smile spreads across my face. It’s a strong move.

Outside my room things have gone quiet. Everyone has gone to bed. I’ve had a few weeks now to map out everyone’s habits. Despite his wickedness, I’ve noticed that Arthur doesn’t go to bed late, and like me, he likes to wake up early. But where I like to have a quiet hour in the library before I head for breakfast, to prepare for the day and collect my books, he goes to the gym. Avoidance is key, and our little chase of shadows is working pretty well. Sometimes I even wonder if he too avoids me on purpose. Since our revealing night in the Atrium, we haven’t crossed paths. That excludes the lingering hint of his presence, here in my room, where he sometimes shows up every day to make his move on the board.

That thought brings flutters in my stomach. To know that he comes in here, in my personal space, should piss me off, especially since I’m such a private person, but it doesn’t. Instead it brings some confounding sense of meaning, as if I’m somehow worthy of not being forgotten.

Louis spends most of his time either in class, or on the football grounds. I doubt someone like him could go professional, or would even want to, but he doesn’t seem to spend much time in the library, studying. The same goes for Gaël, but from what I understood from Dominique, his parents just want him to graduate before he can join his mother in developing their beauty line. Which is why Dominique writes most of his papers.

Yeah, I guess that despite it all, I have fallen into a convenient daily flow. A convenient habit of avoiding them. Perhaps they are simply letting me live my life completely separate from them. Or they don’t care. The Deverauxs have plenty of friends and admirers.

That should bring some peace to my exhausted mind, but itdoesn’t. Loud voices occupy my conscience, keeping me from falling asleep at night. The past clashes with the present, Dad with my mother, a cramped bedroom fights against the sight of this large dorm, with its stylish interior and its oversized bed.

And through all these intermingling thoughts, my stepbrother forms the common thread. His eyes are glowing in the dark, the corners of his lips tipped up in a seductive smile. And his hands…

“Stay the fuck away from me,” I growl into the darkened void. No one answers. Exasperated, I exhale a sigh, then grab my blanket and head for the closet. It’s a narrow, dark space, so I fit perfectly. And with the door locked and the closet ajar, the blanket wrapped over my shivering core, I finally fall into nothingness.

“Sir? Sir!” Fumbling with my backpack, I race down the hall and toward our new teacher of International Business. “Wait up, please.”

He turns over his shoulder, eyes widening when he sees me. “Régis? Régis Deveraux?”

“Yes, I—” I pant, taking a few big breaths before I get my voice under control. My teacher smiles as he gestures with his hands for me to slow down. I can feel them staring, the other students. Always fucking staring, without talking.

What the hell are you looking at, huh?

Brothers, they could bebrothers.

The thought makes me cringe.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Sure. Follow me, please.” We continue a short walk through the hall, avoiding groups of students who mostly go the opposite direction as they head for the canteen. As soon as we turnaround the corner, he points at the closest door, on which he has written his full name on a piece of paper. Noah Montague. It’s not a common policy for a teacher to communicate his first name, or hang up sticky notes on their doors, for that matter. When he sees me staring, his lips tick up. “I ordered a wooden nameplate that matches the color of the door, but it hasn’t arrived yet.”

I don’t reply, instead give him a weak nod. For a flash of a second, I wonder if I shouldn’t just drop this stupid idea and get the hell out, but when the door closes behind us on a quiet click, I know that I’ve run out of time. That should probably make me curl inward like I usually do, but when Mister Montague stares at me with a warm glow in his eyes, I can’t help the puff of air that leaves my mouth in a whoosh, and my shoulders sag in relief.

The room’s got a functional size, with a desk and chairs, and a bookcase overstacked with books. Piles and piles of them. Against the wall, a painting of Pythagoras and a quote from Newton, and on the window sill, a small pot with a cactus. That makes me frown.

Catching my trail of sight, Mister Montague shrugs, but doesn’t answer my unspoken question.

“Please, sit.” He gestures to the dark-leather chair across from his desk, and waits for me to sit down, before taking place at his desk. I take a seat and pull my bag on top of my lap to mask the ticking of my knee. I’m nervous.

I have been tense ever since I woke up to a message on my phone from a not so anonymous caller, stating that tonight’s the night. The first initiation of the brotherhood. Over the course of the past ten hours, I have fought back all kinds of different thoughts. From refusing to go,full stop, to waves of anger. I have wanted to call my mother and tell her that my stepbrother is bullying me, but then thought better of it. I don’t want her toknow that her son is even more fucked up than she already thinks.

So I decided that I will go, face it, and survive. Two can play this fucking game.

When the silence continues, Mister Montague gives me a small smile, not trying to reveal his curiosity as he eyes me with surprisingly light eyes that are surrounded by thick, dark lashes and equally dark eyebrows. Still, his gaze seems genuine, and that’s all I need.

“What can I do for you, Régis?”

“You are new here too, right?” I blurt. That was not what I meant to ask. My cheeks heat with embarrassment.

Mister Montague’s smile widens. “I am. This is my first school year at Saint-Laurent.”

“Me too.” I wince. “I’m sorry, I’m not a big talker.”

He nods at that, lips still curled up. “But you have a big brain. I saw your high school results. They are exceptional.”

“Thank you, sir.” I roll my lips. When the silence lingers once more, Mister Montague stands up, and walks toward the closet. He’s dressed smart casual in the colors of Saint-Laurent, with navy-blue pants and a coffee-colored jumper, unlike most of the other teachers who show up in a suit. The collar of his equally dark blue shirt is tucked neatly over the edges of his sweater, making his slender neck look even longer.

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