Page 40 of Crown of Steel

He grabs a few books from its pile. “You are Arthur and Louis’s little brother?” He asks.

“Stepbrother,” I correct.

“Right. stepbrother. But still new.”

“Yes. I—” Inhaling sharply, I continue, “In class you mentioned a prestigious price? I— I want to qualify for thePrix d’Honneur.”

Mr Montague looks up from the books. “And so you should. Though we haven’t officially communicated the new criteria to qualify yet. We have made some changes of interest to you.”

I smile nervously. “Do they make it impossible for me to enter? To win?”

“On the contrary.” Mister Montague's fingertips tap on the desk as he seems to think things through. “They are designed to give more students a fair chance to participate. You’ll be expected to give a presentation about a relevant topic.” Mister Montague plops down onto his seat once more, dropping the books onto his desk. “Can you think of a topic you’re passionate about?”

“There are plenty of subjects I am passionate about,” I mumble, rapidly overthinking my options. “But I need to work on my presentation skills. This college isn’t like any state university, and it’s unlike something I have grown up into. I guess…” I inhale deeply through my lungs, fisting the strands of my backpack as my knee wildly taps against the floor. “Do you want to help me prepare for the qualification? I mean, I understand that as a teacher, it’s your job to be neutral and all. I get that. And I don’t—But it’s just, I could use a bit of support.”

But then Mister Montague gives me that smile again. “I’d love to, Régis. I understand that this college can be overwhelming.”

Silence.

“You would?” I gape, though unsure why I’m so surprised. He is a teacher, after all. He nods, and his widening smile gives me enough courage to say, “In that case, I want to prove to the board that by being smart you can buy a villa by the Mediterranean Sea.”

Mister Montague frowns, clearly in thought, as he uses his pen to tap against his wooden desk. “I’m not sure I follow?” But the look in his eyes contradicts that. There’s another silence, though this time I can feel tension. It’s subtle, like the swirl of a feather, but it’s there. Right when I think that I may have made a very wrong call, he adds on a murmur, “I take it you don’t come from wealth?”

I slowly shake my head. “I don’t.”

“Okay,” he draws out. “Perhaps I have some ideas, if you would like…”

“Yes.”

We spend the next half hour discussing different arguments. Mister Montague is not very open about his own background, though I enjoy collecting the few puzzle pieces of his past as he casually throws them around in our conversations. Turns out, we’re pretty similar. We surf through various topics, sharing knowledge of articles or documentaries, defending our arguments with facts and research data.

Needless to say, when we part half an hour later, I’m feeling pretty elated. Because it’s only the start of working on this project, and it’s already quite something.

Walking through the hall, I can’t hide the wide grin on my face and for once I don’t care about the trailing eyes. Fuck them. I’ll get through tonight, through this ridiculous prank that might not be a prank, and then, tomorrow, I can continue working on these topics Mister Montague and I discussed before. Mister Montague borrowed a book about French Economic History, which is extremely relevant to my choice of topic. I can’t wait to dive in.

Crossing the hall to the far end, to where the collection of plants is placed, I plop down on the furthest bench, the one with its glorious view of the garden. Then I take out my phone to call Dad. The first thing I stumble across though, is that treacherous message I received this morning.

Anonymous: Little stepbro, it’s time. At midnight I’ll leave your cloak in your bedroom. Put it on, with only boxers underneath. I promise you won’t be cold…

At those words, my thoughts start wandering, unwilling to listen to my mind. I am here to graduate. I am here to show them all that I’ll fight them. This ismyfuture.

This too will pass.

But my lips suddenly feel dry, despite the saliva that forms inside. My mouth on his cock. Fuck, the thought is enough to have my nerves back on edge. Flutters confiscate my practised cool, and form a tickle inside my stomach. I haven’t seen Arthur in too long. Have only heard that taunting, husky voice in my mind.

What will he look like in a cloak? Sexy, I bet. Fuck yeah, he’ll look hot and cold, sweet and evil at the same time. I can be evil too.

My notes burn in my backpack. The ones I just formulated together with Mister Montague.

Those thoughts are not convenient. Not with Arthur, not this desire, not this…but will he let me touch him again? Chase me down in the woods, wrap his hand around my neck, let me choke on his cock…fuck… Then I can finally let go. Like the helpless little boy coming out from behind the iron bars, even now, I just want to please. To touch, smell, fucking bury my nose in Arthur’s skin, because I want to be seen, want to matter, want to be good.

I fucking hate him for playing me this way, for making me feel like some helpless pet. But no matter how hard I ignore it, I want his attention, even though I know I shouldn’t. The thought comes on a shudder, though it’s true. I want him to claim my attention with that husky timbre that’s his, let it slowly overtake all my senses. Despite his spiteful words, despite the revolting sensation they bring to my core, as they go against everything I believe.

I want him to know what it’s like for people like us. Want themallto know. I want them to understand that because of this self-imposed division of rich and poor directly from birth, we will never be able to understand each other. They—this brotherhood, or whatever it is—would never know what it's like for "the commoners", as they like to call us. I doubt they've ever considered what life must be like for some of their employees,like Amadou, who came here from Senegal for something better, and Didier who came from Martinique.

And then there’s me.Iwant to be heard. Hopefully thePrix d’Honneurwill offer the right space to challenge topics that are heavy.

Surrounding flora doesn’t give me their usual calm, and I get up again, swinging my backpack over my shoulder and heading toward our dorm. I call Dad as I climb the stairs, who’s in a particularly foul mood. Some other inmates stole his towel and clothes and left him like that in the showers. The guards had to come and save his ass. When I admit that I still haven’t been able to get hold of the lawyer, he starts shouting and swearing, calling me all kinds of names. I need to force my knees not to buck and crawl through the corridor when the need to find an escape overwhelms me.

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