Page 74 of Vicious Kings
"I need to change my schedule," I say without preamble.
She doesn't even look up. "We've been through this, Miss Moreau. Changes require?—"
"I know what they require." I slam my hands on her desk, making her jump. "But someone changed my schedule without my permission. I want it changed back."
I'll take Caelyx over Corvinus. It's a choice between a cobra and a viper, but at least it's a choice.
She finally looks at me, those cold eyes narrowing. "Your schedule was approved by your benefactor. Only they can authorize changes."
"Who's my benefactor?"
"That information is confidential."
"Of course it is." I want to flip her desk. Want to grab her by her perfect bun and demand answers. But that would just get me expelled. Or executed. Hard to tell which would happen first.
Besides, it's pretty fucking obvious said "benefactor" is Corvinus.
"Is there anything else?" She's already returning to her paperwork, dismissing me.
"No." I'm out the door before she can respond, my mind racing. This is worse than I thought. Corvinus isn't just interested in me, he's fucking obsessed. Changing my schedule, cornering me in class, making it clear he's not going to give up just because I told him to go fuck himself.
Which means I need a new plan. Fast.
Twenty-Two
TALLON
The blade whistles past my ear close enough that I feel the displaced air, and I duck under Corvinus's follow-through with a grin that's probably going to get me decapitated. Worth it.
"You're getting slow, princeling," I taunt, spinning away from his next strike. "Too much time painting, not enough time training."
"Shut up and fight." His voice is clipped the way it always gets when he's trying to work through something with violence instead of words.
We've been at this for half an hour. Thirty minutes of him taking out whatever the fuck's been eating at him with increasingly aggressive sword work. Not that I'm complaining. It's better that he channels his frustration into sparring than staying locked in his study, painting that omega's face over and over until the canvas looks like a shrine to his obsession.
The last week has been a mess.
I block his overhead strike, the impact jarring up my arms. He's not holding back. Good. Neither am I.
The gym is empty aside from us, which is how I prefer it. Just two packmates working out their shit the old-fashioned way.
With violence.
I feint left, then come in low on his right. He parries, but I catch the slight delay in his reaction. He's distracted. Still thinking about her, probably. The hunter omega who looked him in the eye and told him no for the first time in his life.
"Your footwork is shit today," I observe, dancing back from another strike. "Something on your mind?"
"Nothing that concerns you."
Liar. Everything concerns me when it comes to the pack. That's what happens when you soul-bond yourself to two of the most complicated bastards in existence. Their problems become my problems whether I want them to or not.
I press the attack, forcing him to focus. Blade work has always been more his thing than mine—I prefer teeth and claws when push comes to shove—but I've learned enough over the years to keep him honest. Our swords meet in a series of strikes that would probably look impressive to an audience.
"You changed her schedule," I say, because apparently my mouth has decided subtlety is for people with better self-preservation instincts. "Put her in Combat Theory with a quarter of the alphas on campus."
"Your point?" He doesn't even have the decency to look guilty, just blocks my strike and counters with one aimed at my ribs.
I twist away, the blade missing by inches. "My point is that's either brilliant or the stupidest thing you've ever done, and I'm not sure which."
