Page 26 of Marrying My Professor

His brow lifts a fraction. “You’re counting.”

I tilt my head, meeting his gaze. “Wouldn’t you?”

He doesn't answer, which is answer enough. Marcus chose this. His father was Veritas, his grandfather before that, a lineage of Sovereign Bastards stretching back to when Belgrave was nothing but ambition and stolen land. He doesn't understand what it's like to be owned, to have your autonomy stripped and repackaged as duty.

But he's sharp enough to know that being a part of this club against your will must be a very painful sort of punishment.

We reach the main chamber. The double doors are already open, bronze and heavy, engraved with symbols that predate the university by centuries. Inside, the council table dominates the space: a massive slab of black walnut polished to a mirror shine, surrounded by high-backed chairs upholstered in deep burgundy. Each chair is marked with a different sigil—vulture, wolf, serpent, crow.

The faction heads are already seated.

At the head of the table sits Nathaniel Davis, the Praefectus Maximus, the highest-ranking officer in the entire Veritas Order. He's in his late fifties, silver hair combed back with military precision, a face carved from granite and decades of ruthless decision-making. He wears a simple black suit, no tie, no pin, because he is supposed to represent all four fractions of the Veritas.

I don’t want to think about what he had to do to get to such a position, and for that, I despise him.

Not because he's cruel—though he is—but because he's efficient. Nathaniel doesn't waste time on theatrics or posturing. He identifies problems and eliminates them with the kind of clinical detachment that makes sociopaths look warm. He's the reason I'm still here. The reason Atticus Drexel's death didn't stick. The reason I wake up every morning in a life I didn't choose.

He looks up as Marcus and I enter, his pale blue eyes settling on me with the weight of a scalpel.

"Draven," he says. "Take your seat."

I do, sliding into the chair marked with the serpent coil. Marcus takes his place at the crow. Around the table, the others are already positioned:

Julian Voss, head of the Dominion Sons, sits to Nathaniel's right. Mid-forties, slicked-back dark hair, a jawline sharp enough to draw blood, and a smile that never reaches his eyes. He's wearing a charcoal suit with a vulture pin glinting at his collar, and his fingers drum an idle rhythm against the table's edge. Julian deals in leverage and ruin, the kind of man who collects secrets the way other people collect art. He's dangerous because he's patient. He'll wait years for the perfect moment to destroy you.

Dominic Kane, leader of the Bacchus Brotherhood, sprawls in his chair like he owns it. Early thirties, all wolfish grin and restless energy, red tie loose at the throat, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and faded scars. He's the second youngest head by a decade, which tells you everything you need to know about how he got the position. And if you need a bigger hint, the Brotherhood doesn't elect leaders; they survive them. Dominic's got a body count that would make most men flinch, and he wears it like a fucking badge of honor.

And then there's Evander Thorne, head of the Ashen Serpents. My former faction. The man who should have let me go when I tried to leave, but didn't. He's in his sixties, grey robes draped over a tailored suit, a silver serpent embroidered at the collar. His hands are folded neatly on the table, fingers long and thin, the hands of a surgeon or a strangler. His eyes are dark, almost black, and when he looks at me, I feel the weight of every secret he's collected, every manipulation he's orchestrated, every life he's quietly dismantled.

The only one missing is James Harrington, the youngest leader at the age of 22, still in college and leader of the Sovereign Bastards.

"Gentlemen," Nathaniel begins, his voice cutting through the low murmur of conversation. "Let's begin."

Nathaniel slides a leather-bound folder across the table. Julian catches it, flips it open, scans the contents with the practiced eye of someone who reads dossiers the way most people read morning headlines.

"Initiation season," Nathaniel says. "We have forty-three candidates across all factions. The trials begin in two weeks, and we need to address the Brandon Hayes issue.”

Nathaniel pulls a stack of folders from beneath the table and slides one to each of us.

My stomach drops.

I know that name. I know it because it's been on my desk for the last six months, buried in a stack of student files I was supposed to review after his death. Suicide, the official report said. But nothing about Brandon Hayes’s file reads like suicide. Not his grades, not his social ties, not the way he moved through campus. It always read as Veritas, but I never dug deeper. I couldn't afford to. The less I knew about Veritas business, the safer I was.

Julian opens the folder. His expression doesn't change, but his fingers are still on the page. "Mule initiate. Sponsored."

I flip through the folder to see the truth behind Brandon’s initiation, or at least what they will tell us.

“It was a simple flaw that won't happen again,” Dominic shrugs, closing his folder.

“But died during competition for Sovereign?” I say, looking at the parameters around initiation last year. “Alcohol poisoning and fucking frost bite. Are you guys serious?”

Nathaniel's voice is cold, clinical. "Brandon Hayes was three weeks away from being named a provisional leader within the Bastards."

"Where are the bastards?" I ask, looking around the space.

"We suspect one of them did it, so we did not invite them to this meeting," Nathaniel corrects. "But we don't have proof. The death was clean. No witnesses. No evidence. The university accepted the suicide narrative without question."

"Convenient," I mutter.