Riding Him

The rumor mill had eaten well today.

By breakfast, everyone knew Seraphina had nearly choked Delara out in combat class. By lunch, they were whispering about how Damian had pulled her into the restricted catacombs and not alone.

By dinner, the whispers turned sharp:

Slut. Seductress. Sorceress.

She ate in silence, barely touching the food. Eyes tracked her every move. Girls glared. Boys stared.

But no one dared speak to her.

Not until a tray slammed onto her table and someone sat directly across from her.

Rin. Her only roommate. Her maybe-friend. Her possibly-traitor.

The pink-haired girl narrowed her eyes. "You're really collecting them, huh?"

Seraphina chewed slowly. "You jealous?"

Rin snorted. "Please. I like my boys less damaged and not crawling with power I can't afford to touch."

Seraphina shrugged, glancing around the dining hall. "You think I want any of this?"

Rin stabbed a piece of bread. "Doesn't matter. You've got it now. And Delara's not the only one who wants you buried."

---

Later that night, Seraphina couldn't sleep. Again.

The dreams were changing.

No longer just smoke and voices. Now, faces. Blood. Wings. Fire.

A symbol carved into her palm that glowed in silver every time she touched her skin.

She sat by the window in her robe, legs curled up, head tilted against the glass.

A knock came.

Soft.

Rhythmic.

Like someone wasn't afraid of waking the dead.

She opened the door cautiously.

It was Jasper.

Shirtless. Low-slung black joggers. Tattoos glowing faintly across his collarbone, like runes shifting with his pulse.

"Can't sleep," he said simply, brushing past her without waiting for an invite. "Mind if I haunt your room instead of my own?"

She arched a brow. "You do realize this is a girl's dorm."

"Exactly." He grinned lazily. "All the more fun if we get caught."

He sprawled across her bed, arms behind his head like he owned the damn space.

Seraphina stayed by the door, arms crossed. "You're trouble."

"I'm therapy with a face."

She fought a smile. "What do you want, Jasper?"

He looked at her then. Eyes serious. The kind of look that stripped away his usual smirk.

"I want to know what you're hiding."

Her breath caught.

"Everyone wants something from you," he said softly. "Lucian wants answers. Damian wants control. The girls want your head. I just want the truth."

Seraphina stepped closer. "And what if I don't know what that truth is?"

He sat up, reached out slowly, curling his fingers around her wrist, pulling her to stand between his legs.

"Then let me help you find it."

Their lips met again.

This time, there was no pause. No retreat. Just heat.

She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, moaning softly into his mouth as his hands roamed under her robe, gripping her bare thighs.

"You taste like rebellion," he whispered against her throat.

"And you taste like a mistake," she replied, breathless.

"But you're still riding it," he murmured, grinding up against her.

She gasped loud, broken.

But the moment shattered with a bang on the door.

"Jasper Blackthorn!" a voice hissed. "Get the hell out of the girls' wing before I report you!"

He groaned, forehead against her chest. "Always ruining my fun."

She slid off his lap, fixing her robe. "Out."

He kissed her forehead. "I'll be back."

"Not if I lock the damn window."

He only smirked. "Then I'll burn the wall down."

And just like that he was gone again.

The next morning, she was summoned to the Headmistress's office.

Not because of Jasper.

Because someone had vandalized her locker.

Blood witch.

Whore.

Die, invader.

The Headmistress had no sympathy. Just a warning.

"Win your enemies over," she said coldly. "Or crush them. No in-between here, Miss Vale."

Outside the office, Seraphina ran into Lucian.

He looked her up and down. "I heard about the locker."

She stared him down. "Going to warn me again?"

"No." He stepped closer. "I'm going to train you."

She blinked. "Train me?"

"You're too raw. Too exposed. And far too vulnerable if your only defense is clever insults and one accidental magic surge every few days."

She clenched her fists. "You think I'm weak."

"No," he said, voice dropping. "I think you're unforged. There's a difference."

And then he handed her a scroll.

"When you're ready, come to the Hall of Echoes. Midnight. We begin."

That night, she didn't sleep.

She stood alone in the Hall of Echoes.

Stone columns. Old blood on the floor. Shadows that moved when they shouldn't.

Lucian appeared behind her like smoke. "Tell me what you want most."

She didn't answer.

"Tell me," he pressed, "what would you kill for?"

Her mouth went dry. Her pulse thundered.

She didn't say the truth.

She didn't say: To belong. To burn. To be something more than broken.

She just lifted her chin and whispered:

"Power."

His smile was a blade.

"Then let's start."