21. Detention

Detention.

Detention smelled like old carpet and cheaper disinfectant.

The kind of room forgotten by time, with crooked blinds and desks scraped raw by generations of boredom.

I stepped in, noticing how it was stuffy and filled with stale air.

There were only a handful of students already seated, sprawled in various degrees of disdain. There was one girl with mascara smudged in intentional chaos, her lipstick bright and red. Next up, two boys from the track team who looked like they were planning to nap through the hour, and a quiet girl I vaguely recognized from Advanced Calculus.

I slid into a desk at the far back, pulled out my phone, and texted Freya.

[To Freya]

Detention. North Wing. Headmaster's orders. I swear I'm going to combust.

There was no reply yet. Maybe she was still in class, or maybe she was trying not to hunt down Elias with a spork.

"Look who decided to join the club." I heard.

The voice was light, teasing, and unfamiliar. I looked up.

Two boys approached, both radiating the kind of mischief that meant trouble came standard.

One of them was tall, lanky but broad-shouldered, with hair the color of a dying flame, blazing orange and unruly. He had an earring shaped like a dagger and a crooked grin that practically spelled 'danger.'

The other was sharper. Lean muscle, pale skin, and a scar that cut across his right eye like a lightning bolt frozen in flesh. His dark hair fell in messy layers, and he watched me like he already knew all the ways to unravel a person.

The one with the scar gave me a short nod. "Hello there. So you're the girl who slapped Elias Hawthorne in front of half the library?"

I didn't answer.

"I'm not judging," the orange-haired one said, holding up his hands with a mock-sincere expression. "In fact, I'm a little in awe. I didn't think anyone had the guts to touch the Heir Prince without spontaneous combustion. First you kissed him, now you slapped him. Just one more to make it a hatrick!"

"Go away," I muttered, biting my inner lip.

"I'm Ronan," Scar said, pointing to himself.

"I'm Dante," Flamehead added cheerfully. "I bite and tease, he broods and sometimes teases."

"Leave. Me. Alone." I repeated.

They exchanged glances, clearly amused.

"If you insist. No problem," Ronan said with a shrug, backing off with a lazy sort of grace. "We'll let you stew in peace, Queen of the Slap."

Dante snickered at Ronan's comment as they returned to their seats like nothing happened.

I clenched my jaw, fists tightening around the edge of the desk.

The room was too small. The world was too loud. The shame, still stuck like tar under my skin, flared again. I felt their eyes still flicking toward me occasionally, curious, amused, expectant.

When the clock finally hit the hour, the supervising professor, who had barely looked up from his crossword, dismissed us without a word.

I didn't wait.

I shoved my things into my bag and bolted, walking fast and nowhere in particular until my feet carried me past the south gardens, through a shadowed corridor, and out to the narrow path that ran near the edge of the forest.

The air was cooler here. The trees stood tall and silent like old sentries, and the wind rustled the branches with secrets I wasn't meant to hear.

I kept walking.

Farther. Farther.

And then I screamed.

Loud, hoarse, a sound torn from somewhere deep and cracked and aching.

The tears followed before I could stop them. I sank to my knees by the twisted roots of a gnarled old tree and let it all out, every frayed thread, every bruised thought, every reminder that I didn't belong here. Not really.

Not when people could spit at me in the halls.

Not when the Headmaster talked about me like I was a stain to manage.

Not when someone like Elias Hawthorne could reduce me to nothing with ten words and still walk away untouched.

"I hate this place," I whispered into the dirt.

Then something rustled behind me.

I froze.

The hair on the back of my neck lifted. Slowly, I turned.

There, just beyond the trees, half-shadowed, half-silvered in the late afternoon light, was a shape.

Massive. White. Silent.

Its eyes glowed gold.

I scrambled back, breath caught in my throat.

It didn't move. Just watched. Its shape wasn't fully solid, like it flickered slightly, as if caught between one world and the next.

My foot caught on a root, and I tumbled hard, my palm scraping against gravel as I let out a sharp cry.

I pushed up and ran, heart clawing up my throat. I didn't look back. I didn't want to know if it was following me. My lungs burned. My legs burned.

And then—

I slammed into someone.

Hard.

Hands caught me before I could hit the ground again.

Lucian.

Of course.

He steadied me with an ease that only made me more off-balance. His violet eyes blinked down at me, curious and calm. "Are you running from something?"

I gasped, still breathless. "There was something there. In the woods. Huge. White. Its eyes—"

"Golden?" he said softly.

I blinked. How did he know?

"Yes."

He tilted his head, almost like he was humoring a child. "Are you sure?"

Something in his voice, gentle, amused, made the panic sour in my stomach.

"I know what I saw," I snapped.

He didn't argue. But he didn't agree either, which somehow made it worse.

"You don't believe me," I whispered, backing away.

His silence answered for him.

I turned and ran again.

This time, I didn't stop until I reached my dorm.

I slammed the door, locked it, and pressed my back to the wood as my breaths came in shallow bursts.

Freya wasn't inside, so I sat down at the door, panting.

Whatever that thing was… it was real.

And no one, absolutely no one, was going to believe me.