Chapter 4: The Fracture

The aftermath of the corridor was not a fire. It was a bruise. A deep, tender, secret ache that lived under the skin.

For Noah, it was shame.

He sat in his dorm room, the room austere, his composure rigid, the silence absolute. He was staring at his hands, disgusted. He hadn’t just slipped. He hadn’t just lost control. He had begged her. “Please.” He had exposed the raw, frantic nerve of his own trauma—the part of him that was just like his father’s text: the weapon he was made to be.

He was convinced he had terrified her. That his raw, uncontained self was something so ugly she would run from it.

His penance was immediate. He would put the monster back in its cage. He would be the Laurent Heir again. Cold. Perfect. Impassive. He would protect her, even from himself.

For Althea, it was not fear. It was… recognition.

His confession—I’m trying to not be what they made me… I’m just… contained. And right now, with you… I’m not”— was a splinter in her mind.

It was the first real thing anyone at St. Valen’s had said to her.

It had been three days. Three days of him avoiding her. Three days of seeing him across the courtyard, the perfect Laurent Heir, his mask of cold control so firmly in place it was as if the corridor had never happened.

The entire campus was buzzing with talk of the upcoming Benefactors Gala, a massive event held in the university’s grand hall to honor its “Past, Present, and Future.” It was all anyone could talk about. Althea hadn’t even looked at her invitation.

She was in the rare manuscripts section, a dead-end aisle of Norse mythology, trying to breathe. She was running her fingers over the gold-leaf tooling of a heavy, ancient book, trying to ground herself.

A shift in the air. A sudden, electric weight. Althea felt it all.

She didn’t need to turn. She knew. The scent of him preceded him—not a cologne, but an atmosphere. It was the clean, sharp scent of ironed cotton and something darker, more complex underneath… something that reminded her of old books, vetiver, and cold steel.

Her heart hammered, a mix of anger and that raw, dangerous pull from the corridor.

“You’re avoiding me,” she said, her voice a low accusation to the bookshelf.

She turned. Noah. He was standing at the end of the aisle, blocking the only exit. He looked… exhausted. His tie was loose, his jacket off. The mask of his composure is fraying.

“Am I,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Why?” She whispered, and the word was more of an accusation. “Because you’re ashamed?”

His jaw clenched. He took a step into the aisle. The space became claustrophobic. “I’m… saving you the trouble.”

“Saving me from what? Your ‘slip’?” She shot back, her own anger rising. “You looked at me today like I was… a stranger. After… that.”

“I looked at you?” He laughed, a single, harsh, pained sound that was devoid of humor. He took another step. He was too close now. “Althea, I showed you the worst part of me. The part I keep chained. I… I lost control. I’m disgusted with myself. I’m trying to give you the decency of… of my absence.”

“You idiot,” she breathed, her voice raw. She took a step toward him, her hands fisted at her sides. “You think you’re the only one?”

That broke him. His composure shattered. His eyes, which had been guarded, turned black with a raw, desperate hunger. In one step, he closed the distance, caging her against the bookshelf. His hands slammed onto the shelf on either side of her head, rattling the ancient books.

“What did you say?” He whispered, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.

You’re not the only one,” she said, breathless, her chin tipped up in defiance. “You’re not the only one with a… a monster.”

“Don’t,” he rasped, his gaze dropping to her mouth. “Don’t say that.”

Why?” She challenged, her voice a whisper, her body humming with the proximity of him. “Because you’re afraid to lose control again?”

“No.” His voice was a wreck. His hand came up, his fingers trembling, to hover just inches from her jaw. “Because if you’re one too… then I don’t… I don’t know how to stop.”

He was so close that the heat from his chest was a physical press against her. The air was his. She breathed in that scent—clean cotton, sharp vetiver, cold steel—and it was a dizzying, dangerous thing that went straight to her head. His thumb, calloused and radiating a dry warmth, didn’t just brush her jaw. It anchored on the bone, a bare, electric searing point of contact that stopped her heart.

It was a brand.

Her hands came up. This wasn’t the startled, desperate fisting of his shirt from the corridor. This was an answer. Her fingers didn’t stop at his chest. They slid up, her palms flat against the solid wall of him, until her hands curled, her fingers seizing his shoulders. It was a desperate, defiant grip. Not to push him away, but to hold him there. To keep him from running.

She could feel the corded muscle under his shirt, tense and vibrating. His heart hammered, a frantic, muffled thunder she could feel through her entire body.

“Noah,” she whispered. His name was a plea. A permission.

He was going to kiss her. His eyes were dark, his control gone. He leaned in, his mouth a breath from hers. He could taste the air she exhaled.

*Riiiiiiing*

A bell, shrill and tinny, echoed from the main desk. A librarian’s cough. The outside world, a violation.

Noah recoiled as if he’d been burned. The shame and the guilt slammed back into him tenfold. He looked at her—her pupils blown, her lips parted—and at her hands, still curled on his shoulders, and he looked horrified.

“I… I can’t,” he choked out. He turned and fled the aisle, leaving her trembling, furious, and aching among the old books.

She ended up in the commons, a cup of coffee clutched in her hands, her mind reeling. He was just like the others. Running from her.

“You look… composed, Sombra. How disappointing.”

Luca slid into the seat opposite her, his voice a low, amused purr. He hadn’t asked. He just… arrived.

Althea’s head snapped up. “What do you want, Luca?”

“Just admiring the show.” He nodded in the direction of the library.

“Our resident saint seems to have found his penance. He’s all guilt and no fun, isn’t he? He shows you his true self for one second and then runs back to his cage, disgusted with himself for losing control.”

Althea’s blood went cold. Had he seen?

“Speaking of cages.” He tapped an embossed, cream-colored card on the table between them. “The school’s ‘Benefactors’ Gala.’ A night for all the ‘past, present, and future’ monsters to congratulate each other on their gilded prisons. It’s the highlight of St. Valen’s hypocrisy.”

He saw her glance at the card. “The entire school will be there. All the legacy heirs, all the ancient money, all the power. It’s not just a party; it’s a re-establishment of the hierarchy.”

He leaned in, his voice a seductive, poisonous whisper. “Noah, of course, will be there. A perfect heir to his family’s empire. The dutiful son. All the raw honesty?” He scoffed. “That’s just his mask slipping. He hates it. He hates himself for it.”

He paused, his eyes dropping to her mouth. “I, on the other hand… I like it when the mask slips up. I find it’s so much more… honest.”

Althea stood, her chair scraping on the stone. “I have to go.”

“Of course,” Luca said, his smile all teeth. “But just remember, Althea… He’s ashamed of the one thing you actually liked.”

She got back to her dorm, her body still vibrating. She was a live wire, her magic a low, angry buzz under her skin. The lights in her room were flickering, dancing to the rhythm of her frustrated, chaotic heart. Umbra whined, pressing his head to her thigh.

She was angry at him for running. She was angry at herself for holding on.

She saw the embossed, cream-colored invitation at her desk.

St. Valen’s Academy requests the honor of your presence at the Benefactors Gala.

She was about to set it on fire. She was about to use her power, her volatility, to just… unmake it.

Her laptop chimed. An email. The sender: Ricardo Sombra.

Her heart stopped. She opened it. The message was cold, precise, and had no greeting.

Althea,

I have confirmed our family’s attendance at the St. Valen’s Benefactors’ Gala.

We are, naturally, interested in a… review… of your progress.

I expect your full compliance and flawless presentation.

Ricardo Sombra

Althea’s hand went to her throat. Her father, her mother, and her sisters. Odesa. Hiraya. All of them. Here. Not as guests. As auditors.

She looked at the gala invitation on her desk. It wasn’t going to be a party. It wasn’t a choice. Not for her. It was a summons. It was an inspection. It was a cage.