Hit a Vien

Isadora:

The morning had been… unexpected, to say the least.

Rhett was practically breathing down my neck, his heavy footsteps echoing mine as we navigated the corridor. I could feel the warmth radiating off him in waves, so close that if I dared to falter, he’d collide into me. He was now acting as my shadow, my warden, my self-appointed guard dog. And every single student we passed parted like the Red Sea, as if the wolf trailing me was Moses himself.

The whispers buzzed at my back, stinging like wasps. Some fearful, some curious, most too cowardly to even make eye contact.

And then there was Loralie.

Of course.

She strolled into my path like she’d been waiting for this exact moment, a serpent coiled with a smile.

“Good morning, sunshine!” she sang, her voice a sugary dagger. “I thought I would take you to class, but I see you’re in very capable hands…or rather claws.”

Her wink was the nail in the coffin of my morning.

I swear I am eternally damned. If there was any justice in the universe, the floor would split open and swallow me whole. But I wasn’t that fortunate.

Rhett stepped closer, and the sudden weight of his palm on my shoulder nearly buckled my knees. Heat seared through me—so blistering I swore my skin burned beneath his touch.

“She won’t need your assistance,” Rhett said, his tone like steel dragged across stone. “She is in very capable hands.”

That voice. Cruel, sharp, final. It gave me a shiver that slid down my spine like a blade.

Loralie’s smile slipped—just for a second. She was too polished to let him see her bleed. “Of course, Rhett. I’ll see you at lunch, Isadora.” Another wink. Another dagger. And then she flitted away, her skirt swishing like she hadn’t just tried to fan a flame.

Rhett growled low in his throat, a sound that rumbled through me, and we continued in silence until I made it to my classroom door.

I swallowed. “I should get inside…you know, get ready for class.”

His eyes scanned me head to toe, slow and deliberate, like he was committing me to memory—or branding me. At last, he gave a single nod and stepped back.

I doubted that was the last I’d see of him today.

Inside, relief came in small doses. I unpacked my things at the back table, thankful for the reprieve, for the illusion of solitude. My heart still thundered traitorously in my chest, and I pressed my palms to the wood, willing it to still.

Madame Meera shuffled in, a wisp of a woman wrapped in too much fabric, drowning in a cardigan and khakis that seemed determined to devour her frame. Her glasses were comically large, slipping down her narrow nose, and yet her voice—thin as it was—held conviction. She loved knowledge more than appearance. That, I admired.

“Today, we will learn about blood-magic,” she squeaked, adjusting her gold wired glasses.

The word had barely left her lips before a smooth, sinful voice cut through the air like smoke curling through cracks.

“Blood…my favorite.”

The room chilled, and I froze mid-breath.

Lucian.

He sauntered in as though he owned the space, as though the floorboards themselves bowed beneath his boots. “You wouldn’t mind if I sat in, would you?” he purred.

Madame Meera stammered, clutching her notes like a shield. “Oh…of course not. Just…umm…”

“I’ll just be in the back, Madame.” His smirk could have stripped flesh from bone.

But he didn’t just take the back wall. No. He floated down the aisle with unnatural grace, and his crimson eyes found me like a beast finds blood on the snow.

He took the empty seat beside me, every movement deliberate, precise, designed to cage me without touching.

I didn’t look at him. I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. My eyes stayed on the professor, though her voice had turned into little more than background noise.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He just sat there, radiating presence, eyes pinned on me as if daring me to break, daring me to flinch.

The air between us crackled.

I inhaled, slow and steady, fighting to calm the panic clawing at my throat. Rhett’s hand had burned. Lucian’s stare froze. And me? I was caught between fire and ice, between a wolf who guarded too closely and a monster who hunted with patience.

And all I could think, traitorous as it was, was that my day was far from over.

After a couple agonizing hours, class dismissed with the shuffle of papers and the relief of students desperate to escape magic theory. Chairs scraped, chatter rose, and Madame Meera waved them off with a distracted flick of her hand.

I took my time, stacking my books carefully, tucking my quills and ink neatly away. I didn’t want to step into the hall yet. Not with the memory of Lucian sitting beside me for the entire lesson, silent but suffocating. I could still feel the weight of his eyes on my skin, his presence like shadows dripping into every crack of the room.

But when I finally gathered the courage to stand and head for the door, I should have known he’d be waiting.

The corridor outside was emptier than I expected—students had scattered already, voices fading around the corners. And there he was. Leaning casually against the wall like he hadn’t a care in the world, like he hadn’t been plotting my undoing all morning. His crimson eyes flicked up the second I appeared, and the slow curl of his mouth was nothing short of predatory.

“Little Isadora,” he drawled, pushing off the wall with lazy grace. “Alone at last.”

I tried to brush past him, keeping my eyes forward, but his arm shot out, barring the way. Not touching me—he didn’t need to. Just a wall of lean muscle and intent, blocking the exit way.

“I don’t have time for this,” I muttered, trying to sound braver than I felt.

He laughed. A dry, sharp sound. “You never have time for me, do you? Always rushing off to Silas. Or Rhett. Maybe you will try your hand at Kai.” His voice dipped lower, curling around the names like venom. “Tell me, do you run to them because you want them, or because you’re trying to make a name for yourself? Trying to claw your way into the High Table’s good graces?”

I stiffened. His smirk widened.

“Oh, that struck a nerve, didn’t it?” he purred, stepping closer. His presence was overwhelming, filling the hall, choking the air from my lungs. “You think Rhett doesn’t see it? That Silas doesn’t know it? You’re playing a dangerous game, little one. Aligning yourself with monsters to feel powerful. To matter.”

“I’m not—” My voice cracked before I could stop it.

Lucian’s grin sharpened. He’d scented blood.

“You think they’ll protect you? Silas, with his cold, empty stare—he doesn’t want you. Death never wants warmth. And Rhett?” He leaned in until I could see the crimson flecks in his eyes, until I could smell the faint metallic tang of him. “He’ll devour you. Wolves don’t love, Isadora. They consume. Piece by piece until there’s nothing left but bones.”

His words sank into me like hooks, tearing at every fragile thread I’d tried to hold together.

“Poor little thing,” he whispered. “So desperate to belong. So desperate to be noticed. Do you really think the High Table will ever see you as anything but a pawn?”

My throat burned. My vision blurred. I blinked hard, but the tears slipped free anyway, betraying me.

Lucian’s smile was triumphant. Cruel. “There it is,” he murmured. “The truth. You’ll never matter to them. Not Silas. Not Rhett. Not the High Table. And certainly not me. You’ll always be the girl crying in the corridor, pretending she’s something more.”

I hated him. I hated that he was right in ways I couldn’t admit, hated that he knew exactly where to cut me open.

A sob escaped before I could swallow it down, and his chuckle followed me like smoke as I finally pushed past him, books clutched tight to my chest, fleeing down the hall with tears streaking my cheeks.