Lambs Don’t Get Carried

Chapter 2: Lambs Don’t Get Carried

The SUV rolled through the gates like it owned the night.

I felt every bump in the road through the cast, every jolt rattling the pins they’d screwed into my tibia. The Shadow Guard—still hadn’t given me a name—sat beside me in the back, one long leg stretched out, coat dripping onto the leather seats. He hadn’t spoken since the hospital. I hadn’t either. Silence was safer than stupid questions.

The campus unfolded in fragments through the rain-streaked window: towering stone buildings lit by gas lamps that burned an unnatural crimson, arched walkways dripping with ivy that looked blacker than green, a central courtyard where a fountain shaped like a coiled serpent spat water that glowed faintly blue. Everything screamed old money and older blood.

The car stopped under a covered porte-cochère. The guard opened my door before I could even reach for the handle.

“I can walk,” I said. Voice rough. Too rough.

He raised one perfect eyebrow. “With a fresh compound fracture and cracked ribs? You’ll scream the second your foot touches ground.”

“I’ll scream quieter than I’ll look like a damn invalid being carried in on night one.”

For a second—maybe two—he actually considered it. Then he stepped back, just enough to give me space.

“Fine. Crawl if you want. But the queens are watching.”

I didn’t ask how. I already knew. Cameras. Wards. Vampire senses sharp enough to hear a heartbeat skip across campus. I’d read the rumors. Some said the four queens could taste fear from three floors up.

I swung my good leg out first, gripped the doorframe, and pushed. Pain exploded white-hot up my spine. My vision tunneled. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, forced my face blank. Poker face. Always poker face. I’d learned that lesson in foster homes long before vampires were real.

I stood.

Barely.

The guard didn’t offer an arm. Smart. He just waited, rain dripping off the brim of his coat like he had all eternity.

I took one step. Then another. Each one cost me something—breath, dignity, the last scraps of whatever pride I’d been clinging to. By the time I reached the double doors, sweat mixed with rainwater on my face and my hospital gown was sticking to every scar on my back.

The doors opened on their own.

Inside was warmer. Marble floors veined with red. Chandeliers dripping with crystal shaped like teardrops—or blood drops, depending on how cynical you felt. A grand staircase swept up into shadow. And at the top of it…

Four figures.

They didn’t move like people. They moved like gravity had decided to bend around them instead.

The one on the far left wore a black Stetson tilted low, red-and-black plaid shirt tucked into dark jeans, cowboy boots polished to a mirror shine. A silver revolver rested low on her hip—old-school, but the barrel glinted with runes. Gothic cowgirl. She smiled slow, like she’d already decided how I tasted.

Next to her: pleated black skirt over torn fishnets, oversized hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, black lipstick, silver chains dangling from her belt. Hair dyed midnight with streaks of electric violet. Preppy emo. Her eyes were the color of storm clouds and she looked bored in the way only someone who’d seen centuries could look bored.

Third: leather jacket patched with band logos I didn’t recognize, ripped black jeans, combat boots. Hair shaved on one side, long and black on the other. A motorcycle helmet dangled from her fingers like a trophy. Biker goth. She cracked her neck, slow, deliberate.

Last: tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. Hair pulled into a severe bun, glasses with thin black frames. She held a tablet, thumb scrolling even now. Tech heiress. Cold. Clinical. Beautiful in the way a scalpel is beautiful.

None of them were Celeste Valentina Morau.

I should’ve known better. Celeste was the face of the Accords—liaison to the human government, administrator over Storm Academy in Utah, basically a superhero who’d traded fangs for diplomatic immunity. She didn’t run BludHeaven. She oversaw it from a distance. Which meant someone else had pulled my file, read my pathetic application, and decided I was worth the paperwork.

The cowgirl spoke first. Voice like bourbon and smoke.

“Well, damn. You’re even smaller than the picture.”

The biker laughed—low, rough. “Thought he’d be taller. Or at least bleeding more.”

The emo tilted her head. “He’s bleeding inside. I can smell it.”

The suit didn’t look up from her tablet. “Compound fracture of the tibia. Three cracked ribs. Moderate concussion. Hematoma on the left temporal lobe. He shouldn’t be upright.”

I met her eyes. “Yet here I am.”

Silence stretched. Thick. Dangerous.

The cowgirl stepped down one stair. Then another. Boots clicking.

“You wrote you’d do anything,” she said. “Even if it killed you.”

I didn’t flinch. “I did.”

“You meant it?”

I thought about the streets. The foster mom who liked belt buckles more than hugs. The kids at school who used me as target practice because I never cried loud enough. The car that should’ve ended it. The fact that I was still breathing anyway.

“Yeah,” I said. “I meant it.”

She studied me. Long enough that I started counting my own heartbeats.

Then she smiled—slow, wicked, approving.

“Good. Because we don’t keep pets who break easy.”

The suit finally looked up. “Your dorm assignment is West Tower, room 413. Human wing. Bloodmate Board ranking will be posted at midnight tomorrow. You’ll be expected at orientation breakfast. 0600 sharp. Do not be late again.”

I nodded once. Didn’t trust myself to speak.

The biker tossed something. I caught it on instinct—pain lanced through my ribs—and looked down.

A black keycard. My name etched in silver on the front.

“Get cleaned up,” she said. “You smell like hospital and bad decisions.”

The emo added, softer, almost gentle: “And don’t die before we decide what to do with you.”

They turned as one and disappeared up the stairs, shadows swallowing them like they’d never been there.

The guard—still nameless—finally spoke. “West Tower’s that way. Elevator’s broken. Stairs are to your left.”

I looked at the staircase. Three flights. Cast. Cracked ribs.

I started walking.

One painful step at a time.

Because lambs don’t get carried.

Lambs get eaten.

And I was done being prey.

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