5: A Lie Worth Keeping

~ Kaia ~

The words caught in my throat.

Blackwood Estate. I couldn't say that. Not here. Not to Luca Pierce. The surname was safe — Dad had built the whole disguise around it — but the estate itself was something else. A real place. A place someone could look up, ask around about, connect to a family that wasn't supposed to exist inside these walls.

"Kai?" Luca tilted his head.

"We're from—"

"Pierce."

A deep voice cut across the courtyard. Luca sighed dramatically. "Duty calls." He glanced over his shoulder, then back at me, grinning. "Saved by terrible timing."

"I'm not complaining."

"I noticed." He gave me a lazy salute, already backing away. "We'll continue this conversation later."

*Later.* I wasn't sure if that was a promise or a threat.

He jogged off toward Ryker, who waited near the stone staircase without so much as glancing my way. I stood there another moment, pulse finally slowing. One question, and I'd nearly destroyed everything. I really needed a better fake hometown.

Biology turned out to be exactly as confusing as the map had promised. Trees grew through the stone floor. Vines climbed the walls. Tiny glowing insects drifted through the light from the skylights.

"You're blocking the entrance," someone muttered, squeezing past.

"Sorry." At least I wasn't the only one who looked lost in here.

Professor Rowan entered without a single book in her hands, silver braid trailing down her back, and the room went quiet before she'd said a word.

"You are here because one day your instincts may save lives." A pause. "Or end them." She smiled faintly. "Let's begin."

The lecture drifted through bloodlines, dormant abilities, scent recognition, like she was teaching basic math. Then—

"Certain bloodlines possess heightened sensory awareness," she said, chalk circling the board. "They can recognize illness. Fear. Deception." Another circle. "And sometimes... they recognize people."

A chill crawled under my skin. *Recognize people.* Van's face rose in my mind before I could stop it.

Someone raised a hand. "So — like soulmates?"

Laughter rippled through the room. "Popular fiction has encouraged that interpretation," Professor Rowan said, unbothered. "Reality is considerably more complicated."

I wasn't listening anymore. Golden eyes. *Mine.* The word echoed again, and I gripped my pen until my knuckles ached.

There had to be another explanation. There had to be.

I got lost again on the way back — of course I did — and was muttering to myself about it when a voice cut in.

"You keep talking to yourself."

I jumped. Mason leaned against the wall, hockey bag over one shoulder. "You disappeared after practice yesterday."

"I was exhausted."

"Ryker does that. I've never seen anyone survive their first Royal Elite session without throwing up."

"I came close."

He laughed, falling into step beside me. "Heading to the locker rooms?"

"Trying to."

"Wrong way."

"...Again?"

"Again."

I groaned. "I'm starting to think this academy rearranges itself when I'm not looking."

"Wouldn't surprise me." A beat. "So — where are you from?"

Not this again. "My family moves around a lot."

"So nowhere interesting." He accepted it without pushing, and something in my chest loosened. Maybe lying wouldn't be as hard as I'd feared.

Then a warmth flickered under my ribs — not painful, just present — and I slowed.

"Everything okay?" Mason asked.

"Yeah." It faded as fast as it came. Probably nothing. I hoped.

Mason peeled off toward the locker room, and I reached for the door handle myself — and the warmth detonated. Not a flicker. A blaze, slamming through my chest so hard my breath caught. My pill bottle slipped from my pocket, I caught it just before it hit the floor.

The air felt heavier. Different. I looked up.

At the far end of the corridor, Van Pierce stood perfectly still, golden eyes already locked on mine, like he'd known exactly where to find me.

The rink was crowded by the time practice started, Coach Dalton at the center with a clipboard.

"Today, we're testing situational awareness."

A groan swept the group. "No puck?"

"No puck. You'll work in pairs." He read down the list. "Kai Blackwood — Captain Elias."

Not Ryker. Not Van. The quiet one.

Elias slipped a small notebook into his jacket, expression unreadable, and skated toward me. "We're together."

"Looks that way."

The drill was strange — no shooting, no scoring, just movement. Forward, backward, sharp turns, stops. He never told me what he wanted. He just watched, like I was something to be solved.

After fifteen minutes, he stopped. "Interesting."

"What?"

He tilted his head. "Nothing." Somehow that bothered me more than criticism would have. He pulled out the notebook again, wrote one neat, deliberate line, and closed it before I could read it.

"What are you writing?"

"My observations."

"About hockey?"

"Sometimes." He skated away.

"Switch partners!" Coach barked.

*Please not—*

"Blackwood." Van.

Every muscle in my body locked. He didn't look at my stick or my skates. Just me. The warmth under my ribs stirred immediately.

"Close-contact possession drill," Coach called.

We both reached for the puck at once. Our hands collided — his fingers closing around my wrist — and heat exploded under my skin. Not warm. Burning, like molten gold rushing through my veins.

I gasped. Van wrenched back like I'd scalded him, eyes wide, staring at the back of my hand.

For one impossible second, I could've sworn something flashed there — a faint golden mark, gone before I could focus. I blinked. Nothing. Just skin. Maybe I'd imagined it.

He forced his expression blank. "Again," Coach ordered.

Van obeyed. This time, he never touched me.

By the time I dragged myself back toward the dorms, everything hurt — shoulder, legs, even breathing. I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets. Locker key. Phone. Nothing else.

I stopped walking.

My other pocket. Empty.

I searched again, both pockets, then dumped my hockey bag on the floor and went through every compartment. Tape. Laces. Gloves. No bottle.

My heartbeat climbed into my throat. It had to be the rink. Or the hallway. Or—

Three slow knocks sounded against my door.

I froze. Nobody knew where I lived.

Another knock, calm and patient, and then a voice through the wood.

"Blackwood."

Every nerve in my body tightened.

"I believe—" a brief pause "—this belongs to you."

My hand shook as I opened the door.

Ryker Pierce stood in the hallway, expression unreadable, and between two black-gloved fingers, he held my plain white pill bottle.

His grey eyes lifted to mine.

"We need to talk."