Sebastian's POV
The Fundraiser Planning Room, late evening
Elysian Prep wasn't meant to be empty. The place thrived on noise—heels striking marble, laughter echoing through gilded halls, whispers so sharp they could wound. But at night, when the lamps burned low and shadows stretched long, the school felt almost… honest.
And here we were.
I—sprawled across a velvet chair like a delinquent who'd broken into the palace. And across the polished oak table, Seraphina Valmont—every inch the Queen, even after ten hours of school.
Her hair, pinned high this morning, had slipped loose in strands that framed her face. The pearls at her ears still glowed under the lamplight. She was perfect, even in imperfection.
And I hated how much I noticed.
She didn't look up from her notes when she spoke. "Are you planning to help, or just sit there taking up air?"
"Air's free, last I checked." I twirled a pen between my fingers. "Though with the way you hoard power, I wouldn't be surprised if you figured out how to tax breathing."
Her eyes flicked up—daggers. "Keep talking, Blackwell. I'll have you on oxygen rations before midnight."
"Promises, promises."
She rolled her eyes and went back to scribbling. But I saw it: the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. The one she hated showing me.
I leaned back. "So tell me, Your Majesty, why exactly do you need my help with this thing? Fundraisers, parties, speeches—this is your arena, not mine. I'm just the guy they don't let into polite company."
"Don't flatter yourself," she said coolly. "I don't need you. The Headmistress made it an assignment. If I had a choice, I'd be planning this without the dead weight."
"Ouch." I pressed a hand to my chest, mock-wounded. "You wound me, Queen."
"I only speak the truth."
We argued like that for another half hour. Over guest lists, seating charts, and donation tiers. She was meticulous, ruthless, brilliant. I kept poking at her, needling her, trying to knock her off her throne—just enough to see if she'd slip.
And then it happened.
She was mid-rant about the caterer's incompetence when I quipped, "Maybe they're just terrified of you. I mean, look at you—if I were a chef, I'd burn the filet just thinking about you glaring at me."
She opened her mouth, sharp retort ready—
Then she laughed.
It slipped out like she hadn't meant to, startled and bright. For one heartbeat, Seraphina Valmont forgot she was supposed to be perfect.
She caught herself instantly, snapping her lips shut, glaring like she could erase the sound.
But I heard it. I felt it. And I wanted to hear it again.
"Holy shit," I breathed, grinning. "You do laugh. Thought it was a myth, like unicorns."
"Don't get used to it," she snapped.
"Oh, I'm framing that moment. Putting it on my wall. Seraphina Valmont laughed at my joke." I leaned in, lowering my voice. "Careful, Queen. People might think you like me."
Her gaze burned across the table. "Don't be absurd."
But she didn't deny it.
And for the rest of the night, every time her lips twitched, I knew I was winning something far more dangerous than an argument.
The next afternoon, we were sent off-campus to inspect one of the fundraiser suppliers—a florist in the old quarter.
She insisted on her driver. I said he was "unavailable." (Technically true. I'd bribed him with a week's worth of poker chips and whiskey.)
So she ended up in my car.
It wasn't a polished limo. It was a black classic coupe with an engine that roared like it wanted to eat the road. When I peeled out of the driveway, she clutched the seatbelt like it was a lifeline.
"You drive like a criminal," she hissed.
"Relax. I only drive this way when I have royalty on board."
Her eyes narrowed. "I'll remind you the Valmonts don't consort with criminals."
"Funny," I said, smirking, "because you're sitting in one's car."
Her silence was the haughty kind—the kind that meant I'd scored a point and she hated it.
At the florist's, she immediately commanded the room. Workers jumped when she spoke, scrambling to assemble bouquets to her exact specifications. Roses here, lilies there, nothing out of order.
And then—
"Careful!" one of the staff called too late. A crate shifted, a splintered edge catching her hand as she moved past.
I saw the red before she did. A line across her palm, sharp and fast, welling with blood.
For a second, she just stared, like she couldn't believe the universe had dared to mark her. Then she hissed and tried to wipe it away on her silk scarf.
"Don't."
I was already there, catching her wrist, pulling her hand into the light. Blood streaked across her palm, bright against pale skin.
Something in me snapped.
"Who the hell stacked these crates?" My voice was a snarl. Workers flinched. "If she needs stitches—"
"I'm fine," she cut in. But her voice was thinner, strained.
I ignored her. Pulled a clean handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it to the cut. She stiffened at the contact, but didn't pull away.
"Sebastian—"
"Don't argue." My jaw was tight. "You're bleeding."
"It's a scratch."
"Doesn't matter."
Our eyes locked. Hers, defiant. Mine, burning. And for once, neither of us moved.
When the cloth turned red, I swore under my breath. "We're going to the hospital."
"You are not dragging me to—"
I didn't let her finish. I tugged her closer, the way her wrist fit in my hand searing into me. "Sera. Humor me."
Something in my tone made her pause. For the first time, she didn't argue.
And I hated how much relief I felt.
Hospitals made my skin crawl. Too white, too sterile, too much like standing in the aftermath of a battlefield.
But sitting there with Seraphina Valmont, her hand bandaged, her chin tilted up like she hadn't just bled all over my handkerchief?
It nearly undid me.
She looked like marble carved into defiance. Like nothing could touch her. Except I'd seen it—I'd seen the crack, the human part.
And it made me want things I shouldn't.
While the nurse lectured her on keeping the wound clean, she turned that icy glare on me. "Satisfied now?"
"No," I said honestly. "But it'll do."
Her lips parted, caught off guard.
I grinned. "Told you I'm bad at pretending. You scared the shit out of me, Queen."
Her expression softened for just a flicker of a second. Then it was gone, replaced by steel. "Don't call me Queen."
But she didn't pull her hand away when I adjusted the bandage.
Driving her back, the car was thick with silence. Not hostile, not sharp. Heavy. Alive.
Every time I glanced sideways, she was staring out the window, but her fingers toyed with the edge of the bandage, like she couldn't forget my hands on hers.
I knew I couldn't.
-----
Sera's POV
The Valmont estate shimmered like a palace under the moonlight.
I should have gone straight upstairs, locked myself in my room, and banished the memory of Sebastian's hand gripping mine. The way his voice had cracked when he said I scared him.
But I lingered in the marble hall instead, because voices drifted down the corridor.
My father's, low and commanding. And another—rougher, deeper. I crept closer, heart pounding.
"…the trial of blood is not to be mentioned again," Marcus Valmont said. "Not now. Not with the children circling."
The reply was sharp, irritated. "You think I enjoy crawling into enemy territory at this hour?"
My stomach dropped. I knew that voice. Hector Blackwell. Sebastian's uncle.
"If Selene or Sebastian finds out—" Hector hissed.
"They won't," Marcus cut him off. "Unless you've grown sloppy."
"I don't make mistakes."
"Good. Then let the past stay buried."
I pressed myself into the shadow of the archway, breath caught.
Why was Hector Blackwell here—in our home, speaking to my father like they weren't rivals but conspirators?
And what in God's name was the trial of blood?