BOUND TO THE BULLIES

8 | Into the Beast’s Den

Darcy

The ride to the Elite House is silent. A deadly, suffocating silence.

I sit in the back of the black SUV, my knees pulled up to my chest. The leather seats are softer than any bed I’ve ever slept in. The car smells like money—new car smell, expensive cologne, and the faint, underlying scent of Amos’s rain-soaked earth.

Amos drives. He hasn’t said a word since we escaped the dorms through the fire exit, narrowly missing Ronan’s rampage in the lobby.

I look out the tinted window. The campus disappears behind us, replaced by the dense, dark forest that borders the Academy grounds. We are leaving the safety of the public eye.

"Where are we really going?" I ask, my voice small.

"Home," Amos grunts, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to check on me.

"It’s not my home," I whisper. "It’s a prison."

Amos doesn't deny it.

We turn onto a private road. Iron gates—massive, gothic things topped with spikes—swing open automatically. And there it is.

The Manor.

I’ve seen pictures of it, but reality is terrifying. It’s a stone fortress rising from the mist. Gargoyles perch on the roof. The windows are tall and dark, like unblinking eyes watching my arrival.

It looks like a place where princesses go to disappear. Or die.

Amos parks the car and opens my door. "Come."

I grab my battered suitcase—the zipper is broken, holding together with a safety pin—and step out. The gravel crunches under my worn-out sneakers.

The front door opens before we even reach the steps.

Alastair stands in the doorway. He’s wearing a silk dressing gown over his clothes, looking effortlessly elegant and completely unbothered by the fact that his friend was destroying the school an hour ago.

"Welcome home, Darcy," he says, a polite, venomous smile playing on his lips. "You made good time. Ronan is... still cooling off in the woods."

"Where am I sleeping?" I ask, clutching my bag. I don't want pleasantries. I want a lock.

"Straight to business. I like that," Alastair steps aside, gesturing for me to enter.

I step into the foyer. It’s breathtaking. A crystal chandelier hangs from a vaulted ceiling. The floors are marble. A grand staircase sweeps upward. It’s beautiful, cold, and empty.

"The Omega suite is on the second floor," Alastair explains, walking up the stairs. "We prepared it for you."

"Prepared it?" I frown, following him cautiously. Amos trails behind me, a silent guard dog. "You didn't know I was coming."

Alastair stops on the landing and looks back. His eyes glint behind his glasses. "Darcy, we always knew you’d end up here eventually. The bond is inevitable."

He leads me down a long corridor lined with portraits of stern-looking ancestors. He stops at the last door on the left.

"Here we are."

He pushes the door open.

I gasp.

The room is bigger than my entire dorm. Bigger than the apartment I grew up in. There’s a four-poster bed with silk sheets, a vanity table stocked with expensive creams, and a walk-in closet.

It’s a room fit for a queen.

"Why?" I ask, suspicious. "Why give me this?"

"Because you represent the Pack now," Alastair says smoothly. "And we can't have our mate looking like a beggar, can we?"

The insult is wrapped in silk, but it cuts all the same.

"Dinner is at eight," Alastair says. "Don't be late. Ronan hates tardiness."

He turns to leave. Amos lingers for a second, giving me a nod, before closing the door.

I am alone.

I drop my bag on the plush carpet. I walk to the door and immediately check the lock.

It’s a heavy brass bolt. I slide it shut.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Okay. I’m locked in. I’m safe.

I explore the room. I touch the silk curtains. I open the door to the en-suite bathroom—it has a jacuzzi tub.

Then, I notice it.

On the far wall, hidden behind a decorative screen, there is another door.

I frown. A closet?

I walk over to it. It doesn't have a handle on my side. Just a smooth, wooden panel.

I press my ear against it.

Silence. Then... the sound of heavy breathing. The sound of a zipper being pulled down. The thud of boots hitting the floor.

My heart stops.

The door handle turns from the other side.

I stumble back, looking for a lock, a latch, anything. There is nothing.

The door swings open.

Steam billows out. It’s a bathroom. A shared bathroom.

And standing there, with a towel wrapped low around his hips and water dripping from his dark, messy hair, is Damon.

He freezes, a toothbrush in his mouth. He looks at me, then at the open door connecting our rooms.

A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face.

"Well, well," Damon draws, spitting into the sink. "Look what the cat dragged in."

He leans against the doorframe, blocking my view. Behind him, I can see his bedroom. It’s a chaotic mess of weights, dirty clothes, and weapons.

"Alastair didn't tell you?" Damon asks, his eyes raking over my body in a way that makes me feel naked. "This is a Jack-and-Jill suite, sweetheart."

He takes a step into my room. The water from his body drips onto my expensive carpet.

"You lock your hallway door," he whispers, pointing to the main entrance. "But you can't lock this one."

He steps closer, forcing me to back up until my legs hit the bed.

"Which means," he says, his voice dropping to a predatory purr, "I can come visit you... whenever I want."