The Alpha Prince’s Obsession

CHAPTER 3: What Cressida Vayne Wants

|HER POV|

The thing about elite institutions was that the cruelty was better dressed.

I had encountered the other kind — the blunt, unimaginative sort from secondary school, where girls said ugly things directly because they hadn't yet learned that subtlety was more damaging and harder to report. Blackthorn was different. Here it came wrapped in compliments, delivered with immaculate posture, wearing cashmere and a smile that hadn't reached anyone's eyes since approximately the fourteenth century.

Cressida Vayne had been performing warmth at me for three weeks.

It was, I had to admit, technically impressive. The way she inserted herself into conversations with the practiced ease of someone who had been engineering social situations since before most people understood they were social situations. The way she used darling as punctuation. The way her eyes moved over my thrifted coat and charity-shop boots with the speed of a calculation completed before the smile had fully formed.

Today she was wearing a fitted cream blazer over a silk blouse the color of champagne, hair blown straight and perfect, a thin gold necklace resting against her collarbone. She had the kind of beauty that was maintained rather than natural — high-effort, deliberate, constructed — and she wielded it with the precision of someone who understood exactly what it was worth in the specific economy of this place.

She slid into the seat beside me in the common room without asking.

"I've been meaning to find you." Cressida set her coffee cup — ceramic, gold-rimmed, not from the communal machine — on the table and crossed her legs. "You're in Harlow's seminar, aren't you. I heard you corrected him twice last week."

"Once," I said. I was reading. I did not close the book.

"Twice, darling. The structural argument on Tuesday and the attribution error on Thursday. Everyone noticed." Cressida smiled. "It takes a particular kind of courage to make yourself that visible in the first month."

I turned a page. "Or a particular kind of boredom with inaccuracy."

A brief pause. The smile held but something behind Cressida's eyes sharpened slightly — a recalibration, quick and subtle, the look of someone updating their threat assessment.

"The scholarship students usually take longer to find their confidence," Cressida said pleasantly. "It's refreshing."

There it was. Not even particularly elegant, I thought. Just the word scholarship placed carefully, like a thumb pressed against a bruise to confirm it was there.

I closed my book. Looked at Cressida directly.

"Is there something you actually want," I said, "or is this the part where you establish territory and I'm supposed to feel located."

The smile flickered. Then — and this was the interesting part — it became more genuine. Not warmer. More interested.

"Aldren Morrow's hosting a gathering Friday evening," Cressida said. "Upper floor of the Ashfield building. You should come."

"Why."

"Because you're going to be here for three years and you have exactly one friend, and Saoirse Delwyn is sweet but she's minor family and she's not going to open the doors that matter." Cressida picked up her coffee cup with the composed certainty of someone offering something valuable. "I am."

I looked at her for a moment. The offer was real — I could read that. Cressida wanted something from me, which meant I had something worth wanting, which was the most honest thing about the entire conversation. I just hadn't determined what it was yet.

"I'll think about it," I said.

Cressida stood, smoothing her blazer. "Friday at nine. Dress appropriately." A pause. "That's not a criticism. It's practical advice."

She left. Her perfume — something French and expensive — lingered for thirty seconds after she'd gone.

I opened my book again.

Across the common room, a dark turtleneck in my peripheral vision. I didn't look up. I'd been not-looking-up at Kae for two weeks and had developed a fairly precise internal map of where he was based on the quality of the room's attention around him — the way conversations near him became slightly more careful, the way people moved with a few additional inches of unconscious space.

I was absolutely not going to examine why I knew exactly where he was sitting.

Saoirse found me at lunch and dropped into the chair across from me with the energy of someone arriving with information.

"Cressida Vayne spoke to you this morning."

"Good morning to you too."

"I was watching from the corridor. I couldn't hear it but I could see your face doing the thing."

"The I see exactly what you're doing thing."

"She invited me to Morrow's gathering Friday."

Saoirse's fork stopped. "She — why?"

"I don't know yet."

"That's the thing about Cressida, she doesn't do anything without a reason and the reason is never the one she tells you." Saoirse pointed the fork. "Morrow's gatherings are third and fourth years mostly. The families with dominion connections. The ones whose parents know each other from — well. Things I'm not supposed to know about and definitely know about."

I looked at her. "Dominion connections."

Saoirse made a face — half-confirming, half-retreating. "It's complicated family stuff. Old networks. You'll hear about it eventually, everyone does." She ate the pasta. "Are you going?"

"I'm considering the information value."

"That is the most you thing you've ever said." Saoirse pointed the fork again. "Kae Vire will probably be there, by the way. Morrow's been trying to figure him out for weeks. If he's there, at least it'll be interesting."

I turned a page of the reading I'd brought to lunch. "Why would that make it interesting."

Saoirse gave me a very long look. "You share a library table with him every other evening and you've rebuilt your entire index system since last Thursday."

"The index needed rebuilding regardless."

"Into the exact system he uses."

"A more efficient system," I said. "That he happened to suggest. Which I evaluated independently and determined was correct."

Saoirse pressed both hands to her face in the manner of someone exercising considerable restraint. "I'm going to need you to hear yourself."

"I hear myself fine. Finish your lunch."

I went to the gathering.

Not because of Cressida. Not because of the information value, though that was real. I went because I was sixteen in an institution full of people three to five years older than her who had grown up in a world with architecture I hadn't been given the map to, and standing outside that world out of pride was a luxury I couldn't currently afford.

The Ashfield building's upper floor was the kind of space that communicated money through restraint — no chandeliers, just low amber lighting and clean lines and the kind of furniture that cost more than my mother's monthly rent while appearing to cost nothing at all. Thirty or so students. A bar setup in the corner that someone's family connection had clearly arranged. Music low enough to think over.

I wore a fitted black turtleneck, dark trousers, and the knee-high boots I'd softened with years of use. Simple. I wasn't going to perform wealth I didn't have.

Saoirse materialized at my elbow within forty seconds of arrival. "Morrow's by the window. Cressida's watching the door. There are two people here I don't recognize and that's statistically unusual for this group." She handed me a drink — sparkling water, somehow correctly identified. "You're being assessed."

"I noticed."

"Also," Saoirse said, very carefully, "he's here."

I didn't ask who. I felt the room's quality shift in a direction that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature and everything to do with the specific weight of attention that entered with him.

Kae stood near the far wall in a dark fitted shirt and black trousers, silver-rimmed glasses, hands loose at his sides with the contained stillness of someone who had decided the room required witnessing rather than participating. He was speaking to no one. He needed to speak to no one. The room had already reorganized itself around his presence in the way rooms did when something with genuine authority entered them.

His eyes found mine across the space the way they always did — not searching, not landing. Already there.

I looked away first. I always looked away first. I was starting to find this mildly irritating.

Aldren Morrow appeared at my left: sandy-haired, well-dressed in a navy blazer, with the specific quality of someone intelligent enough to know what they didn't know and currently very interested in filling the gap.

"Eirlys Whitmore." He handed me a glass I didn't take. "Cressida said you were interesting."

"Cressida says a lot of things."

He smiled. "She does. I've learned to check which ones are accurate." He glanced across the room. Toward Kae. Back to me. "You know Vire."

"We share a seminar."

"Right." Morrow turned his glass in his hand. "His transfer records don't go back very far. For someone admitted to the advanced track." He said it neutrally, the way people stated observations when they wanted to see if you'd confirm them.

I looked at him. "That's interesting."

"Isn't it." He smiled again. "Enjoy the evening."

He moved away. I stood with my sparkling water and processed the conversation with the focused attention I applied to everything and thought: Morrow is already pulling the thread. He's just decided to see if I'll help him pull it.

I would not be helping anyone pull threads until I understood where they led.

Across the room, near the window, Kae had moved. He was three feet closer than he'd been, and he hadn't visibly crossed the space — he'd simply arrived at a position that put him between me and the door, which I registered as tactically interesting and emotionally confusing in equal measure.

He wasn't looking at me.

Which, I was beginning to understand, meant precisely nothing.

I finished my water and found Saoirse, who was deep in a heated disagreement with someone about something academic, and stood beside her and watched the room and felt the weight of that particular attention from three feet away and did not acknowledge it and did not move away from it either, and somewhere in the narrow space between those two decisions was the beginning of something I wasn't ready to name yet — something that felt, uncomfortably, like the room had always had a center of gravity and I had only just noticed I'd been orbiting it since the first day I walked through those gothic gates.

The amber light caught the rim of his glasses when he finally glanced at me sideways, just once, and looked away.

My pulse did something I immediately filed under irrelevant and absolutely did not believe.

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