Bloody Princess by Helen Scott
7
Lyric
The first day of school is weird. Evie and I had spent the weekend doing new student stuff and generally avoiding anything to do with APT. I can't arouse suspicion yet. Not when the game is only just starting.
I've already been to my first two classes, but I practically slept through them once I grabbed a syllabus. French and Developmental Psychology. Yawn.
This is the good one—what I've been waiting for all day.
Criminology.
My father would either laugh his ass off or beat me bloody if he found out I was taking this class. The subject matter is of interest, but it's also the class I should be sharing with Keats, thanks to Mel bribing the professor.
As I walk in, I give the classroom a quick scan. The beige walls and brown carpet are about as bland as it can get, but I suppose all white could be worse. I realize that it's the stadium kind of classroom, where each row of chairs is higher than the one in front of it. All of us will be staring down at the professor as he scribbles on the whiteboards that line the front of the room, of which there are many. The chairs are spaced decently apart, so I won't have to put up with some dude manspreading next to me and squishing me, or a mouth-breather gasping for air and drowning out the professor.
My grade is already safe, thanks to Melody's persuasion, but that doesn't mean I can look like I'm slacking off. I'm a freshman. Aren't we supposed to be eager to please and absorb knowledge or something?
As I begin to climb, my gaze catches on my target, but I let it run straight over him as though he isn't even there. I find a seat a couple rows below and take a breath as I pull out my notebook and water bottle. Mel had been right; this is one of the classes I definitely need to be in.
In some ways, we are lucky that Keats has changed majors, or rather, has only just decided on one, so he still has some low-level classes to take—the same as Atlas. Jude and Thayer are already up in the three and four hundred level classes that no freshman would be allowed into, and if we bribe the professors to let me in, it will only draw attention and suspicion—two things we want to avoid unless absolutely necessary.
I'm careful to pick a seat almost directly in front of Keats, but not quite. As I sit, I tuck my skirt under my ass and try not to shiver from the touch of the cold plastic. Apparently, even though classes have been in session all day, this chair hasn't been used yet. Goosebumps run over my skin, and I give my arms a quick rub before I settle down, keeping my face turned away from Keats and using my hair as a shield so he can’t see my face, even if I turn to the side.
As Sampson has taught me, one of the easiest ways to get information from a man is to seduce him without him realizing he’s being seduced. It's a skill I've worked hard on since it's the one my father primarily relies on me for. If I can't get whatever my father wants out of his enemy using softer, more feminine methods, then blades and torture will do just fine—and I am just as skilled with those. No one expects the petite brunette with the bombshell body to be quite so vicious. Unfortunately, there is no one else for me to take my anger out on than the people that end up in my basement.
I push the thoughts away as I listen to Professor Urelky drone on about what the class is going to include, then start on a "beginning introduction of the theories exploring the origins, organization, meanings, and control of crime." His words, not mine. Still, as much as I want to zone out and plot my next move against the kings of Welhurst, I can't. The professor is strangely enthralling.
"In a couple of weeks, we'll be assigning random partners for the project you'll be doing over the course of the semester, so start thinking about topics. At the end, as you'll see on your syllabus, you and your partner will be giving a presentation to the class on your selected topic. That presentation will make up a third of your grade." Groans sound throughout the classroom. "That's it for today. I'll see you all on Wednesday. If you need me to sign drop slips, stop by during my office hours." With that, he picks up his file folder—which is still stuffed with papers, even though he handed out a good chunk of them—and walks out.
I push up from my seat and grab my bag, stuffing my notebook awkwardly into it, which results in the notebook falling back out. The syllabus I've been doodling on goes flying, just as I'd hoped, and I lunge for it over the edge of the desk, trying to reach it before it sails down to the rows below me.
Someone mutters "Fuck me" from behind me, and I know the short skirt I'm wearing has given them a show, which was my intention all along. After my conversation with Atlas, and then again at the frat party, I realized that if I'm going to insert myself into their lives to find the evidence I need, they have to see me as something other than “Little L”. I need them to want to be around me. The best way to do that is to make them want me. What guy my age doesn't think primarily with his cock?
If these were my father's friends, it would be different, but flash a little ass and a little boob, and I'm sure my enemies will forget I'm their dead best friend's little sister soon enough. And once I pledge Pi Ep and become one of their sorority sisters, we'll have no choice but to interact since APT and Pi Ep are joined at the hip.
Mel and I have a whole plan, but there are some aspects that my sister doesn't understand, such as the seduction of the guys and the delicate way the families of Ascendance Bay need to be handled, so we don’t bring them down on our own heads. The soft things, she's left to me, and as such, I need to figure out how to get close to the kings of Welhurst. The best way I can think of is to make them want to fuck me, even if I am Lyssa's little sister.
Someone below hands my syllabus up to me, and I smile and thank them as I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. The guy smiles back invitingly, but I ignore him and go back to stuffing my backpack, rearranging things until I feel a presence behind me.
I glance over my shoulder and see Keats standing there, his face pulled into a crooked grin—one I'm sure makes all the girls' panties disappear. When he realizes it's me, the grin falters, and confusion flits across his eyes. The man doesn't hide his emotions at all.
“Hey, Keats,” I say as I watch him take me in.
"Uh, hey, Little L. What are you doing here?" He rubs the back of his neck as he speaks and seems to be looking for the exit.
"Taking Criminology, like I'm guessing you are?" I smile up at him before I turn and reach for my backpack. I pull it on as I turn to face him, and the long necklace I'm wearing disappears into the neckline of my tank top. I fish it out and see Keats watching from the corner of my eye, hunger in his gaze.
When I turn to face him completely, he wipes his face clean of any emotions, and I see a mask slip into place—one I am all too familiar with wearing myself. It's pleasant, not conveying the monster within or any of the emotions he's really feeling. He still hasn't responded to my question, so I ask, "Are you a Criminology major?"
"Uh, yeah. I just decided."
"Like, right this second?" I let my eyebrows rise to show faux surprise. Mel has already found out all the dirt on the academic careers of the boys we intend to bring down. I know each of their majors and grade point averages. I also know that most of them are working on majors that will serve them well in their family businesses.
Keats barks out a laugh and says, "No, this past summer. I decided it was probably the best fit for me. It's not like someone like me can go study fuckin' Shakespeare or something."
My heart, as cold and dead as it is, pinches ever so slightly at his words. Are we all just trapped in our fates? Unable to break away from our families to do whatever it is we really want to do? In a weird way, I could see Keats being more interested in fiction than reality, not that I've ever seen him with a book in his hands outside of school. That’s usually more Thayer's domain.
"Do your parents want you to work for them after school?" I ask, innocently.
He nods and rubs the back of his neck again. "I'm expected to go pre-law and follow in my dad's footsteps—become a partner at Kingsley Law. I got half of these to try and get out of it, but he's a stubborn asshole. At least I know where I get it." He gestures to his tattoos, and I realize that a lot of them are a form of rebellion, something I totally understand.
Most of the other people from our class have filed out while we've been talking, so it's just the two of us now. I'm not going to lie, a large part of me wants to lure him back to my basement and knock him out. Peel the skin from him until he confesses what they did—until he tells me how they drugged my sister and let her drive home after she and Jude got in a fight.
I can't, though. If I want to do this, I have to be able to back my claims up with evidence and prove that they did it, and not to the cops either. Oh, no. To the families that rule over Ascendance Bay. The evidence I need has to be concrete and not coerced. I have no doubt that, without a real confession and other evidence pointing toward them, accusing the Boys of Ascendance Bay of murder would only get me killed, last remaining heir to the Sterling empire or not. And we all know that confessions made during torture are unreliable.
"The art is beautiful," I say quietly, letting my gaze skip over his skin, taking in each piece individually and as a whole. With the t-shirt that's stretched over his muscular form, I can see every piece on his arms, hands, and neck. The fabric of the t-shirt is thin enough that I can see the shapes that reside on his skin underneath it.
"Thanks." There's an awkward pause, and I can tell he wants to say something, so I just watch him quietly. "Listen, I'm sorry about what Jude said at the party. He's got a lot on his plate, and he took it out on you, but that doesn't mean he was justified or that I'm on his side. I just wanted you to know that we don't all have the same...attitude he does. We're here for you, Little L. In that vein, I thought you should know that your skirt is pretty short."
I cross my arms over my chest, not only in anger, but also to trigger him to look at my breasts as they push up out of the neckline of my tank top.
He swallows hard and presses on with what I know he's trying to tell me. "When you reached for your paper, you, uh, flashed everyone behind you."
I know most girls would be mortified by the idea of someone else seeing their panties when they hadn't intended for that to happen. I, however, have two problems. First is the fact that I had intended to flash Keats, and second is that I don’t really care who saw. I knew going into this that I had two choices for how to react: I could blush and be bashful, or I could be brazen and wild.
For some reason, the wild child doesn't seem like the right play, so I conjure my most humiliating memory and make myself blush. There are a couple, but none work so well as the memory of Sampson stripping me down in front of all of the guards and male employees at my father's house.
"Take off your clothes, Lyric," Sampson says as he stands next to me in front of a room full of my father's employees and guards. Anyone with a dick who's connected to the family in some way is there.
I want to demand to know what he's playing at, but if I do that, I'll have to pay for it. Not only because I questioned him, but for talking back and questioning him in front of his men. That isn't a price I'm willing to pay.
With only the slightest hesitation, I pull my t-shirt up over my head and unbutton my jeans, shimmying them down my legs before stepping out of them. In some ways, it's situations like this that make me glad Sampson is a weirdo about how much I wax. I never know what the asshole is going to do.
Once I'm standing there in my bra and panties, I take a breath and tell myself it's no different than being in a swimsuit. The feeling lasts for a moment, and for a split second longer, I think I might be okay—that is, until Sampson opens his mouth again.
"Those too," he says and whips his hand out to point at my bra and panties, exposing the fact that he's holding one of his instruments of torture.
His riding crop.
The folded leather at the end gleams in the light, and I can already feel it hitting my skin. He's not allowed to scar me or mark me permanently in any way, but that doesn't mean he's not a creative asshole when it comes to how he punishes me. I'm intimately familiar with how the leather tongue of the crop feels when it bites into my skin hard enough to make me cry out.
As soon as I see it, I know that if I so much as flinch, he'll beat me with it, audience be damned.
I take a breath, and with trembling fingers, I unhook my bra, sliding the straps down my arms until the lace and silk flutters to the floor. My nipples harden in the cool air, and I have to fight the urge to cover myself. Instead, I hook my fingers around the waistband of my panties and pull them down, kicking out of them and toeing them over until they rest with my jeans and t-shirt on the floor.
"At ease," he says quietly.
I know what he's telling me, even now, naked in a room full of men—most of whom are twice my age. He expects me to be his toy soldier. I have no choice but to obey. I fold my arms behind my back, hands clasped, and widen my stance, raising my chin and looking out over the sea of faces but not really seeing anything.
Every inch of me is exposed.
Vulnerable.
Nausea sweeps through me, and I resort to singing to myself in my head. It's a tactic I use when I need to force myself to mentally be somewhere else. It doesn’t matter whether I need to get through something or do something, whenever I sing a specific song to myself, it always makes everything bearable, somehow.
"Lyric is not an option for any of you. I brought you all here today so you could get your eyeful. You want to jerk off to her? Now is the time. After this point, after you leave this room, if you are caught looking at her with anything more than a cursory glance, you will be beaten within an inch of your life. If you are caught kissing her, I will cut out your tongue. If you are caught touching her for anything other than your job, you will lose that hand. And if you're caught fucking her, I think it should be pretty obvious what you'll lose, but let me be clear: If your dick goes anywhere near her, whether it be her mouth, her tits, her pussy, or her ass, you'll lose it." The crop smacks against my lips, nipples, the top of my pussy just above my clit, and each ass cheek, in turn. I try not to make a sound, but something must escape me because Sampson glares at me. "If you are caught forming an emotional attachment, you will be dismissed and never work again. If the emotional attachment is romantic in nature, you will be executed. She is nothing more than an object to you. Are we clear?"
A chorus of “Yes, sir”, goes up from the men in the room.
"Now, I'm going to leave so you don't embarrass yourselves by having to walk past me with the erections I can see in your straining pants from here. You can stay and pleasure yourselves if you must, not that you're allowed to touch her, but once you leave this room, Lyric becomes nothing to you. She is going to stay here and think about what she might cost each and every one of you if she tries to coerce you into doing something stupid like she did with Danny." He turns to face me, and I see the satisfaction on his face. He's humiliated me in front of everyone and shown me that I have no one that I can turn to. "Lyric, I will come and get you later. You will not move a muscle, no matter what you see, hear, or feel, unless you want to pay for it later." The crop smacks against his leg as he walks out, as though he's drumming a jaunty tune.
Finally, I know what this is all about. The bomb he's been waiting to drop on me this whole time. As if being naked while a bunch of guys debate whether or not to jerk off isn't enough, now I have to stand here and act like Danny being taken and probably killed means nothing to me. I know at least one of the men present has probably been ordered to be the last to leave and report back on everything that happens, so I can't cry. Not yet.
The sound of a zipper being lowered is like a clap of thunder in the quiet room, and just like any storm, the first isn't the last. Soon enough, there are groans of pleasure coming from the men in front of me. Slowly, they file out until it's finally just me in the room. Even now, though, I can't let my guard down—can't let myself feel anything. Instead, I force myself to look around, to see the mess they've left on the floor, the one I know instinctively I’ll have to clean up.
The memory flits through my mind in the span of a couple seconds, long enough that I might appear shocked by what Keats had just told me. "Oh God..." I mutter, raising my hand to my mouth. I can feel the heat on my cheeks, and just as before, at the party, I can see the monster inside the man in front of me raise its theoretical head and look out through his eyes.
We watch each other for a moment until he says, "Just be careful. There are some weirdos on campus, and you don't want them getting any ideas."
I nod and hug the straps of my backpack closer, jostling my tits around. I see his gaze dart down to them before he turns and walks away. I follow, since there's no other way out of there, and I can't help but wonder what thoughts I've caused him to have. There's no doubt in my mind after our little interaction that he considers himself to be one of the weirdos. I'll have to mention it to Mel. Maybe she can figure out what his kink is, and we can exploit it. Now, won't that be fun?
