Chapter 35: Plotting her humiliation

The scent of charcoal and linseed oil clung to the air, thick and lingering, weaving with the soft murmurs of the senior year students in the circular classroom. Tall, arched windows bathed the room in streams of golden light. Each student sat before their easels.

“What are we drawing today, Mr. Swan? The air?” A snicker broke through the quiet, the voice dripping with mockery. There was no model, no object at the centre of the room to focus on.

Mr. Swan, the art teacher, wore a wide, excited smile, seemingly unaffected by the comment. His hands flailed dramatically, as if caught in the rhythm of his thoughts.

“Drawing a blizzard does sound tempting with winter on the horizon, but I have something better in mind,” he declared, his voice almost manic with enthusiasm. “Today’s class is not about technique—it’s about emotion! Draw what you feel. What’s on your mind. Convey it through your art!”

A low groan escaped Sawyer, who sat slumped over his easel, holding the canvas He muttered, “Can I scribble on the canvas? That’s how I feel in art class…”

Mr. Swan’s gaze sharpened, his cheer dimming for just a moment. “Mr. Ravencroft,” he said sternly, “I would be pleased if you made a decent attempt at art today—something your sister excels at. Perhaps you can ask her for help.”

Sawyer grinned. He exclaimed, “Ah, you’re right. Why didn’t I think about that? Angie, fill this up!” He called out to his sister, who sat pointedly across the room, trying her best to ignore him.

“That’s not what I meant!” Mr. Swan huffed, exasperation creeping into his tone as he turned away, his arms crossed over his chest.

Lucian, seated next to Sawyer, was already lost in his own world. He had picked up his charcoal with a practiced hand, holding it loosely between his fingers as if the tool were an extension of his thoughts. The blank canvas before him seemed to whisper, drawing him into its empty space. Soon, the soft scrape of charcoal against the surface filled the air, the sound distant and muted to his ears.

As Mr. Swan made his rounds, pausing here and there to critique, his gaze inevitably landed on Lucian. His eyebrows twitched, as he saw the canvas.

It was an apple.

A perfectly drawn, flawlessly shaded apple.

Mr. Swan blinked, confusion knotting his brow. He said, “Lucian, you are supposed to convey emotion! Depth!”

“I did.” Lucian’s lips quirked up slightly.

Mr. Swan’s eyes narrowed. He asked, incredulously, “An apple conveys your emotion? Lucian, you’re an extraordinary artist. You could have drawn something profound. Are you hungry?”

A few of the nearby students snickered quietly under their breath. Even they had noticed how out of place the apple seemed among the other pieces of art.

Lucian’s eyes flicked up to meet Mr. Swan’s gaze, his expression steady, and he replied, “You said to draw what’s on my mind. I was thinking of an apple.”

Mr. Swan opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again, clearly at a loss for words. It was clear that he was deeply torn between his admiration for Lucian’s technical prowess and his bafflement over the utter lack of symbolism in the work. “It’s a perfect apple!” he remarked before moving to the next student.

Lucian returned to his drawing, the brief flicker of amusement fading from his face. His charcoal moved with slow, deliberate strokes, adding the final touches to the apple, though his mind drifted to elsewhere.

But he didn’t dwell on that for too long. He refocused on the present. On the apple.

Across the room, a different conversation took place, hushed but laced with venom.

“I can’t believe you hired her,” Alanna hissed, her eyes glinting with malice. “Especially after what she did to me. And now she’s living in Lucian’s room!” The bitterness in her voice simmered beneath the surface, barely contained. Jealousy and anger twisted together, shaping her every word.

Alanna didn’t understand it—how a Groundling like Ruelle had managed to slip into Lucian’s life, however briefly. But the thought of it, the idea that the human shared space with him, made her blood boil. She couldn’t wait for Lucian to throw her out, to banish her to the cold halls where she belonged.

Gwendolyn’s lips curled into a sly smile, amusement dancing in her pale eyes. She replied amused, “Don’t blame your incompetence on me. I thought it would be amusing to have her work for me. And I’ve gotten her good.” She flicked her hand dismissively, her attention back on her canvas. “Also, you should get over him already.”

Alanna’s frown deepened before questioning, “What do you mean, ’gotten her good’?”

“I made her dance like a fool in front of everyone,” Gwendolyn said, her tone light as if discussing the weather. “Then I sent her to wash clothes by the river. She thought I’d give her a shilling for her efforts.” She laughed, the sound cold, devoid of warmth. “Too bad for her. She’s desperate enough to keep coming back for more. She has no choice.” There was no malice in Gwendolyn’s tone—just casual indifference.

“Groundlings are pathetic. Especially her,” Alanna’s lips curled as she said this.

“If it makes you feel better,” Gwendolyn purred, her voice almost a whisper, “you should come by this evening. She’ll be serving me. You’ll enjoy it.”

“I am heading home in the evening. Perhaps next week when I return? I would love to see her grovel.” She paused, pulling the scarf from her neck—the one she had taken from Ruelle. She tossed it to Gwendolyn with a smirk. “Use this. It might be good for cleaning your shoes.”

As the evening fell, Ruelle once again found herself standing in the same space as Gwendolyn. She had considered knitting again, and had even started to only pause it midway. With the worry of Alanna ready to hunt her down, she hadn’t stepped into the corridors at night. She had hoped she could earn those shillings by serving the vampiress, but she had assumed wrong.

Gwendolyn was seated with two other Elite vampires, lounging elegantly while they played cards. The vampiress held a delicate glass of crimson liquid in one hand, swirling it lazily as she chatted with her companions. Ruelle stood a few steps away, her presence unacknowledged.

With a flick of her wrist, Gwendolyn’s glass slipped, its contents spilling onto the polished floor and splattering on her fine shoes.

Gwendolyn’s gaze snapped to Ruelle, and she snapped her fingers before demanding, “What are you doing standing there idly when you are supposed to get on cleaning it?”

“Yes, milady,” Ruelle replied. But before she could take a step to find a cloth, Gwendolyn let something slip from her fingers, which she immediately recognised to be hers.

“It seems the person who bought it didn’t find it to be of much quality,” Gwendolyn said, her tone light but dripping with cruelty. “It will make the perfect rag to clean my shoes. And then the floor.”

Ruelle’s stomach twisted. She knew this was done deliberately to humiliate her, to crush her spirit a little more. Her hands clenched at her sides. But the vampiress’s eyes narrowed at her resistance, questioning, “Is there a problem?”

“No, milady,” Ruelle replied, forcing herself to unclench her fists.

“Well? Get to it then,” the vampiress hurried her while tapping her shoe against the ground.

Ruelle’s fingers tightened on the scarf, but she didn’t look up. She wouldn’t give Gwendolyn the satisfaction of seeing her pain.

As she worked, one of the other vampires, a male with pale, aristocratic features, looked down at her and sneered. “She missed a spot,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. He extended his foot, tapping it lightly against the floor. He ordered,

“Clean this shoe too,” with a grin.

Work was work, Ruelle said to herself, no task was small or big. Once the shoes and floor were clean, Gwendolyn waved her hand dismissively. “That’s enough. Here,” she said, stretching out her hand.

As Ruelle stood up, she noticed the two gleaming shillings. The vampiress was generous today, she thought to herself. But the Elite was only using it as bait so that she could string the Groundling to work for her.

“Thank you, milady,” Ruelle murmured, slipping the coins in her dress pocket before being dismissed.

By the time Ruelle returned to her room, it was past one, and the darkness had enveloped the corridors, lending a hushed stillness to the academy. She carefully nudged the door open, her eyes darting around for any stray items Lucian might have left lying about.

Lucian was sprawled on his bed, his face hidden behind an open book. Ruelle tiptoed as quietly as possible, well aware that her very presence often set off Lucian’s quick temper. Tomorrow, she thought, she would wash her scarf—what little remained of it—before the carriages left.

As she opened her trunk with a small creak, the unthinkable happened. The nightgown in her hand swayed to the side, nudging a ceramic cup off the table, sending it crashing to the floor.

Kill me now, Ruelle thought, closing her eyes briefly. Maybe, just maybe, Lucian had gone miraculously deaf.

But the sound of Lucian clicking his tongue in clear annoyance shattered that hope.

Slowly, he lowered the book from his face, revealing the sharp lines of his furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. He sat up, one leg pulled up, his body tense as his gaze locked onto her, predatory and cold.

“Are you doing this on purpose?” Lucian’s voice was low, deceptively calm, but the simmering irritation beneath it was impossible to miss.

“I—no, I’m not!” Ruelle stammered, her cheeks flushing. Her hands trembled as she knelt quickly to gather the broken shards. “Especially not when you have let me stay here,” she added, her voice breathless, her words coming out in a rushed tumble.

Lucian’s eyes darkened, his expression hardening as he watched her fumble with the fragments. “Are you an idiot?” he questioned her, his patience thinning. “Do you want to cut yourself and fill the room with more scent of blood than you already have?”

The sting of his words made Ruelle flinch, her fingers pausing over the broken shards. She kept her gaze down. She replied barely above a whisper,

“I’m not an idiot. I’m just trying to clean up the mess I made. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Lucian let out a low, harsh laugh. “Didn’t mean to disturb me? You disturb everything. You can’t walk into a room without stumbling into trouble. And now you’ve dragged yourself into my space.”

Ruelle felt her throat tighten, her heart sinking under the weight of his words. Why did he hate her so much? She didn’t understand. She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms as she forced herself to stand. Her legs felt shaky, but she faced him, her voice trembling.

“I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here,” she said quietly. She added, her voice cracking with the weight of her emotions, “It’s not like I was waiting for my scarf to be stolen. Or to be harassed by a vampiress. Or to be belittled by Elites and forced to clean their shoes. I’m trying the best I can do here…” her lips trembled with a lump forming in her throat.

She felt him stare at her but she didn’t meet his eyes.

The silence stretched between them, before she heard it—a sigh. Low, weary, filled with frustration. Lucian shifted on the bed, pushing himself up with an air of exasperation. He crossed the room, his movements sharp.

“Maybe if you weren’t so sleep-deprived from playing servant, you would cause less trouble,” he said, his voice cold and cutting, before his eyes narrowed. “Who even carries blood-drenched cloth into a vampire’s room? It’s as if you’re courting being bitten.”

His words were blunt, though he delivered them with an eerie sort of detachment, as if he were merely stating a fact. He didn’t look at her as he spoke, his attention elsewhere as he rummaged through his cupboard and closed the cupboard door shut.

Ruelle flinched but remained quiet, biting back the retort bubbling in her throat. She knew better than to argue. And then something unexpected happened.

Without warning, Lucian crossed the room and dropped something onto her desk with a dull thud. The impact made her jump slightly. She blinked in confusion, her gaze falling on a small stack of books.

“I believe this will help,” Lucian said, his tone neutral, though there was an underlying impatience in the way he spoke, as if he was simply trying to rid himself of a nuisance.

Ruelle hesitated before reaching out to pick up the top book. She opened it slowly, her fingers brushing against the worn pages. There were notes scribbled in the margins, handwritten with a delicate, practiced hand. She looked up at him, her confusion deepening.

Did these… belong to him?

“These are second-hand first-year books,” Lucian remarked, his voice flat and emotionless. “Don’t be mistaken. This is just so that you don’t bother me.”

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