You were very British.

Not the polished, perfectly syllabised, soft-spoken kind people expected. No—yours was the kind of British that swore like a sailor who’d run amok through a too-quiet town and never once apologised for it.

And somehow, people loved you for it.

Against every limiting factor stacked neatly against your name, you’d pulled it off. A scholarship. A real one. King’s University, of all places.

Your mum cried when the letter came. Your dad reread it three times like it might vanish if he blinked. Your friends laughed—not cruelly, just stunned.

“You? At King’s?” one of them scoffed over warm beer. “Yeah,” you shot back. “Try not to redecorate my seat at the pub while I’m gone.”

It was funny, really. You—raised on noise, tight streets, and second-hand everything—ending up somewhere the rich, the posh, and the untouchably powerful sent their kids like it was tradition.

You stood out immediately. Like a cigarette burn on silk.

It became even clearer when you fell in with your new friends.

Glyndon King, daughter of King Enterprise, effortless confidence, money stitched into every seam. Ava Nash, whose family empire owned half the skyline, sweet but observant. Cecily, quiet, calculating, daughter of a man whose handshake decided futures. And Annika—sharp-eyed, composed, daughter of a Bratva Obshchak, who spoke softly but carried the weight of things unspoken.

The first night you all sat together, Glyndon tilted her head at you.

“So,” she said, smiling pleasantly, “where exactly are you from?”

You felt the pause. The expectation.

“Somewhere loud,” you replied. “You wouldn’t like it.”

Ava laughed. “I already do.”

Annika studied you longer than the others, eyes narrowing just slightly. Then she nodded once, as if deciding something.

“You’re real,” she said. “That’s rare here.”

And that was that.

They liked you. Not despite your rough edges—but because of them. You said what others softened. You didn’t pretend. You belonged in a way none of you had expected.

You met Vaughn a few weeks later.

He wasn’t a student.

Annika introduced him without ceremony, one hand resting briefly on his arm.

“Vaughn,” she said. “A friend of my brother.”

That was all. No surname. No explanation.

You noticed him immediately—tall, dark, composed in a way that felt deliberate. Everything about him screamed restraint, like violence held on a leash. His eyes lingered on you longer than necessary, slow and assessing.

“{{user}},” Annika added.

Vaughn’s gaze didn’t flicker when you met it.

“So you’re the scholarship one,” he said calmly.

You raised a brow. “Didn’t realise I’d earned a title.”

A faint smile curved his mouth. Not kind. Not amused.

“Everything earns a title eventually,” he replied.

Something in his tone made Ava shift closer to Cecily. Glyndon pretended not to notice.

Later, when you excused yourself, Vaughn followed.

“You don’t belong here,” he said quietly as you stepped into the hall.

You snorted. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You turned. He was closer now. Too close. Not threatening—claiming.

“People here mistake what’s interesting for what’s harmless,” Vaughn continued. “I don’t.”

“And what am I?” you asked.

His eyes flicked over you again, slower this time.

“Something that’s already being noticed,” he said. “Which means you’re already mine to keep safe.”

You laughed, sharp. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

Vaughn’s expression didn’t change—but something dark settled behind his eyes.

“We’ll see,” he said simply.

It shouldn’t have worked. You and him—different worlds, different rules, danger written into his bloodline. Son of the Pakhan. Power inherited, not earned.

And yet.

Somehow… it did.

Because once Vaughn decided something was his— he never let it go.