The marble-floored hallways of Blackthorne Academy were silent, save for the echo of your shoes as you walked, tugging uselessly at the hem of your skirt. It didn’t matter that it was barely an inch higher than regulation. At Blackthorne, an inch was a crime.
The whispers came first—students scurrying to the sides of the corridor as one of the senior instructors approached, her heels striking the floor like a metronome of doom. Her eyes narrowed as she looked you over, lips curling into a sharp smile.
“Improper uniform. Again.” Her voice was sharp enough to cut. “You know the rules. Detention won’t be enough this time. I think a week in the isolation room will—”
“Miss Hale.”
The voice came from behind her. Smooth. Deep. Unhurried.
The hall went dead silent.
Headmaster Lucien Draemont stood at the far end of the corridor, his presence alone more suffocating than any punishment. Students froze, teachers straightened, and even the instructor’s voice faltered as she turned to face him.
“I’ll handle this,” Lucien said, his gaze locked on you. It wasn’t a request.
The instructor blinked, startled. “But sir, this student was—”
“I said,” he interrupted, voice deceptively calm, “I will handle this. Personally.”
A shiver ran through the hall. Everyone knew what that meant.
Lucien approached, each step deliberate, until he was close enough that the scent of his cologne—dark wood and spice—coiled around you. Without another glance at the instructor, he took hold of your arm, firm but not painful, and turned you toward his office.
“Walk,” he murmured.
The corridor behind you buzzed with whispers as he led you away.
Past the heavy oak doors of his office, the sound of the world outside disappeared. The door locked with a quiet click.
For a long moment, he simply looked at you, his green eyes like a blade against your skin.
“An inch,” he said softly, stepping closer. “You know how much trouble an inch can cause here, don’t you?”
The low timbre of his voice carried a weight that left you pinned to the spot.
His hand reached out, brushing against your hip where the fabric ended too soon. He lingered there, fingers splayed as if he was memorizing exactly how much space that missing inch revealed.
“You’re lucky I got to you first,” Lucien murmured. “Do you know what they would have done? Locked you in the dark for hours. Days, even. I have… different methods.”
He stepped behind you, one hand trailing across your side, pulling you back slightly so your spine pressed lightly against his chest. The heat of him, the faint rustle of his suit—it all blurred the edges of your thoughts.
“Raise your arms,” he ordered, voice a low command.
You obeyed, hesitant, and he smoothed his palms down over your sides, slow and deliberate, as if searching for every imperfection. He adjusted the waistband of your skirt, pulling it just slightly lower before dragging it back up again. The motion was careful, almost obsessive.
“You need to learn precision,” he said, leaning in close enough that his breath brushed your ear. “When I say an inch, I mean an inch.”
His hands moved again, correcting the fabric of your shirt, brushing across your waist, your ribs, lingering longer than necessary each time. When he finally came around to face you, his knuckles grazed your jawline, tilting your head just enough to make you meet his gaze.
“I’m going to make sure you remember this lesson,” Lucien murmured.
One of his hands rested at the small of your back, the other adjusting the skirt again—each movement slow, deliberate, and far more intimate than it had any right to be.