Claimed by the Prince of Darkness

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."

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

his face. His charcoal moved with slow, deliberate strokes, adding the final touches to the apple,

on that for too long. He refocused

different conversation took place,

"Especially after what she did to me. And now she’s living in Lucian’s room!" The bitterness in

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,

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

before questioning, "What do

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

her," Alanna’s

whisper, "you should

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

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

vampires, lounging elegantly while they played cards. The vampiress held a delicate glass of crimson liquid

flick of her wrist, Gwendolyn’s glass slipped, its contents spilling onto

to Ruelle, and she snapped her fingers before demanding, "What are you doing standing there idly when you are supposed to get on cleaning

she could take a step to find a cloth, Gwendolyn let something slip from her

to be of much quality," Gwendolyn said, her tone light but dripping with

twisted. She knew this was done deliberately to humiliate her, to crush her spirit a little more. Her

replied, forcing herself to unclench her

vampiress hurried her while tapping her

didn’t look up. She wouldn’t give Gwendolyn

pale, aristocratic features, looked down at her and sneered. "She missed a spot," he said, his voice

shoe too," with a

herself, no task was small or big. Once the shoes and floor were clean,

thought to herself. But the Elite was only using it as bait so that she could string the Groundling to

you, milady," Ruelle murmured, slipping the coins in her dress pocket

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

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

trunk with a small creak, the unthinkable happened. The nightgown in her hand swayed to the side, nudging a ceramic cup off the table,

Ruelle thought, closing her eyes briefly. Maybe, just maybe, Lucian