As soon as lunch was over, I stood up so fast my chair almost tipped over behind me, snatching up my backpack and darting for the door before any of the Princes could stop me.
I heard Finn call my name once, but I didn’t turn around, pretending I hadn’t heard him. By that point, I was willing to let them come after me and drag me back if they wanted me, humiliation be damned.
The entire lunch period had been an unbearable, painfully surreal experience. I felt like I was being punked, being gaslit, as if I was living in some weird Twilight Zone episode where the only person who remembered last semester was me.
What the fuck kind of game were they playing?
What did they want from me?
Was this their punishment for me standing up to them at the party? Making me hang out with them?
As far as torture tactics went, it was cruelly genius. I couldn’t think of four people on campus I wanted to spend time with less—even if my traitorous body hadn’t quite gotten that memo.
But fuck that shit. I’m not their little puppet. They can’t kick me to the curb one minute and expect me to come running back the next.
Things only got weirder in fifth period Biology. When I walked in, Elijah was sitting in the back with an empty desk next to him. That never fucking happened. As soon as he sat down, the girls in the class would always swarm around him, not even bothering to be subtle as they changed seats to get closer.
Just like Mason had done, he met my gaze and inclined his head toward the desk, indicating he’d saved it for me. When I pointedly took a seat on the opposite side of the room, he frowned but didn’t do anything.
He didn’t let anyone else sit there either.
I didn’t train at al
l during sixth period. I just sat against the wall in the studio, staring at my reflection and chewing on my lip until it was swollen and red.
In English Lit, Mason had a desk saved right beside him, and when I again ignored it, his eyes narrowed. A muscle in his jaw ticked, and even though he answered Mrs. Beaupre in a smooth voice when she called on him, I could feel his scorching gaze on me the entire class.
As soon as class let out, I gathered up my shit quickly—but not fast enough. I was a few yards down the hall when I felt him behind me, and I braced myself for whatever was coming. Threats. Taunts. Cruel words or public humiliation.
But he just took my elbow in a surprisingly gentle grip.
“A word, Hildebrand?”
My gaze snapped to him, my body jerking at his touch. I swore I could feel the heat of his fingers through my jacket, searing me like brands, and goosebumps traveled up my arm. I was so thrown off that I didn’t resist as he tugged me into a stairwell at the end of the hall. It was only when the door closed that I returned to my senses, yanking my arm out of his grasp and turning on him.
“What do you want, Mason? What the fuck do you want?”
He held up his hands, palms out. “All right, Princess. Don’t worry, I know you have claws. I haven’t forgotten.”
I swallowed, anger and nerves sloshing in my gut. “If this is about that night—”
“It is,” he said quietly. When my shoulders tensed, he huffed a soft laugh. “But not in the way you probably think. We’re not fucking with you, Princess. We’re not trying to get back at you.”
My eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why not?”
His brows drew together, a sardonic smile teasing his lips. “Do you really want us to?” Then he shook his head, his expression growing serious. “Because you were right.”
“What?”
“You were right. You are the same as us, and it was shitty of us to treat you like you were any different. You’re a Royal, and we need to accept that.”
“Wow. Don’t sound so fucking excited about it.” I crossed my arms over my chest, still glaring warily at him.
“Well, if you’re expecting a damn parade, you’re shit out of luck,” he drawled. “But what I am offering is a ceasefire. A reset. We’ll start over, and this time we’ll treat you like a Royal should be treated. No bullshit.”
I still didn’t speak. My lips were pressed so tightly together my cheeks ached, and I searched the depths of his eyes for some hint of his true intentions. His irises were such a pure, distilled color of green that it was hard to believe they were real sometimes, and all I saw in them was a sort of amused annoyance.
After a long moment of silence, Mason cocked his head. “I don’t understand. I thought this was what you wanted, Talia. To be one of us. I’m offering you a fucking olive branch here, which”—he shook his head, laughing under his breath again—“I don’t do often. You don’t have to take it if you don’t want, but it won’t change the fact that you are a Hildebrand. You’re meant to be one of us.”