Hate That I Want You

“I have a proposition,” Henry says suddenly.

“Your last ones have gone so well.”

“This one’s different.” He straightens, some of the drunken looseness leaving his posture. “Come to the royal ball.”

I blink at him. “I was already planning to attend.”

“Not as a wallflower. Not hiding in corners. Come like you own the place.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to dance with you.” The words come out rough, desperate. “In front of everyone. In front of them all.”

My throat closes. “You want to dance with me?”

“I want to claim you.” His voice drops to barely above a whisper. “Publicly. Completely. I want every person in that ballroom to know you’re mine.”

“I’m not anyone’s.”

“No,” he agrees, his smile sharp as a blade. “But you could be mine. If you wanted.”

***

A month before

“Stop pulling at those sleeves this instant!” Mama’s voice cracks like a whip across the carriage. “You look like a common scullery maid, not a lady bound for the Royal Academy!”

I yank my hands away from the cursed uniform, but the damage is done. The fabric strains against my arms, my bosom, everywhere this wretched dress was never meant to accommodate a girl of my… proportions.

“Mama, what if I don’t belong here?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “What if—”

“Nonsense!” She snaps her fan shut with violence. “Mirelle has assured us you shall thrive. Now cease this unseemly display of nerves!”

But Mirelle’s last letter burns in my memory: “Academy life keeps me busy. But I’ll see you soon, little duck.” Cold. Distant. Nothing like the big sister who once whispered secrets in my ear.

The Academy’s marble halls stretch before me like a cathedral of judgment. Every portrait shows the same perfection—willowy necks, razor-sharp cheekbones, waists that could snap in a strong wind. I lumber past them, my footsteps echoing like thunder.

“Lady Helena?”

I whirl around. Before me stands a goddess carved from moonlight and malice—golden hair spun to perfection, a figure so slight she might blow away in a breeze, eyes like winter ice.

“I am Miss Callisandra Vale,” she purrs, her curtsy a masterpiece of grace. “Calla to my dearest friends. Which you shall be, naturally, as Mirelle’s… companion.”

The pause before ‘companion’ slices through me.

“Where is Mirelle?” I demand, desperation bleeding through my voice. “I must see her immediately!”

Calla’s laugh tinkles like breaking glass. “Oh, sweet child. First, you must partake in our sacred tradition—a purifying soak in the healing chambers.”

Her gaze devours my form like a predator sizing up wounded prey. “The waters work miracles for those who… require transformation.”

My cheeks burn. “I don’t understand—”

“Of course you don’t,” she interrupts, her arm sliding through mine with serpentine grace. “But trust me, darling. You need this more than most.”

The chamber door slams shut behind me with the finality of a tomb. Steam rises from the marble basin, heavy with lavender and lies. Calla’s smile gleams like a blade.

“Take all the time you need,” she says, her voice dripping false sweetness. “You most certainly deserve this.”

The water scalds my skin as I sink into it, but I welcome the pain. Perhaps it will burn away the shame, the certainty that I don’t belong here, that I—

CRASH!

The door explodes open. Male voices boom through the chamber, laughter echoing off marble walls like the baying of wolves.

“Well, well. What delightful creature have we discovered?”

Prince Henry of Ildareth steps out from the steam. His bare chest is damp, muscles defined and skin golden from the sun. A towel hangs low on his hips. I look away, then glance back without meaning to. I recognize him immediately—his face is everywhere at the academy. His photo's on half the posters in the common areas, and people won’t stop talking about him. Behind him, his group of noble friends—his “pack,” as some call them—looks just as amused by my reaction as he probably is.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I realize my own state of undress. The water barely covers my breasts, and I’m acutely aware of how my curves must look to his calculating gaze. I scramble for my towel, water sloshing violently, but it’s just out of reach.

“Your Highness! I—this is—” My voice cracks like a teenager’s.

“A trap?” His voice cuts through my stammering like a sword through silk. His eyes—dark as midnight and twice as dangerous—rake over my exposed form with surgical precision. I catch the subtle way his pupils dilate, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. “Of course it is. Calla’s handiwork, no doubt.”

Heat floods my cheeks as I finally snatch the towel, wrapping it around myself. But the damage is done—I’ve seen the way his gaze lingered on my full hips, the generous curve of my waist. And more disturbing still, I’ve felt my body’s traitorous response to his attention.

“So that’s the new girl,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Did no one tell you there’s a dress code?”

Laughter breaks around the room.

He steps closer, casually, like he’s just making conversation. “They really let anyone in now, huh?”

I flinch, but I don’t look away.

“Might want to stay in the shallow end,” he adds, voice lower now. “You don’t look like you can swim.”

The chamber erupts in cruel laughter. Each sound flays me alive.

“I have witnessed sea creatures with more elegance,” Henry continues, his words pursuing me as I stumble toward the door. “Perhaps you should return to whatever murky depths spawned you.”

I burst into the dormitory corridor, my wet footprints marking my humiliation across pristine marble. Tears blind me, but through the haze, I see her.

Mirelle.

My dearest sister stands at the corridor’s end, surrounded by a circle of perfect Academy beauties. They whisper and giggle like conspirators, their eyes following my dripping, shameful form.

“Mirelle!” I cry out, my voice cracking with desperate hope. “Mirelle, please!”