Obsession: A Rejected Mate Shifter Romance (The Mate Games #1)(4)

If his looks alone weren’t enough to make a woman drop her panties, all that big dick alpha energy would. His aura conveyed how utterly savage he’d be protecting those that belonged to him. Too bad my shortcomings kept me from falling under that umbrella. No, Kingston Farrell had made it perfectly clear just how beneath him he thought I was. Time and time again.

But hadn’t I been the one who rejected him in the first place?

“Mademoiselle Fallon, if you make me stop and wait for you again, I’ll leave you here to figure out your living arrangements on your own. I know you’ve been raised to believe that the world revolves around your schedule and whims, but it doesn’t. Not here. Do not waste my time.”

My gaze snapped to Antoinette's face and the pinched, slightly annoyed expression she’d worn ever since I pulled up. “I’m sorry, Antoinette.”

“That’s Madame Headmistress to you. Now, come along.”

My feet hastened to obey without my conscious command. Geez. Madame Moody here could teach grandfather a thing or two. They’d probably get along like a house on fire. I smiled to myself. If they didn’t kill each other first.

“Something funny, Mademoiselle Fallon?”

“Nope.”

She gave me a long, withering glare and then took off up a set of stairs leading to a building that seemed to have pride of place among the others in the courtyard. I only had a second to read the plaque declaring it Blackthorne Hall before she was ushering me through its front doors.

“You’re on the third floor. Room eleven.” She pulled something out of her pocket and handed it to me. It was a key. Heavy, ornate, and colored with age. “I suggest you don’t lose that. Replacements are hard to come by.” She pointed to a set of winding stairs. “Take those and then the set on the left.”

I figured it was best not to ask about the elevator since although I saw one, it was not offered as an option. Three flights of stairs weren’t so bad. “You’re not coming with me?”

“Your tardiness this morning has made me late for another meeting. But I trust even you can manage to count to three. Just take the stairs up and then look for the door with the eleven on it.” She left before I could ask anything further.

The headmistress was a bit cold. But then, I figured most deities probably were. I didn’t imagine etiquette or a pleasant disposition ranked really high on the list of things they cared about.

Thankful I didn’t have to worry about lugging my belongings up to my room, I made my way up the stairs and then down a hall that reminded me of an upscale bed-and-breakfast more so than a dorm. The carpets were plush, the fixtures expensive, and I was pretty sure the wallpaper was original. Not because it was faded, it was actually in perfect condition, but I was fairly sure they didn’t make it that way anymore.

Still holding the key, I slid it into the ornate lock of room number eleven, wondering if they even made keyrings large enough for this sucker as I stepped inside.

Moira, my new roommate, looked up as soon as the door opened, her expression of surprise morphing to disgust as she raked her eyes slowly down and then back. Perfect. I really had a way of making people fall in love with me, didn’t I?

Since she made no effort to hide the fact she was sizing me up, I used the opportunity to do the same. Her blonde hair was styled in an artful tumble around her shoulders, thick black liner winging her amethyst-colored eyes, and a seriously hot shade of fuchsia expertly applied to her lips—which were currently twisted in a scowl. She wore head-to-toe black, a stark contrast to her alabaster skin which was dotted with a spray of freckles, but not in the rebellious style of someone going through their goth phase. Her high-waisted, wide-legged slacks screamed money. So did her sheer silk blouse and the lacy bralette she wore beneath it.

From the looks of things, I’d interrupted her painting her nails, a glittering drop falling from the brush and splattering onto the varnished wood of her fancy desk. Since she hadn’t noticed, I decided not to tell her. No need to go and give her other things to hate me over. She seemed to have more than enough reasons already.

“You must be Sunday,” she said with a resigned huff. “I’m Moira Belladonna.”

My eyes widened at that. The Belladonnas were a notoriously scary coven of witches.

“Good, I see you already know better than to fuck with me. Stay out of my way, and we should get along just fine.” She turned her attention back to her manicure, calling over her shoulder, “That’s your bed over there. I’ve already filled the closet, so you’ll have to make do with the dresser. You’re just lucky I was willing to let you share my room. No one else wanted the pampered Fallon princess disrupting their lives.”

Pampered princess? That was laughable. More like dirty little secret.

I eyed the furniture in question, which had clothes spilling out of two of its four drawers. The bed hadn’t fared much better. While it was made, its linens the same decadent quality as the rest of the place so far, Moira’s cast-off outfits were strewn all across it. I was pretty sure this was some kind of test, and my reaction would likely solidify or change whatever assumptions she’d made about me. But I’d been playing power games like this my whole life, and I didn’t scare easily.

Without a word, I picked up the first of my suitcases and tossed it on the bed, right on top of a bunched-up Armani dress. She snorted, but I caught her eyeing me as though waiting for me to challenge her or break. I was used to people like her. Rich kids were the same from Family to Family. Show no weakness. That was the only way to establish where you belonged in the pecking order. Me? I might have been hidden away for most of my life, but I belonged on top.