The Devil's Plaything: A Dark College Bully Romance (Rogues to Riches Book 1) Read online

  The Devil's Plaything

  A Dark College Bully Romance

  Calla Claire

  Belle Chose Press

  Copyright © 2022 Calla Claire

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Calla Claire claims no ownership over the included lyrics to "Gil Brenton." This is the fifth Child's Ballad in The English and Scottish Popular Ballads complied by Francis James Child between 1882-1898. "Gil Brenton" entered the public domain in 1996. Text is available under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike License.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover art by Mayhem Cover Creations

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Playlist

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1: Lucy

  Chapter 2: Lucy

  Chapter 3: Dorian

  Chapter 4: Lucy

  Chapter 5: Dorian

  Chapter 6: Lucy

  Chapter 7: Lucy

  Chapter 8: Lucy

  Chapter 9: Lucy

  Chapter 10: Lucy

  Chapter 11: Lucy

  Chapter 12: Dorian

  Chapter 13: Lucy

  Chapter 14: Dorian

  Chapter 15: Lucy

  Chapter 16: Dorian

  Chapter 17: Lucy

  Chapter 18: Lucy

  Chapter 19: Lucy

  Chapter 20: Lucy

  Chapter 21: Dorian

  Chapter 22: Lucy

  Chapter 23: Dorian

  Chapter 24: Lucy

  Chapter 25: Lucy

  Chapter 26: Dorian

  Chapter 27: Lucy

  Chapter 28: Dorian

  Chapter 29: Lucy

  Chapter 30: Dorian

  Chapter 31: Lucy

  Chapter 32: Lucy

  Chapter 33: Lucy

  Chapter 34: Dorian

  Chapter 35: Lucy

  Chapter 36: Lucy

  Chapter 37: Lucy

  Chapter 38: Lucy

  Chapter 39: Dorian

  Chapter 40: Lucy

  Chapter 41: Lucy

  Chapter 42: Dorian

  Chapter 43: Lucy

  Chapter 44: Lucy

  Chapter 45: Lucy

  Chapter 46: Dorian

  Chapter 47: Lucy

  Chapter 48: Dorian

  Chapter 49: Lucy

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About The Author

  Next by Calla Claire

  Chapter One: Harper

  Books In This Series

  Playlist

  Listen along with Lucy

  1. "Heathens" by Twenty-One Pilots, covered by RIVALS

  2. "American Money" by BORNS

  3. "Bad Guy" by Billie Eilish, covered by The Interrupters

  4. "Black Sheep " by Kailee Morgue

  5. "Lost Boy" by Ruth B, covered by Sam Tsui & Zoe Rose

  5. "Black Sea" by Natasha Blume

  6. "Scary Love" by The Neighborhood

  7. "Lower" by Tender

  8. "Marilyn Monroe" by Sevdaliza

  9. "Coal" by Arden Forest

  10. "Clean & Dirty" by Pervis

  11. "Roslyn" by Bon Iver & St. Vincent

  To my husband and babysitter, without whom none of this would be possible.

  To A and R, my lovely betas, who helped me more than I can say.

  Lastly, to my mother, the epitome of strength and forgiveness, who raised me to think critically in my yearning for independence. But please, do us all a favor and skip the sex scenes ;)

  Foreword

  This is a dark, new adult romance novel intended for adult audiences. It contains scenes and themes that some readers may find triggering, including (but not limited to) references to assualt, implied abuse, domestic violence, graphic sexual activity, and graphic language.

  Reader discretion is advised.

  The greater the power, the more dangerous the abuse.

  Edmund Burke

  Chapter 1: Lucy

  I hate silence.

  It’s just not how my brain works.

  I need noise. Music. Speech. Without a little ruckus, I get antsy.

  I need noise to reflect. To plan a polite reply.

  And if you’re the type of person who knows how to give a polite reply without planning it first, you probably had a better childhood than me.

  My limo driver hasn’t stopped talking for three full hours. By now, I should have prepared something. A raindrop staggers down my window as Jefferson’s voice rises and falls in the background. I squint and trace the droplet’s path, mostly for something to do with my hands. He asks fewer questions when I look occupied, a task that’s gotten harder and harder to do. At the beginning of the trip, I kept up with him through encouraging murmurs. Now, every muscle in my body begs for rest.

  Even aside from our current journey, it’s been a day full of New. The salvage yard. The airport. The flight. The rush of going through security and finding the right gate and keeping my seatbelt buckled at all times.

  New. New. New.

  Why do new experiences always give you that deep bone-tired ache?

  My stomach flutters as the limo whips around a sharp corner. Gazing out at the mountains and foliage isn’t safe anymore. I sit up against the leather, my eyes searching for any piece of the gray horizon bobbing through the windshield. My back aches as I move, a firm reminder I’ve spent the last two weeks sleeping in the back of a Chevy Lumina.

  It’s a pity I can only sleep in cars that aren’t moving. For the thousandth time, I send the universe a silent prayer: If you let me take naps during car rides like a normal person, I promise I’ll never be a paranoid nutcase again.

  But normal’s never been my style. Just like sitting in silence.

  “Any-hoo!” Jefferson clears his throat, pressing his head against the seat. He says it with a sense of finality — or as much finality as one can muster when they utter the phrase “any-hoo.”

  Damn. I’m gonna have to talk soon.

  “That’s the history of Ardmore. The whoooooole history!” He stretches the word out like a preschool teacher explaining the size of a blue whale. “Which means I’ve done enough talking, I think.” He lets out an embarrassed chuckle, but he’s done me a favor. The pleasant chatter gave my mind a rest.

  Still, if I had the Miss America capability of explaining such things with poise, I wouldn’t be starting college at age twenty. All I can do is take a stab at an explanation that doesn’t sound too pathetic or bizarre. “Actually, I’m not a fan of silence, sir!” I chirp. “Keep on talking, if it suits ya!”

  Ah, shit.

  In the hubbub of coming up with something to say, I forgot to make my accent seem neutral.

  Jefferson’s smirk says it all. Southern. That’s how I sound.

  And Southern accents ain’t created equal. My flat, graveled voice reeks of Middle American farmer stock, the sort of folks who can sniff soil and tell you why your corn didn’t come in right.

  Jefferson doesn’t bring it up. “Think you
can handle your scholarship requirements, Lucy?”

  Ha! Okay, now I know what he’s doing. It was easy to lapse into tales of Ardmore as an abstract concept, but now Jefferson’s trying to weave me into the fabric of the school… to see if I can find myself in the past three hours of stories about good-natured prank wars and mysteriously benevolent ghosts. I wish his question had a simple answer.

  He blinks back at me in the rearview, his amber-rimmed eyes swimming with kindness. I have a fleeting, immature wish that this kindness extended to letting me plead the fifth… but the silence only grows between us. Filling the empty space.

  And I hate silence, I really do. It prickles the hair on the back of my neck, crawling up my throat, until I have no choice but to blurt the three simple words that spell the truth: “I don’t know.”

  This time, my accent doesn’t put him off. “That’s totally normal,” he soothes, the limo rolling to a stop. He flicks his right blinker, taking his time peering through the deserted green hills, before turning down another road. “New place. New school. New friends. But you’ll be fine, Lucy Devereaux — I know it!” That warm smile returns to his lips. “If you mind your Nephilim, of course.”

  I push a wave of carsickness aside. This sounds more important. “My what?”

  Jefferson’s eyes snap back to mine. “Your Nephilim. You know… the gentleman hired as your professional guardian?

  Uh. No, I don’t know, actually. I paint on a smile and weigh the options. Would Jefferson judge if he knew I… never actually read the scholarship contract?

  Yeah. Yeah, he would. Without a glimpse of the hell I’ve lived through, any normal person would judge me for signing my rights away, sight unseen. But frankly, unless you’ve been in my exact position? Well, friendo, you can shut your damn mouth.

  By the time Doris from admissions made it out to Buckley last May, I was desperate to sign on the dotted line. Even then, I had an inkling this scholarship arrangement might be… unusual. The school slogan on each page of the contract was scary enough: Noli clamare in tenebris. Whitney did my dirty work and translated it for me. “Don’t scream in the darkness.” Even in my warped mind, I know that’s weird as hell, but it wasn’t weird enough to make me read the fine print.

  Because Ardmore’s happening. The end. The good has to outweigh the weird, not that I have a choice. And really, how bad could this be? This… what did Jefferson call it? Nephilim? I’ve heard that word before. Meemaw always told me to pay attention to coincidences. Maybe the universe is telling me something.

  I pick up the thread of the conversation. “Like the Nephilim from The Bible, right?” I piece together a fractured childhood memory from Meemaw’s fire-and-brimstone church. “They’re… angels? Or something?”

  He laughs. “You’re the first client who’s ever caught that reference! Nicely done! But for us, their purpose has nothing to do with religion.” He raises his eyebrows significantly. “They’re more just… purity guardians. If you will.”

  Ew.

  I try to hide a grimace.

  That’s… yeah. Not ideal.

  Every passing minute convinces me I made the right call by avoiding that pesky fine print. I never would have made it on the plane.

  “It’ll take some getting used to,” Jefferson allows. “But if you follow your Nephilim’s lead, and don’t get yourself in trouble with the woman in charge, you’ll do fine.” There’s a pause.

  “Adelaide Lockwood. She’s who I’m talking about. She’s uh…. well, I’ll be honest, she will run most of your life at Ardmore. Old family connections, you see.” He releases an uncomfortable chuckle. “You do not want to mess with her. But keep your nose clean and you’ll do fine, Miss Devereaux.”

  My nails dig into my thigh. Me and authority figures get on like oil and water — and given that Jefferson spent three hours describing poltergeists as “cute” and “playful,” this Adelaide chick must be a real piece of work. It’s time to drop the pretense and figure out what I agreed to. If I don’t take my head out of the sand, it sounds like this Adelaide broad will rip it out herself.

  “What does the Nephilim do, exactly?”

  Jefferson scratches his nose. “Wellll…” he says slowly. “It depends on each girl and her individual needs. But generally, he works twelve-hour shifts. He escorts you to class — and anywhere else you might need to go. He makes damn sure you don’t violate any of the terms you agreed to. You’ll need to fit in to do well, see… and he’ll ensure that you try.”

  Great. Another authority figure. Another set of expectations. Just what I’ve always wanted. “And if I don’t obey?”

  Unease weaves through Jefferson’s tone. “Oh, trust me. You will.” His eyes flit to mine in the rearview mirror. “Do you understand?”

  My head bobs in a terse nod. Oh, I understand; I’m in for some real bullshit.

  “And seriously,” Jefferson adds, his tone lifting into something light and conversational, “your Neph is a good one. I’ve checked.”

  HA! Okay, that’s actually funny. A good Nephilim. The people who take these positions already sound like professional Karens, far removed from the HOA of their dreams — but don’t worry, in a good way! I tamp down the urge to ask if Jefferson’s also the type to describe people as good dictators. Meemaw called that my devil side. The part of me that itches to make trouble.

  “I can’t wait!” I squeak, wondering if that comes across as fake as it is.

  He rewards my lie with a gracious smile. “That’s the spirit! Keep focused on your studies, and you’ll be a-okay! Say, what’s your favorite subject? Are you good at math?”

  I swallow the smart comeback I would’ve provided a year ago (“If I had a penis, would you even be asking if I was good at math?”) before schooling my features into civility. No. The hair-trigger temper of my youth won’t serve me. “Actually, I prefer anything outdoors. Roses are my speciality.”

  “Well, I guess that’s a good thing, seeing as how you’re gonna be our Greenhouse Girl! Guess that explains why Rosy is your nickname!”

  I offer the polite giggle he expects, but I don’t like the sound of that. The fuck is this place? How can I start fresh if I’m already titled and nicknamed?

  “But, hey!” he calls, nodding to the window. “Check it out!”

  Oh.

  There, out of the overgrown tree cover, is the gate. The Gate. The one splashed across every brochure, the one that looks like it belongs at a Paris Metro instead of a private university. The words ARDMORE ACADEMY twist and curl atop as it swings open with a creak; the limo soundlessly glides through. It must be automated… or maybe there’s someone watching, waiting to let us in.

  “This is Ardmore Academy!” Jefferson booms, gesturing to his right. “But you won’t be going there until tonight. You’ll have a brief reception here at Lockwood Estate before you proceed to campus.” The interior of the limo suddenly brightens, the cab flooding with sunlight. We’re through the forest overgrowth, the final layer of protection between Ardmore Academy and civilian life. Ardmore’s true landscape emerges around us, lush and green, and —

  My breath freezes in my throat. When your frame of reference for the word “campus” is a high school and a football field, it’s hard to imagine the word could also describe something… immaculate. And sprawling. Aged marble peeks between crawling spindles of ivy. Cloistered bridges and walkways span the thick green grass. Pink flowers pepper the edges of the old stone like piped flowers on a birthday cake, and by the time we finally pull into the circular driveway, I don’t know what to do with myself.

  The Nephilim and the greenhouse still war in my head: slavery and freedom. Night and day. But as my eyes travel around the wrapped wooden veranda of Lockwood Estate, it’s hard to be angry. A Victorian mansion, preserved in the middle of the mountains. Who the fuck knew?

  But then Jefferson shuts off the motor and clears his throat… and for the first time all day, he does nothing to hide that something’s wrong.
r />   Perhaps wrong isn’t the right word. There’s something off. Something cold. Something that’s shifted, just in the past thirty seconds, from joy to warning.

  He draws a deep breath, those kind eyes meeting mine once more.

  “Lucy Devereux,” he says firmly, blinking in the rearview mirror. “Please promise me you won’t scream in the darkness.”

  His words chase a shiver up my spine. His tone throbs with meaning, his shoulders taut with fear. And the longer I stay in the car with him, the deeper it blooms.

  I understand his reference. It’s that creepy slogan, coming back to haunt me… the one I’ve compartmentalized as being quaint and charming. But Jefferson’s words aren’t charming. His eyes don’t hold promise or excitement. If I’ve seen that expression once, I’ve seen it a hundred times, from a hundred people. I open my mouth to ask the half-formed question dancing through my head, but Jefferson’s done. He opens the door, pops the trunk, and leaves me alone in the tinted backseat.

  One thing’s for damn certain: I’m not in Oklahoma anymore.

  Chapter 2: Lucy

  Even before I get a good look at Adelaide, I’m jealous of her hair.

  If you’re not a ginger, that might seem oddly specific. But I’ve lived twenty years with hair the approximate color of spaghetti sauce. I don’t think there will ever be an occasion where I don’t envy redheads with natural shades of auburn and burgundy, the sort of color that’s unique without resembling a roadside flare.