Before her mother could retort, her father stepped in. "Back off, Florence. She did well. Samara is going to get a better education than either of us dreamed—"
Her mother turned on him, in a full fury. "Shut up. She's not even yours. You have no say in this."
For a long moment, they stared at each other. Samara's heart raced and her head spun.
She isn't serious. She can't be serious.
Of all the insane things her mother had said over the years, this topped the list.
"What did you say? Is that true?" her father demanded. "And you better not be fucking with me, whatever you answer."
Samara backed off a step. She'd never seen him so pissed off before. She wasn't sure what her father would do.
True to form, her mother didn't back down. "I said she's not yours, and yes, that's true."
He stood stock-still for a tense moment. "Samara, go pack your things. Anything important to you. We're leaving."
Her mother reached out to grab Samara's arm, and she ducked away, shocked to silence, her world crumbling around her. Her father stepped between them.
Her mother slapped him across the face. Hard. "You can't take her. She's mine.
Mine.
"
"I have no proof of what you're saying and
my
name is on her birth certificate, too. Even if you prove it, it will take you longer than the four months until Samara turns eighteen to do it, because I can fight you that long, at least. At her age, the courts will let her go with whichever parent she wants, and I
am
her father, whether you prove your claim or not."
Her mother gaped, shaking her head, her eyes wide and wild.
"Samara, go get your things." He hesitated, and his gaze was nothing short of tortured. "If you want to come with me, I'll be packed in fifteen minutes."
"I'm coming. Don't leave without me."
Please, don't. Don't leave me with her.
"I won't. I promise I won't."
Samara scooped the acceptance package off the table and ran for her room.
He said to take anything important to me.
With the life she'd known falling apart, it was one of the few things she had left that meant something to her.
This, my father, and a few prized possessions.
She slammed her door to the sound of her mother throwing something glass against the wall.
Chapter Two
One year later
James and Jason rushed across campus and up into the administration building. A summons from the Alpha Maestro was a serious matter, and one didn't dawdle when called to his office.
James would worry if he and his brother had been on campus long enough to have pulled a prank on someone, but they'd hardly had time to unpack. What possible trouble could he and Jason have gotten into?
They didn't even have time to introduce themselves to the Alpha's door guard. The old warrior wolf showed them in without a word.
Pietro didn't rise from his place behind the desk to greet them. That could have been bad news, but he offered a strained smile.
"Well, now. I see the troublesome Trudale brothers have arrived."
"As ordered, Alpha." Jason hastened to reply.
James offered a quick tip of his head instead.
Pietro stared at them, seemingly sizing them up. Just as James was preparing to challenge the move, the Alpha Maestro spoke.
"Your mate is coming to campus this semester."
James snarled. As he'd feared, he and Jason were going to be mated to Christiana.
So much for our hopes that there would be a stronger, higher-ranked female a year or two younger than her.
Come on. I knew this was coming. The two strongest young males, litter-brothers, are expected to mate with the highest-ranking female not related to them. We're fucked.
"She will be moving into the Alpha suite tomorrow morning."
Of course she will. Where else would Christiana expect to stay? By the Night Mother, being mated to that foul beast will be hell on Earth.
Jason shot him a look of disgust that said he was having similar thoughts.
"This will be somewhat…complicated." Pietro continued when they didn’t offer comments.
"To say the least," Jason blurted out.
Before James could apologize for his brother's outburst, Pietro was posing a question to them.
"What do you know about Samara Tyler?"
For a potent moment, the brothers stared at each other.
James found his voice first. "Who in the Night Mother's name is Samara Tyler?"
* * * *
"Tyler? Samara Tyler?"
The old woman's accent was a pleasant lightly-British or British colony derivative and her smile warm. Instantly at ease, Samara nodded and offered her hand.
She took it in both of her own. "Ah, bella. I am so happy to meet you."
"So am I…uh…" Samara blushed in the realization that she'd forgotten the name of the woman who would be meeting her at the airport.
"You may call me Marietta."
Samara committed it to memory.
"Well, now… Come along." Marietta turned and looped Samara's arm with her own. She was shorter than Samara by almost a head and had the slight pouch of a belly almost all older women—even thin ones, like Marietta—had.
"Oh. Wait. Shouldn't I…?" Samara motioned back toward the cart of suitcases and boxes they were leaving behind.
"No. The men will transport your belongings in the van. We will take the car back to your rooms and meet them there."
A glance back confirmed two men in red jackets pulling the cart behind them.
"Sounds good." It did. After spending all day on a jet—thankfully in first class, which was a delight—only to arrive mid-morning in Italy, Samara was exhausted.
She stopped short at the sight of the limo with the school crest on the door.
"Samara? Is there a problem?" Marietta inquired.
"Does everyone get this treatment?" If so, that explained at least part of how expensive the school was.
She chuckled. "No, but you are… What is the American term for it? A VIP?"
"First time I've been called that in my life," Samara admitted.
Marietta frowned, as if the comment confused her.
Samara slid into the luxurious interior. The leather seats cradled her in warmth, and she sighed. Marietta joined her, and the driver closed them in.
They set off, out of the city and into the small villages and farms surrounding it. At first, Marietta pointed out the sights and imparted the history of the area. As Samara's eyes fluttered and dipped, the older woman fell silent.
Sleep dragged her into darkness.
* * * *
"Samara?" Someone shook her shoulder gently. "Samara."
She opened her eyes to the sight of Marietta's smile. "Sorry." Samara yawned widely, stretching her back and arms. She smoothed her blouse while she tried to get her bearings.
"Not at all. Take your time."
That spurred Samara on. It wasn't like her to make people wait.
And I'm not starting now.
She pulled herself out of the limo, ignoring the driver's hand.
He didn't seem offended by it. Once Marietta was out, he shut the door. "If you need anything else, have Marietta call for me."
Samara hadn't quite grasped that statement when Marietta waved him away. He was gone before she could thank him.
The building they'd stopped at was nothing short of a mansion. Samara stared at it, visually tracing it from one long wing to the opposite one. That accomplished, she focused on the cornerstone building, standing a full two stories taller than the three-story tall wings, and that was before one took into account the ornate gilded topper.
"This is the dorm?" she blurted out.
"One of them," Marietta agreed pleasantly. She guided Samara toward the massive front doors. "This one is for VIPs."
They ambled up the circular walk, Marietta speaking the entire way.
"Regina Hall was designed in eighteen-ninety and construction started that year. A large portion of it was destroyed in the fire of nineteen-thirty-nine. The entire hall was demolished, and then rebuilt from the original plans, but with updated building materials.
"The wing to your left is the ladies' dorm on the upper floors. The music room, fencing room, and dining room are on the ground floor of that wing. The wing to your right is the gentlemen's dorm. The ground floor houses the ballroom, gymnasium with swimming pool, and lounge. All ground floor amenities are available to all dorm residents."
Samara nodded, at a loss for words.
A man in the same ornate school livery the men at the airport and the driver wore rushed out to meet them. "Marietta, you may want to take Lady Samara in the back way."
By the way the older woman straightened and looked down her nose at the man, Samara guessed the suggestion was offensive.
"What problem is there?" she snapped, sounding a little too much like a general on the battlefield.
"Christiana."
Samara waited for more, but it seemed the word—or, more likely, name—was enough to make his point.
"Christiana will learn her place soon enough. Come along, Samara."
She didn't hesitate. Something told Samara she was safer at Marietta's side than she was balking her or questioning her, considering Marietta's current mood.
At least until she shows me to my room.
The man sighed, then followed along, seemingly resigned to whatever was coming. He ran ahead to open a door for them.
The complaining from inside was shrill, a tone that set Samara's nerves on edge.
What a whining little bitch.
"I demand to be shown to my rooms immediately."
Samara strained to hear the stomp of a foot that never occurred.
"We are attempting to—"
"Not that way, you witless baboon.
My
rooms are alpha level."
The door swung wide and Samara got her first look at the harpy within. Her hair was as long and as straight as Samara's was, but Christiana's hair was red-brown instead of brown with golden highlights like Samara's. Christiana was dressed in high-heeled boots, suede pants, and a poofy white blouse that looked like something a preschooler would wear. A half dozen sparkling bracelets ringed one wrist, and her nails were long and professionally manicured.
One of the three liveried men facing her took a deep breath. "Lady Christiana, had you read the invitation to campus carefully—"
"I've told you that was in error," she insisted.
"As I have assured you it was not."
"I am alpha level. I have
been
alpha level at every school I have attended."
Marietta stepped forward. "You are not alpha level at this school in this year. Attempt to be an adult, Christiana, and accept your place with grace and fortitude. Or something approximating it."
Christiana spun around in what could only be described as a choreographed move. She scowled at Marietta. "You dare counsel me, servant?"
Who does this bitch think she is?
Just because Marietta worked for the college didn't mean she was inferior to anyone else here.
Marietta laughed harshly. "I am no servant of yours," she countered. "Thank the goddess for that."
"You should have been. Your reprieve will be short-lived, I assure you. My father—"
Samara snapped. Her vision went red-tinged around the edges, as it always seemed to when she got angry. "That's it? That's the best you've got? I'll sic my daddy on you?" How pathetic was this girl?
Christiana raked a sneer up Samara's body. "And who is
your
father? Since you've seen fit to mock me, that is."
"None of your business." It wouldn't be, even if Samara knew what answer to give. Sadly, she no longer knew that for certain, and all outward signs said Christiana was the type who quoted which countries her family had manors in.
The idle carts full of personal belongings standing about—presumably waiting for a resolution before they could be transported to Christiana's rooms—held what was easily ten times the amount Samara had brought with her. And that was after a stock-up trip to round out her decimated wardrobe, after Samara's mother 'misplaced' a large number of the outfits she'd left behind the first night.
"On the contrary, I think it is. I don't know you, but I see by the servant attending you that you're the bitch she's taking to—"
Marietta laid a backhanded slap across Christiana's face that rocked her head back on her neck and bloodied her lip. "Be more careful who you call a bitch, dog. No one insults Lady Samara in my presence and walks away unscathed.
That
is my place, as
her
servant."
Students and employees gathered in hallways out to the wings, whispering to each other and watching the unfolding scene. Samara wondered whether they were glad Christiana got bitch-slapped or laying odds on what her response would be to it.
Christiana shot a narrow-eyed gaze at Marietta, then at Samara. "The alpha level is my place. I demand a challenge."
Marietta dropped back to Samara's side. "You are under no obligation to accept this challenge. Christiana is not due what she is demanding."
"She wants to fight
me
?"
Why? I wasn't the one who slapped her, though I agree she deserved it.
The old woman nodded, her expression guarded. "It is tradition."
"You have a tradition of fighting?"
What kind of school have I come to?
She'd heard European boarding schools sometimes had hazing and such that had been outlawed in other schools, but Samara had thought all universities had done away with it.
"An ancient one and students only invoke it every few decades. Most are better behaved."
Lucky me to meet the worst behaved student this university has had in two decades.
Enough of that. I need information.
"But she has no right to ask for this?"
I'll just refuse her challenge then.
"No." She sighed, then dropped her voice further. "If you refuse to fight now, Christiana will attempt to back you into a fight later. She hadn't expected to have to fight today. If you win now, she cannot start the same fight again. If you wait and fight her later, she has time to prepare to fight you."