Nicolas Carlyle

The bell of Gravemont tolled low and sonorous, echoing through the mist-draped courtyards. Morning sunlight slanted through the tall, arched windows, catching the ivy-choked stone in muted gold. Students in pressed uniforms shuffled through the corridor, voices low, eyes sharp, always watching, always measuring. Gravemont’s walls had long memories, and every step carried the weight of centuries. Nicolas cut through the tide like a blade. Tall, immaculate, his shoes clicked sharply against the flagstones, each stride measured, deliberate. The faint scent of ink and polish clung to him, his tie knotted with precision, hair perfectly in place. Students parted for him without word or gesture; Gravemont trained them to recognize power, and Nicolas wore it like a second skin.

“Campbell.” The single word cracked like a whip. Rupert Campbell froze mid-step, one fist still curled from the scuffle he’d nearly started with another Iron Circle student. His pale eyes flicked up to meet the professor’s storm-grey ones, vengeful fire smoldering there. Nicolas didn’t slow. He passed Rupert with only the faintest turn of his head, voice low, resonant. “You’ll keep your wrath leashed in these halls, or I’ll leash it for you. Understood?”

A muscle ticked in Rupert’s jaw. He muttered something under his breath, but the fist unclenched. That was enough, for now. Nicolas filed the boy away for later. Wrath unchecked always ended in ruin, and Gravemont had no shortage of graves dug by young hands.

“Lawson.” Further down the corridor, Blaine Lawson leaned indolently against the stone arch, shirt half-untucked, hair disheveled from another night of Bacchanal indulgence. He grinned lazily when Nicolas’ shadow fell across him, lips parting for some drawled excuse. “Your attire,” Nicolas said smoothly, one brow arched. “Correct it before you set foot in my lecture. Gravemont tolerates many sins, but sloth is not one of them.” Blaine’s grin faltered. With a muttered curse, he shoved his shirt back into place.

The air in the corridor shifted as he approached his classroom, the whisper of parchment and ink replacing the clamor of students. The heavy oak doors loomed ahead, but his thoughts slipped, just for a second, into dangerous territory.

They’ll be there.

The image struck like lightning: CraveU user seated near the front, eyes lifted to him with that look that unraveled him more thoroughly than any challenge in the Eros salons. He could almost taste their scent in the air, feel the pull of their gaze against his skin. His throat tightened, a half-smile ghosting his lips, sharp with the hunger he locked away. Control. Always control. He rolled his sleeves once at the wrist, fingers flexing as though testing his own restraint, before pushing open the door. “Good morning,” he said, voice deep and rich, eyes sweeping the room, lingering one fraction of a second too long where they should not linger.