The first night in the Elite Dorm didn't feel like a night at all. It felt like waiting—waiting for something to go wrong, waiting for my pulse to slow, waiting for the Crown Prince to stop watching me even when he wasn't looking directly at me.
The room was quiet, but not the comfortable kind. It was the type of quiet that hummed in the air, stretched thin between two people who didn't know each other but were forced to share the same space.
Horace had turned off the main lights and was sitting at his desk, reading. A small lamp cast warm light over his hair, making the strands look almost silver. He didn't move much—just turned pages, occasionally glanced out at the balcony, occasionally glanced at me.
Not long stares.
Not obvious.
Just enough that I felt them.
I pretended to be absorbed in unpacking the last of Elliot's things. My movements were slow, careful, controlled. I couldn't slip. Not now. Not with the one person who could sense the tiniest inconsistency sitting ten feet away.
I folded a shirt and set it in the drawer, but my hands were shaking too much. I pressed my palms against the wood to steady myself.
Horace spoke without turning around.
"You breathe differently when you're nervous."
My heart stopped.
"I'm not nervous," I said quickly. Too quickly.
He finally looked up from his book. His eyes caught the lamplight in a way that made them feel sharper than I expected—silver-blue, focused, calm.
"You hesitated before saying that," he said simply.
"I didn't hesitate."
"You did."
This was a nightmare.
He wasn't even trying to interrogate me—this was just… how he was. Naturally perceptive. Naturally observant. Naturally impossible to lie to.
I forced a small shrug. "Long day. That's all."
He studied me a second longer, then closed his book.
"I'm not trying to pry," he said. "It's just rare to see someone come into the Elite Dorm acting like they'd rather be anywhere else."
"Maybe I would," I muttered before I could catch myself.
He raised an eyebrow.
Wow. Smooth, Elleanore. Really subtle.
"Do you dislike the Academy?" he asked.
I stared at the half-open drawer. "Not dislike. Just… not used to it."
He nodded slowly. "Fair enough."
For a moment, he didn't speak again. For a moment, I thought the conversation was over.
Then he said it—
"Still. It's strange seeing you here again."
Air caught in my lungs.
Again.
Elliot had been here before. They had records, training notes, schedules. Things I didn't know well enough to fake.
I needed to be careful.
"Yeah," I said lightly, grabbing the next shirt. "Life happens."
Horace leaned back in his chair, still watching me. "Did something happen during the last training cycle? You left before evaluation."
My throat tightened. I didn't know. Elliot never told me why.
I forced myself to sound casual. "Family stuff."
"That answer won't work forever," he said, voice even.
I froze for half a second before turning, pretending I hadn't.
"I'm not hiding anything," I said.
Horace studied my face—not aggressively, but with a quiet pressure that made my skin prickle.
"Most people who say that," he said calmly, "are hiding something."
I swallowed hard. "Are you always like this?"
"Like what?"
"Blunt."
"Only when necessary."
"And this is necessary?"
"Yes."
God.
Great.
Perfect.
I rubbed the back of my neck to keep my hand from trembling. "Look, I get that you're my roommate and all, but if I'm making you uncomfortable—"
"You're not," he said, cutting me off.
That threw me for a moment.
"I'm simply trying to understand the person I'm sharing a room with."
"Well… don't."
He blinked. Not insulted. Just surprised.
"I don't mean that rudely," I added quickly. "I just… I'm not great at talking about myself."
"Then I'll stop asking," he said.
Just like that.
I stared at him, caught off guard. He wasn't like Oliver, who pushed because he believed he knew best. He wasn't like Chandler, who stepped in without asking. He wasn't like anyone I knew.
He backed off.
"I don't want to make you uncomfortable," Horace added quietly.
And something in my chest loosened without warning.
"Thanks," I said.
He nodded and reopened his book.
For a few minutes, there was only the sound of pages turning.
I let out a slow breath and sat on my bed. My shoulders finally relaxed. Maybe things would be okay. Maybe I could keep my distance and not draw too much attention. Maybe—
A sudden wave of heat rushed up my neck.
Then another.
My pulse jumped. My vision sharpened. I felt something inside me shift, tighten, pull.
No.
No, no, no.
Not now.
My scent—
My scent was pushing through the suppressor.
It wasn't much, just a hint—barely a breath of sweetness—but an Alpha with sharp instincts would notice it.
And Horace was the sharpest person in this building.
I forced myself to breathe slowly, grabbing the edge of my mattress.
Not here.
Not now.
Fight it.
Hold it.
Don't break.
The suppressor should've lasted hours, but stress, fear, and proximity to a dominant Alpha could weaken it. Elliot warned me once.
The more anxious you are, the faster it wears off.
Horace suddenly straightened in his chair.
Crap.
He inhaled once—too faint for anyone else to notice—but my blood ran cold. His head turned slightly, like he was trying to catch something in the air.
Please no.
Please don't.
Not now.
I forced myself to move.
"I'm going to shower," I said quickly, standing too fast.
Horace's eyes flicked to me. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah. Just need… water. Cold water."
I grabbed my towel and practically darted into the bathroom, closing the door behind me with a shaky breath.
The moment the lock clicked, I pressed my hands to the sink and leaned forward, struggling to keep my breath steady.
That was close.
Too close.
The faintest trace of my Omega scent slipping through would be enough for someone like Horace to detect.
I splashed cold water on my face.
It helped—but barely.
I closed my eyes.
How did Elliot live like this?
How did he not break under the pressure?
How did he keep so many secrets from everyone?
I reached into the hidden pocket in my bag and pulled out the suppressor vial. Only a few drops left. I needed to use them sparingly.
I tapped it once against my wrist.
Another drop on my neck.
One behind my ear.
One on my chest.
The chill sank into my skin, biting deeper this time, erasing the slide of scent that threatened to rise.
My heartbeat steadied enough for me to breathe again.
My reflection stared back at me in the mirror—hair damp from the sink water, eyes tired and afraid, jaw clenched tight.
"I can do this," I whispered. "Just survive today. Then figure out tomorrow."
It wasn't confidence.
It was a plea.
I took a few more minutes to calm myself, then stepped back into the room.
Horace didn't look up immediately, but his gaze flicked toward me as I walked past. He didn't frown or question me, but his eyes held something thoughtful. Something calculating.
Something that scared me more than his suspicion—
Curiosity.
He was curious now.
That was dangerous.
I climbed into bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin even though the room wasn't cold.
Horace turned off his lamp a few minutes later. The room fell into darkness.
But sleep didn't come.
Not even close.
Instead, I lay awake listening to Horace breathe across the room—steady, calm, controlled—while mine stayed uneven, shallow, too fast.
A room built for two Alphas.
One Alpha.
And one Omega masquerading as a ghost of her brother.
I stared at the ceiling.
Just survive the night.
Just survive tomorrow.
Just survive long enough to find Elliot.
That was all I could think.
And somewhere across the room, Horace shifted in his bed.
As if he could sense I wasn't sleeping.
Morning arrived too quickly.
I barely slept—maybe an hour at most—and when I opened my eyes, I felt the weight of the Academy pressing down on me all over again. The Elite Dorm was quiet, sunlight filtering through the curtains in strips of pale gold.
Horace's bed was already empty.
Of course it was.
The Crown Prince probably woke up with the sunrise and did royal push-ups or meditated on discipline or something equally intimidating.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes. The knot of stress in my stomach was still there, if not worse. My scent was stable for now, thanks to the extra drops I'd used last night, but the suppressor vial in my bag was dangerously low.
I couldn't afford another slip—especially around someone like him.
I dragged myself out of bed and got dressed in Elliot's uniform again. I tied the tie twice before it looked right. I combed my short hair until it sat the way Elliot's used to.
When I stepped into the hallway, a short, mint-haired Beta carrying a stack of paper schedules nearly bumped into me.
"Oh—sorry!" he said quickly. "Here, for you." He handed me a sheet. "Class schedule for second-year Alpha Division students."
I took it with a nod. "Thanks."
He hurried off down the hall, calling other names.
I looked down at the schedule:
Combat Theory II – Instructor Galvin
Leadership Strategies
Scent Stability Analysis
Elite Ethics & Noble Conduct
Alpha Conditioning & Training
Royal Academy General Requirements
When I reached the third line, my stomach dropped.
Scent Stability Analysis
What kind of class was that?
Was I supposed to sit in a room full of dominant Alphas and pretend everything about me was normal?
I folded the schedule quickly and shoved it into my pocket before anxiety could tighten its grip.
"Your first class is in the West Wing."
Horace's voice came from behind me.
I jumped.
He was standing at the end of the hallway, glancing at his own schedule. His uniform looked perfectly in place, hair neat, expression neutral.
"How did you know my first class?" I asked.
He raised a brow. "Because mine is the same."
Oh.
Great.
Perfect.
More time with the human lie detector.
Horace started walking, and instinct made me follow. He didn't look at me, but the quiet between us wasn't exactly comfortable. It felt strained, like both of us were holding back questions.
We stepped out into the courtyard, where students were already heading in every direction. Pheromones hung faint in the air—not enough to overwhelm, but enough to remind me where I was.
A couple of lower-ranked Alphas glanced my way.
A few nodded at Horace respectfully.
Someone whispered "Prince Frinton" under their breath.
I kept my gaze forward.
We were almost to the West Wing building when a group of students blocked the path. They weren't doing it intentionally—they were just clustered there, laughing—but the tallest among them noticed Horace and immediately straightened.
Cassian Valehart.
He was impossible to miss. Tall, broad-shouldered, hair the color of polished copper, and eyes like gleaming metal. He stood like someone who didn't fear anything, not even the Crown Prince.
Cassian's gaze slid past Horace… and stopped on me.
For a moment, his bronze eyes narrowed just slightly.
I froze inside.
"New face," he said, stepping aside but not far enough to ignore us. "You're not from the Elite Wing last term."
Horace answered before I could. "Elliot transferred late."
Cassian looked at me again, slower this time. Reading something. Measuring something.
"Transfer," he repeated. "Huh."
He didn't sound convinced.
He stepped forward like he wanted to come closer, but Horace subtly shifted sideways, placing himself between us without making it obvious.
Cassian smirked, amused. "Relax, Your Highness. I'm not going to challenge your new roommate."
Horace didn't blink. "Good."
Cassian walked past with his friends, laughing under his breath.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
"Don't interact with him unless necessary," Horace said quietly once we were moving again.
"You don't like him?"
"I don't trust him."
"Why?"
"He notices too much."
I almost choked.
"Wow," I muttered. "That's ironic."
He glanced at me. "What?"
"Nothing."
Combat Theory II was held in a spacious stone-walled classroom filled with mats, training diagrams, and wooden practice weapons hanging in neat rows.
I took a seat in the back.
I figured if my disguise cracked, being far from the instructor might buy me a few seconds of life before getting dragged out.
Horace took the seat next to mine.
Of course he did.
The room filled quickly with Alpha students—some sparring lightly, some stretching, some showing off. I kept my eyes on the desk.
Then someone dropped their bag loudly beside me.
"Elliot, right? Back again?"
I turned to see Rowan Blackwell sliding into the empty seat to my right. His half-frame glasses glinted in the light, and his smile was too sharp to be friendly.
"I didn't think you'd return," he said casually.
"I did," I replied simply.
"Interesting," Rowan murmured. "Most people who leave mid-term don't."
"I had reasons."
"I'm sure you did."
He leaned back, studying my face like he was analyzing a chessboard position.
"You look different," he said.
My pulse stuttered. "Different how?"
"Hard to say." He squinted a little. "Your eyes. Your posture. Something."
I forced a shrug. "People change."
He smirked. "Some more than others."
Across me, Horace watched the exchange with cold, cautious eyes. He said nothing, but something about the way he leaned slightly forward told me he didn't like Rowan's attention.
Then Rowan tapped his pen against his notebook.
"Elliot," he said, "do you remember your last day here?"
My blood ran cold.
"No," I said too quickly.
Rowan's smile widened a fraction—like he expected that answer.
"Didn't think so."
Before he could continue, the instructor walked in.
Thank god.
Class passed in a blur—stretches, stances, drills that made my arms shake. Elliot's body was built for this, but mine… not so much. I tried to mimic everyone as best I could. A few times, Horace corrected my form with a simple gesture or a quiet "Straighten your wrist."
Every time he leaned close enough for his scent to reach me, the suppressor strained. The cold chemical layer cracked at the edges, letting the faintest hint of something wrong slip.
But no one noticed.
At least not yet.
After class, I gathered my things, relieved to have survived one hour without being arrested.
But when I reached the hallway, I stopped.
Voices.
Just around the corner.
"…Elliot?" someone whispered. "He's back?"
"Are you sure it's him?"
"That's what the list says."
"But I heard he disappeared."
"I heard he got into some serious trouble with—"
"Shh! Don't say names out loud."
My heart pounded so hard I felt it in my throat.
They were talking about him.
About my Elliot.
The real one.
I leaned against the wall, listening even though I knew I shouldn't.
"Whatever happened, the Academy covered it up."
"Obviously. They always do."
"Do you think he'll talk?"
"Not with who he's rooming with."
"You mean—"
"Yes. Him."
The Crown Prince.
My hands turned cold.
Horace stepped into the hallway at that moment, noticing the fear in my face. He scanned the area, then looked at me sharply.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Nothing," I lied.
He stared at me.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Concerned.
But concern from someone like Horace felt dangerous too.
"We're late for the next class," he said.
And as he walked ahead, my breath finally escaped.
Something happened to Elliot here.
Something people weren't allowed to talk about.
And now I was in his place.
Pretending to be him.
Sleeping beside the prince who shared Elliot's last days.
I swallowed hard.
Elliot had secrets.
The Academy had secrets.
And if I wasn't careful…
…I was going to meet the same fate he did.