Ruthless Kings of Obsession (Leighton Royals University #3)

30. A Queens Exile

A Queen's Exile

~ G EMINI~

The Leighton University courtyard blooms with deadly beauty in the morning light. Climbing roses wind their way up ancient stone walls like veins of blood, their thorns gleaming with predatory promise. The groundskeepers have been busy over break – new varieties have been added to the already impressive collection, creating a natural maze of flowers that range from deepest crimson to palest pink.

How fitting , I think as I lead my Kings through the main gates, that even the plants here are beautiful but lethal .

The click of my heels against cobblestone pathways echoes like gunshots in the morning quiet. Students part before us like water breaking around stones, their whispers following in our wake like perfume.

"Is that really Gemini Prescott?"

"That haircut makes her look lethal..."

"Did you hear what happened over break? They say she almost died..."

"No, I heard she was kidnapped by rival families..."

My smirk grows wider with each speculation, the blood-red color of my lipstick catching light as I navigate the newly landscaped grounds. Wisteria drapes overhead in elegant purple cascades, creating dappled shadows that dance across our path. The effect is almost magical – nature carefully controlled but still wild enough to remind everyone of its inherent danger.

"Jesus Christ," someone whispers too loudly, "she looks like she could ruin your whole life and you'd thank her for it."

Behind me, I hear Zander's dark chuckle. He walks slightly to my left, while Matteo takes the right – a formation we fell into naturally, like pieces on a chessboard arranging themselves for maximum effect. Marcus and Ares flank them, with Ren bringing up the rear in a display of unified power that makes other students scramble to clear our path.

"The hockey incident though..."

"What really happened with Domino and Flex?"

"Didn't you see the news? They found Flex in Turkey..."

"Yeah, trying to get plastic surgery or something..."

"Police caught him right after his face reconstruction..."

The last whisper makes my smile sharper as I remember Hannah's update from last week. Poor Flex, thinking he could take advantage of my generosity. I'd given him a chance to escape, even provided funds for his transformation. But then he'd gotten greedy, started making demands, threatening to expose things he didn't fully understand.

So I let Hannah direct certain interested parties to his hospital room.

After all, what's the point of having power if you can't occasionally remind people why they shouldn't abuse your mercy?

New planters line the restored pathways, filled with night-blooming jasmine that will release its intoxicating scent after dark. The renovation team has outdone themselves – every detail designed to enhance Leighton's reputation for cultivated beauty hiding carefully maintained danger.

"They're all staring at you," Ares observes quietly, his model's grace making even simple walking look like a runway show. "Like they can't quite believe what they're seeing."

"Good," I reply, deliberately pitching my voice to carry just far enough. "Let them stare. Let them wonder."

A group of Savage Heirs watches our progression from beneath a newly installed pergola dripping with blood-red bougainvillea. Their expressions range from open admiration to carefully hidden fear – exactly the reaction I was aiming for with this transformation.

"Did you hear about the investigation?" More whispers follow us like shadows. "They say it was all fake – the video, the evidence, everything..."

"But Flex confessed in Turkey..."

"After they caught him trying to run..."

"Some people are saying Domino's in rehab..."

The last comment makes several of my Kings tense slightly, though they maintain perfect composure. They know the truth – know exactly why Domino agreed to treatment, know what happened in that sewer to ensure his cooperation. But the rest of the world only needs to know what we want them to know.

After all, isn't that what power really is? Controlling not just actions, but narratives?

We reach the center of the courtyard where a new fountain has been installed – a massive piece of modern art featuring twisted metal and glass that somehow manages to look both beautiful and slightly threatening. Water cascades over sharp edges in carefully controlled patterns, catching morning light like liquid diamonds.

"You know," Ren says from behind me, his voice carrying that dangerous playfulness that's becoming familiar, "I don't think I've ever seen someone make walking across a courtyard look quite so much like a declaration of war."

I pause beside the fountain, letting my fingers trail through the cool water. The motion makes my blazer pull tight across my shoulders, emphasizing how the uniform has been tailored to perfect advantage. "Maybe it is," I say softly, watching ripples spread from my touch. "Maybe everything we do from now on is a kind of warfare."

The whispers continue around us, growing bolder as more students fill the space:

"The haircut makes her look like a completely different person..."

"Like she's finally showing her real face..."

"Did you see how the Kings move around her? Like satellites orbiting a sun..."

"A deadly sun maybe..."

I smile at that last comment, knowing they have no idea how right they are. Because that's exactly what we are now – deadly celestial bodies locked in careful orbit, our gravitational pull affecting everything around us.

Let them whisper , I think as I withdraw my hand from the fountain, watching water drip from my fingers like liquid crystal.

Let them speculate and theorize and fear.

"Jeez Prescott, are you in your emo arch?"

The voice cuts through the whispers like a blade, making me pause mid-stride. I turn slowly, every movement calculated despite the sudden unease in my chest. Because I know that voice – have sparred with its owner countless times in our own special brand of warfare. But something's different. Something's wrong.

Scarlett Barbieri stands alone in the morning light, and the sight is so jarring it takes me a moment to process what I'm seeing. Gone are her usual entourage of admirers, the carefully coordinated designer outfits, the perfectly styled makeup that made her look like a renaissance painting come to life. Gone is the signature red hair that once fell past her waist like liquid fire.

Instead, her hair barely brushes her shoulders now, falling in natural waves that look almost foreign against her unusually bare face. The Leighton uniform hangs slightly loose on her frame, as if she's lost weight recently and hasn't had time to have it altered. Even her posture is different – less commanding, more... uncertain.

Students passing by do double-takes, clearly struggling to recognize this transformed version of the girl who once ruled these halls with perfectly manicured iron fists. Some whisper behind their hands, speculation already building about this dramatic change.

"What happened, Barbieri?" I ask, genuine concern coloring my tone. Behind me, I feel my Kings shift slightly, sensing the change in atmosphere. "If this is some kind of early New Year's resolution, I'm going to need you to revoke it immediately. This look doesn't suit you at all."

A dry huff of laughter escapes her as she moves closer, and I catch something in her eyes that makes my stomach twist. Something that looks too much like resignation for comfort.

"Trust me, Prescott," she says, attempting her usual sharp tone but not quite managing it, "I'm not thrilled about it either. But you know what they say – when life gives you lemons..." She gestures vaguely at herself, the movement lacking her usual dramatic flair.

The unease in my chest grows stronger. This isn't our normal dance of barbed comments and careful power plays. This is something else entirely.

"Что случилось?" I switch to Russian, pitching my voice low enough that only those closest can hear. What happened?

Surprise flickers across her features – both at the language choice and my obvious concern. For a moment, I think she'll deflect again, maintain the careful facades we've all perfected in this world of ours.

But then something in her expression cracks, just slightly. A sad smile plays at her lips as she responds in the same language: "Рак."

Cancer.

The word falls between us like a stone into still water, creating ripples of understanding that spread outward. I catch Matteo's slight intake of breath, see the way Zander's jaw tightens from the corner of my eye. A quick glance shows Ren's usual playful expression has been replaced by something darker, more serious.

They understood , I realize. At least some of them did.

And suddenly everything makes horrible sense – the weight loss, the changed hair, the absence of her usual crowd of admirers. This isn't some chosen transformation like mine. This is something being forced upon her, a battle she never asked to fight.

The morning light seems colder now as it plays across the courtyard's new features. The roses with their sharp thorns, the fountain with its aggressive angles – all of it feels somehow hollow in the face of this revelation.

Because this is a different kind of warfare, isn't it? Not the careful social manipulation we've all perfected, not the strategic plays for power and position. This is something more primal, more terrifying. A fight against an enemy you can't see, can't outsmart, can't negotiate with.

Students continue to move around us, their whispers taking on new speculation:

"Is that really Barbieri?"

"What happened to her hair?"

"Where's her usual crowd?"

But their words feel distant, and unimportant compared to the weight of what's just been shared. Because despite our years of careful rivalry, despite all the games we've played and power we've contested, I recognize something in Scarlett's eyes that transcends all of that.

Fear.

Not the kind that comes from social missteps or lost status, but the deep, primal fear of facing something beyond your control. The kind that makes all our careful posturing and political maneuvering seem suddenly, horribly trivial.

The roses continue their climb up ancient stone walls, their beauty unchanged by this revelation. The fountain carries on its carefully choreographed dance of water and light. Everything remains perfectly, precisely as it was designed to be.

Except now, standing in this carefully curated display of power and prestige, I find myself wondering why this woman who I’d previously assumed would be an enemy who now looks so…

Vulnerable.

"Why don't we walk and talk, Barbieri?" I suggest, watching how the morning light catches the new, shorter length of her hair. It makes her look younger somehow, more vulnerable – everything she's spent years ensuring she never appeared to be.

She rolls her eyes with dramatic flair, though the gesture lacks its usual bite. "Well," she drawls, "I guess it would be good promo to walk next to the one everyone's talking about. Your new look is causing quite the stir, Prescott."

We fall into step together, our heels clicking against cobblestones in perfect synchronization. Behind us, I sense rather than see my Kings adjust their formation – Matteo and Zander dropping back slightly, while Ares, Marcus, and Ren create a loose perimeter that gives us space to talk while maintaining protective oversight.

The whispers follow us like autumn leaves in the wind:

"Prescott and Barbieri walking together?"

"Something's definitely changed..."

"Look how different they both look..."

"When were you diagnosed?" I ask quietly, keeping my voice steady despite the growing knot in my chest. The roses continue their climb up ancient walls beside us, their beauty suddenly seeming almost obscene in its persistence.

"A month ago." The words fall between us like stones into still water. Her fingers brush absently against her shortened hair – a gesture that speaks volumes about how recent this change must be.

"Does it run in your family?" The question emerges carefully measured, already calculating possibilities, treatments, options that might exist.

"No." Something darker enters her tone. "It was given to me."

I glance at her sharply, confusion warring with growing suspicion. "Given to you?"

A bitter smile plays on her lips as she mutters, "This is my punishment for not obeying the rules of the Royal Elite Party."

"What rule did you break?" The roses seem to lean closer, as if they too want to hear this revelation.

"My role was to bring Domino in," she admits, each word carrying weight of consequences already being paid. "Like a dog who needs to be put back on a leash. Instead..." She gestures vaguely at nothing. "Instead, he's become some sort of shining light who's been lifted from the pits of hell thanks to a certain someone."

"You realize I hate him," I remind her, though my mind is already racing through implications, through possibilities that make my blood run cold.

Her laugh holds no humor. "Oh, I know. I see it in your eyes." She pauses, considering her next words carefully. "And yet, at the end of the day, isn't he a Ruthless King again? After being stripped of the title by the same woman he once deemed his Ruthless Maiden and demise?"

She has a point, though the truth of it tastes bitter on my tongue. But my thoughts are already elsewhere, calculating darker mathematics:

How long does she have?

The question pulses through my mind like a second heartbeat. Even with treatment, even with the best medical care money can buy – how much time remains for someone who's been "given" an illness as punishment?

My eyes find Marcus walking behind us, his clinical precision suddenly seeming like a lifeline. Could he help? Could the research that saved his own life, that put his parents into remission, offer any hope for this unexpected ally?

The morning light catches Scarlett's shortened hair, making it look almost like burnished copper rather than its usual fierce red. How many rounds of treatment has she already endured? How many more await her? The slight tremor in her hands when she gestures suggests she's already experiencing side effects, though she hides it well.

This isn't fair , something in me rages against the injustice. We're supposed to be playing games of social warfare, of carefully calculated power moves. Not facing mortality at an age when we should be planning our futures.

The roses continue their relentless climb up ancient walls, their thorns gleaming like warnings in the sunlight. Each bloom perfect, precise, absolutely uncaring about the human drama unfolding beneath them. Nature's reminder that beauty and cruelty often walk hand in hand.

I study Scarlett's profile as we walk, noting changes I should have seen earlier: the slight hollow beneath her cheekbones, the way her uniform hangs just slightly wrong, the careful way she measures each step as if conserving energy. How many other signs did I miss, too caught up in my own dramas to notice an enemy becoming a potential casualty?

There has to be something we can do.

The thought burns like acid in my mind. Marcus's research, his family's medical empire that's just been restored – surely there are options? Treatments? Something to fight whatever poison they've used to ensure her compliance?

But even as I think it, I know the reality is likely far more complicated. Whatever they've given her was probably designed to be irreversible, a lesson written in blood and bone about the price of disobedience.

The whispers continue around us, students speculating about this unexpected alliance:

"They look like opposite sides of the same coin now..."

"Something's definitely changed between them..."

"Why isn't Barbieri with her usual crowd?"

If they only knew. If they could see past the careful facades we all maintain, past the games of power and position, to the real battle being fought. Would it change anything? Would it matter?

The fountain comes back into view, its aggressive angles suddenly seeming like a monument to all the sharp edges in our world. Water continues its careful dance over metal and glass, each drop falling exactly where it's meant to, uncaring about the human dramas playing out in its shadow.

I need to talk to Marcus , I decide, already planning conversations about research and possibilities. Need to understand exactly what we're dealing with, what options might exist.

"Things are going to change now," Scarlett says, her voice carrying an edge of warning that makes me pay closer attention. "You should be careful who you interact with."

The morning light catches her shortened hair as she turns slightly, making it look almost like copper wire – beautiful but sharp enough to cut. "How so?" I ask, noting how my Kings have maintained their protective perimeter while still giving us space to talk.

A bitter smile plays at her lips. "Now that ascension has happened, this isn't just 'second year' anymore." She watches my confusion grow before explaining, "The school year is based on the ascensions of the Ruthless Kings, Deviant Lords, and Savage Heirs. All three courts went through with ascension, regardless of the changes entailed."

Understanding begins to dawn as she continues, "Which means the school curriculum is affected. We're in the final year now."

I nod slowly, pieces clicking into place like tumblers in a lock. "So the stakes are higher than ever," I observe, a smile playing at my blood-red lips. "More targets on my back. How exciting."

"You would find that exciting," Scarlett agrees sarcastically, though something flickers in her eyes – respect maybe, or envy of my apparent fearlessness.

We pass another cluster of roses, their thorns gleaming like warnings in the morning light. "Why help me then?" I ask, studying her profile. "When you're my enemy, if you really think about it."

She pauses mid-step, causing me to stop as well. The rest of the courtyard seems to fade away as she considers her answer. "I wasn't necessarily your enemy," she admits finally. "My objective at the school was to slow all potential Maidens down."

We share a long look, the weight of unspoken truths hanging between us like smoke. "Is that still your objective?" I ask quietly, watching her face for tells she probably doesn't realize she's showing. "Even now?"

Her answering smirk is meant to be mocking, meant to maintain the carefully crafted image she's worn like armor all these years. But I see through it now – see the fear she's fighting so hard to conceal. It's there in the slight tremor of her hands, in the way she holds herself just a bit too straight, in how her eyes can't quite maintain their usual sharp edge.

"What if I gave you a new objective?" I whisper, letting my voice carry just enough authority to make her really listen. "One that means protecting you?"

The smirk wavers, though she tries to look mockingly offended. But I catch it – the slight dilation of her pupils, the barely perceptible catch in her breath. Hope, dangerous and unwanted, flickering behind her carefully maintained facade.

"I'm not meant to have a happy ending," she says, but the words lack conviction. They sound rehearsed, like something she's been told so many times she's started to believe it.

"This isn't a fairytale," I counter, moving closer until I can see every detail of her carefully neutral expression. The roses watch our confrontation with their blood-red blooms, silent witnesses to this moment of potential transformation. "I'm not thriving for a happy ending."

My Kings remain at their posts, but I feel their attention sharpen as I step fully into Scarlett's personal space. The morning light catches my new haircut, and I know the effect is deliberately intimidating – all sharp edges and dangerous grace.

"Maidens can wish for knights in shining armor," I whisper, close enough now that only she can hear. "They can dream of being saved by the hero. But me?" A dangerous smile plays at my blood-red lips. "I'm a Queen. A Ruthless one who isn't waiting for anyone to protect her or save her."

Understanding begins to dawn in her eyes as I continue, "Because I can save myself. And I can save you too, Scarlett, if you let go of that ego and strive for the survival you're so desperately begging for."

The words hang between us like a blade waiting to fall. Around us, the courtyard continues its morning routine – students hurrying to class, whispers following our every move, the fountain playing its endless game of light and water. But here, in this moment, time seems to stop as Scarlett processes what I'm really offering.

Not just protection, but purpose. Not just survival, but a chance to rewrite her own story. To transform from a pawn in someone else's game into something far more dangerous.

The roses climb their ancient walls, thorns gleaming like promises in the morning light. Their beauty remains constant, unchanging, while beneath them everything shifts and evolves and transforms.

Kind of like us, really.

Students continue to whisper and speculate, but their words feel distant, and unimportant compared to the weight of this moment. Because this isn't just about saving one former enemy from a fate she didn't choose. It's about showing everyone exactly what happens when you try to control a Queen's game.

"Hey Barbieri, move," a female voice cuts through our moment of potential alliance like a blade.

Everything happens in slow motion after that. Scarlett is yanked backward by an unseen force, her gasp of surprise barely audible over the sudden thundering of my own heartbeat. She hits the ground hard, the impact driving air from her lungs in a way that sounds painful even from where I stand.

The cold press of metal against my forehead registers before I fully process what's happening. The barrel feels impossibly heavy for something so small, its presence transforming the beautiful morning into something darker, more dangerous.

The courtyard erupts in chaos – students scrambling backward, books dropped in panic creating a percussive soundtrack to this unexpected violence. Somewhere behind me, I sense my Kings' collective tension, their instinctive move toward protection frozen by the precariousness of my position.

But I don't move. Don't flinch. Don't give any indication that having a gun pressed to my forehead is anything other than a mild inconvenience.

My would-be assassin's smile spreads wider, teeth gleaming unnaturally white in the morning sun. "Boom," she whispers, the word carrying both playfulness and promise.

The roses continue their relentless climb up ancient walls, their red blooms suddenly seeming less like decoration and more like omens. The fountain plays its endless game of light and water, the sound now feeling like mockery rather than music.

But what captures my attention – what holds my gaze steady despite the weapon pressed against my skin – are her eyes. They're an impossible shade of gold, too perfect to be natural. Colored contacts, obviously, but chosen with deliberate purpose. Chosen to make an impression, to be remembered.

How interesting , something dark whispers in my mind. She wants to be seen .

The morning light catches her artificial irises, making them seem to glow from within. Like a predator's eyes in darkness. Like warnings. Like threats.

But I've faced worse threats than pretty eyes and steady hands. Have survived more dangerous games than this display of casual violence.

So I stand perfectly still, letting her see nothing in my expression but calm assessment. Let her search my face for fear she won't find, for weakness that doesn't exist.

Two predators locked in silent evaluation, while around us the world holds its breath, waiting to see who moves first.

Waiting to see who survives.