Claimed by the Prince of Darkness novel Chapter 35

Chapter 35: Plotting her humiliation

The scent of charcoal and linseed oil clung to the air, thick and lingering, weaving with the soft murmurs of the senior year students in the circular classroom. Tall, arched windows bathed the room in streams of golden light. Each student sat before their easels.

"What are we drawing today, Mr. Swan? The air?" A snicker broke through the quiet, the voice dripping with mockery. There was no model, no object at the centre of the room to focus on.

Mr. Swan, the art teacher, wore a wide, excited smile, seemingly unaffected by the comment. His hands flailed dramatically, as if caught in the rhythm of his thoughts.

"Drawing a blizzard does sound tempting with winter on the horizon, but I have something better in mind," he declared, his voice almost manic with enthusiasm. "Today’s class is not about technique—it’s about emotion! Draw what you feel. What’s on your mind. Convey it through your art!"

A low groan escaped Sawyer, who sat slumped over his easel, holding the canvas He muttered, "Can I scribble on the canvas? That’s how I feel in art class..."

Mr. Swan’s gaze sharpened, his cheer dimming for just a moment. "Mr. Ravencroft," he said sternly, "I would be pleased if you made a decent attempt at art today—something your sister excels at. Perhaps you can ask her for help."

Sawyer grinned. He exclaimed, "Ah, you’re right. Why didn’t I think about that? Angie, fill this up!" He called out to his sister, who sat pointedly across the room, trying her best to ignore him.

"That’s not what I meant!" Mr. Swan huffed, exasperation creeping into his tone as he turned away, his arms crossed over his chest.

Lucian, seated next to Sawyer, was already lost in his own world. He had picked up his charcoal with a practiced hand, holding it loosely between his fingers as if the tool were an extension of his thoughts. The blank canvas before him seemed to whisper, drawing him into its empty space. Soon, the soft scrape of charcoal against the surface filled the air, the sound distant and muted to his ears.

As Mr. Swan made his rounds, pausing here and there to critique, his gaze inevitably landed on Lucian. His eyebrows twitched, as he saw the canvas.

It was an apple.

A perfectly drawn, flawlessly shaded apple.

Mr. Swan blinked, confusion knotting his brow. He said, "Lucian, you are supposed to convey emotion! Depth!"

"I did." Lucian’s lips quirked up slightly.

Mr. Swan’s eyes narrowed. He asked, incredulously, "An apple conveys your emotion? Lucian, you’re an extraordinary artist. You could have drawn something profound. Are you hungry?"

A few of the nearby students snickered quietly under their breath. Even they had noticed how out of place the apple seemed among the other pieces of art.

Lucian’s eyes flicked up to meet Mr. Swan’s gaze, his expression steady, and he replied, "You said to draw what’s on my mind. I was thinking of an apple."

Mr. Swan opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again, clearly at a loss for words. It was clear that he was deeply torn between his admiration for Lucian’s technical prowess and his bafflement over the utter lack of symbolism in the work. "It’s a perfect apple!" he remarked before moving to the next student.

Lucian returned to his drawing, the brief flicker of amusement fading from his face. His charcoal moved with slow, deliberate strokes, adding the final touches to the apple, though his mind drifted to elsewhere.

But he didn’t dwell on that for too long. He refocused on the present. On the apple.

Across the room, a different conversation took place, hushed but laced with venom.

"I can’t believe you hired her," Alanna hissed, her eyes glinting with malice. "Especially after what she did to me. And now she’s living in Lucian’s room!" The bitterness in her voice simmered beneath the surface, barely contained. Jealousy and anger twisted together, shaping her every word.

Alanna didn’t understand it—how a Groundling like Ruelle had managed to slip into Lucian’s life, however briefly. But the thought of it, the idea that the human shared space with him, made her blood boil. She couldn’t wait for Lucian to throw her out, to banish her to the cold halls where she belonged.

Gwendolyn’s lips curled into a sly smile, amusement dancing in her pale eyes. She replied amused, "Don’t blame your incompetence on me. I thought it would be amusing to have her work for me. And I’ve gotten her good." She flicked her hand dismissively, her attention back on her canvas. "Also, you should get over him already."

Alanna’s frown deepened before questioning, "What do you mean, ’gotten her good’?"

"I made her dance like a fool in front of everyone," Gwendolyn said, her tone light as if discussing the weather. "Then I sent her to wash clothes by the river. She thought I’d give her a shilling for her efforts." She laughed, the sound cold, devoid of warmth. "Too bad for her. She’s desperate enough to keep coming back for more. She has no choice." There was no malice in Gwendolyn’s tone—just casual indifference.

"Groundlings are pathetic. Especially her," Alanna’s lips curled as she said this.

"If it makes you feel better," Gwendolyn purred, her voice almost a whisper, "you should come by this evening. She’ll be serving me. You’ll enjoy it."

"I am heading home in the evening. Perhaps next week when I return? I would love to see her grovel." She paused, pulling the scarf from her neck—the one she had taken from Ruelle. She tossed it to Gwendolyn with a smirk. "Use this. It might be good for cleaning your shoes."

As the evening fell, Ruelle once again found herself standing in the same space as Gwendolyn. She had considered knitting again, and had even started to only pause it midway. With the worry of Alanna ready to hunt her down, she hadn’t stepped into the corridors at night. She had hoped she could earn those shillings by serving the vampiress, but she had assumed wrong.

Gwendolyn was seated with two other Elite vampires, lounging elegantly while they played cards. The vampiress held a delicate glass of crimson liquid in one hand, swirling it lazily as she chatted with her companions. Ruelle stood a few steps away, her presence unacknowledged.

With a flick of her wrist, Gwendolyn’s glass slipped, its contents spilling onto the polished floor and splattering on her fine shoes.

Gwendolyn’s gaze snapped to Ruelle, and she snapped her fingers before demanding, "What are you doing standing there idly when you are supposed to get on cleaning it?"

Kill me now, Ruelle thought, closing her eyes briefly. Maybe, just maybe, Lucian had gone miraculously deaf.