Claim the King

"Marlowe."

The voice cracks against the back of my neck. Cold, male, the kind of voice that does not have to be raised to be heard.

"Stay the hell away from Sophie. One more stunt and I will have you out of St. Cyprian's by Monday."

I turn around.

The boathouse stairwell is dim, the river light cutting in slats through the slats of the window. Jude Ashford is standing two steps above me in his rowing pullover, hair still wet, eyes the kind of pale that makes contempt look like weather.