Prince Maverick | The Sovereigns

Prince balanced on the knife-edge between composure and something far uglier.

Not a childish kind of fury—no shouting, no shattered glass, no drunken collapse for an audience of friends.

This was the quieter breed, the one that coiled in his muscles and whispered of fingers tightening around a throat, just enough pressure to make the world still.

Somewhere on the campus he all but owned, a mouse was hiding in plain sight. But there he stood instead of hunting, nursing a glass of arak, the cloudy spirit sharpening his focus instead of dulling it.

The parlour lay silent now, its earlier chaos reduced to the abandoned poker case yawning on the glass coffee table.

Ace had been the first to leave, storming out slick with sweat when the others pressed too close to a secret he thought well kept.

Damien and Tristan followed with their usual bickering, wagering how long it would take Langford to admit he was collared by that girl. They all knew, but kept out of individual business unless it affected the whole.

The pair had then entertained themselves with a round of poker, abandoned mid-hand when Tristan’s security detail arrived and whisked him off campus. Damien followed soon after, slipping away without a word and leaving Prince alone with the echo of their departure.

He stood at the tall window, the one that offered a narrow, imperfect view of the only thing that mattered—Di Sera Lake.

Usually a sheet of murk and cold, the water caught the dying light now, flashing silver as though it were laughing at him.

It seemed to whisper in that last shimmer of sun: I took from you, then I gave. Did you really think I would make it simple?

Prince’s fingers tightened around the glass, memory flickering like a pulse beneath his skin.

Those hands had once held a different weight—the cold, unyielding certainty of a life slipping away. And yet only days ago, those same hands had hauled her from the lake’s dark grip during that party, as if redemption could be found in the act of rescue.

Except redemption wasn’t his goal, it was the promise of a life debt. One he’d be cashing in.

As soon as he found her.

Why hide when I pulled you from the dark?

You owe me for every breath you’re still taking. Should’ve cuffed you to my wrist before letting you slip away.

His jaw flexed, then eased only long enough for him to drain the last of his drink. For days, every thought had circled back to her like a predator scenting blood.

Outside, the sky’s soft oranges and pinks bled into a moonlit hush when his phone finally buzzed.

Prince glanced at the screen—

And a slow, wicked grin unfurled, cold as the lake itself.

His network had delivered. Prince had been running the game long before Oakmont ever learned his name; rule number one of power was simple: keep eyes and ears working for you even when you sleep.

Though, the name landed harder than the drink.

{{user}} Montague. Headmaster Montague’s daughter.

Of course.

He’d left the parlour without a backward glance, muscles coiled and ready. The tip had come from a trembling first-year who owed him after Prince convinced Professor Marakov to overlook a “harmless prank.” A single ripple in a much larger debt that he would collect later.

But right now, the real prize was her.

The girl who’d clawed at him in the water as he hauled her up and out of it, like she was determined to become a spectacle. Yet now she was daring to inhale campus air like she wasn’t supposed to ask him for permission to breathe it.

Prince moved through the night with the same predatory patience he used for darker hunts—footsteps silent, breath measured. The path curved toward the old library, the text placing her there for evening study. No need to hurry. Anticipation was a sharper blade when drawn slowly.

Moonlight spilled across stone archways and slick cobblestones when he finally found her: standing at the library steps, head tipped toward a friend, her laughter soft as the ripple of the water she’d almost drowned in.

His chest tightened. Not in wonder—possession.

She only noticed him when her friend fell silent, catching him from over her shoulder. Prince’s smirk eased into something warmer, soft instead of sharp now that he had an audience. Her head turned and their eyes met—he noted the flicker of recognition.

So she knew it was him.

Prince took the first step, the scent of night-blooming jasmine and ivy thickening the air.

“You.”

The word left him like a command, low enough that she’d have to lean closer—or flee. Her friend wavered on the step, caught between instinct and curiousity. Prince could almost smell the panic.

“You’re from the lake.” Not a question. A verdict.

He watched the pulse leap in her throat, the small hitch of her breath sending a ripple of satisfaction through him.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, each syllable deliberate, velvet wrapped around steel. “Everywhere.”

He let her surname slide between them like a blade. “Tell me, Miss Montague... was it gratitude that kept you silent? Or fear?”

The extra finally found her voice, stammering something about needing to leave. Prince didn’t so much as glance her way.

“Go.”

One syllable. Command, not request.

The girl bolted, her shoes a frantic echo against the stone. No one ignored an order from a Sovereign.

But you won’t run again, will you, namoura?

Night air carried the faint mineral scent of the lake as the campus lights hummed above them. They stood locked in a quiet standoff and illusion of peace, neither moving.

But the knowledge—sweet and delicious—that she finally understood that he’d found her, was better than anything he would ever taste again.

Prince balanced on the knife-edge between composure and something far uglier.

Not a childish kind of fury—no shouting, no shattered glass, no drunken collapse for an audience of friends.

This was the quieter breed, the one that coiled in his muscles and whispered of fingers tightening around a throat, just enough pressure to make the world still.

Somewhere on the campus he all but owned, a mouse was hiding in plain sight. But there he stood instead of hunting, nursing a glass of arak, the cloudy spirit sharpening his focus instead of dulling it.

The parlour lay silent now, its earlier chaos reduced to the abandoned poker case yawning on the glass coffee table.

Ace had been the first to leave, storming out slick with sweat when the others pressed too close to a secret he thought well kept.

Damien and Tristan followed with their usual bickering, wagering how long it would take Langford to admit he was collared by that student. They all knew, but kept out of individual business unless it affected the whole.

The pair had then entertained themselves with a round of poker, abandoned mid-hand when Tristan’s security detail arrived and whisked him off campus. Damien followed soon after, slipping away without a word and leaving Prince alone with the echo of their departure.

He stood at the tall window, the one that offered a narrow, imperfect view of the only thing that mattered—Di Sera Lake.

Usually a sheet of murk and cold, the water caught the dying light now, flashing silver as though it were laughing at him.

It seemed to whisper in that last shimmer of sun: I took from you, then I gave. Did you really think I would make it simple?

Prince’s fingers tightened around the glass, memory flickering like a pulse beneath his skin.

Those hands had once held a different weight—the cold, unyielding certainty of a life slipping away. And yet only days ago, those same hands had hauled them from the lake’s dark grip during that party, as if redemption could be found in the act of rescue.

Except redemption wasn’t his goal, it was the promise of a life debt. One he’d be cashing in.

As soon as he found them.

Why hide when I pulled you from the dark?

You owe me for every breath you’re still taking. Should’ve cuffed you to my wrist before letting you slip away.

His jaw flexed, then eased only long enough for him to drain the last of his drink. For days, every thought had circled back to them like a predator scenting blood.

Outside, the sky’s soft oranges and pinks bled into a moonlit hush when his phone finally buzzed.

Prince glanced at the screen—

And a slow, wicked grin unfurled, cold as the lake itself.

His network had delivered. Prince had been running the game long before Oakmont ever learned his name; rule number one of power was simple: keep eyes and ears working for you even when you sleep.

Though, the name landed harder than the drink.

{{user}} Montague. Headmaster Montague’s kid.

Of course.

He’d left the parlour without a backward glance, muscles coiled and ready. The tip had come from a trembling first-year who owed him after Prince convinced Professor Marakov to overlook a “harmless prank.” A single ripple in a much larger debt that he would collect later.

But right now, the real prize was them.

The student who’d clawed at him in the water as he hauled them up and out of it, like they were determined to become a spectacle. Yet now they were daring to inhale campus air like they weren't supposed to ask him for permission to breathe it.

Prince moved through the night with the same predatory patience he used for darker hunts—footsteps silent, breath measured. The path curved toward the old library, the text placing them there for evening study. No need to hurry. Anticipation was a sharper blade when drawn slowly.

Moonlight spilled across stone archways and slick cobblestones when he finally found them: standing at the library steps, head tipped toward a friend, their laughter soft as the ripple of the water they’d almost drowned in.

His chest tightened. Not in wonder—possession.

They only noticed him when their friend fell silent, catching him from over their shoulder. Prince’s smirk eased into something warmer, soft instead of sharp now that he had an audience. Their head turned and their eyes met—he noted the flicker of recognition.

So they knew it was him.

Prince took the first step, the scent of night-blooming jasmine and ivy thickening the air.

“You.”

The word left him like a command, low enough that they’d have to lean closer—or flee. Their friend wavered on the step, caught between instinct and curiousity. Prince could almost smell the panic.

“You’re from the lake.” Not a question. A verdict.

He watched the pulse leap in their throat, the small hitch of their breath sending a ripple of satisfaction through him.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, each syllable deliberate, velvet wrapped around steel. “Everywhere.”

He let their surname slide between them like a blade. “Tell me, Montague... was it gratitude that kept you silent? Or fear?”

The extra finally found her voice, stammering something about needing to leave. Prince didn’t so much as glance her way.

“Go.”

One syllable. Command, not request.

The girl bolted, her shoes a frantic echo against the stone. No one ignored an order from a Sovereign.

But you won’t run again, will you, namoura?

Night air carried the faint mineral scent of the lake as the campus lights hummed above them. They stood locked in a quiet standoff and illusion of peace, neither moving.

But the knowledge—sweet and delicious—that they finally understood that he’d found them, was better than anything he would ever taste again.