Cruel Education Book 1: Merciless
Author
Ziggy Silver
Reads
18.2K
Chapters
60
A scholarship. A contract. One year of servitude to Rafe Ashford. He's beautiful. Dangerous. And he owns her completely. Kit can survive the humiliation. The cruelty. What she can't survive is the way she feels when he's gentle. She hates him. She wants him. Both are true.
Blackthorne College
The taxi costs fifty-two pounds. I watch the numbers climb on the meter as we wind through narrow roads bordered by hedgerows so perfect they might’ve been trimmed with nail scissors.
That’s three shifts at the chip shop, or near enough. That’s a week’s worth of food if you know how to stretch things. That’s the difference between eating and not eating when you age out of the care system with nothing.
It’s also gone. Already spent.
The scholarship covers tuition and accommodation, but getting here? That is on me.
I’ve got five pounds left in my current account, and another forty-two in cash. Forty-seven pounds total to my name until the stipend comes through in two weeks.
I’ve survived on less.
The hedgerows give way to stone walls, and then there it is: Blackthorne College.
“Bloody hell,” the taxi driver mutters. He’s not wrong.
Gothic doesn’t quite cover it. The building rises from manicured grounds like something dreamed up by someone with more money than sense, all gray stone and pointed arches and windows so tall you’d need a ladder to clean them. Ivy crawls up the walls in elegant patterns.
Even the plants here know their place.
Four separate buildings surround a central courtyard, each one distinct. I recognize them from the website photos: Blackthorne House to the north, Ashford House to the east, Thornfield to the west, Ravenswood to the south. The four founding families, their names carved into stone above each entrance in letters two feet high.
Legacy made literal.
“Which one, love?”
“Blackthorne House.” The main one. Assigned to the oldest founding family.
Where Kit Webb from Sunderland, first-generation university student with forty-seven pounds to her name and everything she owns in one battered suitcase, is supposed to live for the next three years. I’ve made it.
The thought catches me off guard. I’ve actually made it.
Out of the care system, out of the bedsit that smelled like damp and disappointment, out of Sunderland entirely. Here, where the hedge trimming probably costs more than I earned in a year.
The driver pulls up to the main entrance. A few students mill about, mostly older ones, here early like me. Their clothes don’t shout wealth—they whisper it.
Cashmere jumpers, designer jeans that somehow look careless, shoes that probably cost what I paid in rent for a month.
I count out the fare in notes and coins, add a two-pound tip because my mother raised me right, even if she didn’t raise me for long. The driver looks at the money like it might bite him.
“You sure, love?”
“It’s all there.”
“I meant…you sure you’re meant to be here?”
I meet his eyes. Kind eyes, actually. He probably thinks he’s doing me a favor, pointing out I’ve made a mistake before it’s too late.
“Full scholarship,” I say. “The Ashford Bursary.”
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe.
“Well then. Good luck to you.”
I grab my suitcase from the boot with everything I own inside it and head toward the entrance. The stone steps are worn smooth in the centers, two hundred years of feet walking the same path.
Legacy paths. Founding family paths.
Now my feet walk it too.
The entrance hall steals my breath away. The vaulted ceilings. The dark wood paneling.
There’s even a chandelier the size of my old bedsit hanging from iron chains. Grand portraits line the walls, men and women in historical dress staring down, their expressions ranging from stern to vaguely disappointed. The floor is black and white marble squares like a chessboard, and I have the sudden mad thought that I’m a pawn being moved into position.
A woman in her fifties approaches, clipboard in hand, smile professional but warm. “Welcome to Blackthorne. Name?”
“Katherine Webb. I’m—”
“The Ashford Bursary recipient, yes.” Her smile brightens. “Congratulations, Katherine. That’s an extremely competitive scholarship. You must be very talented.”
Must be desperate, more like. But I’ll take talented.
“Thank you.”
She consults her clipboard. “You’re in Blackthorne House, third floor. Room 3C. Someone will show you up shortly. For now, if you’d like to join the others in the common room?” She gestures to a doorway on the left. “We’re gathering all the first years for orientation at four o’clock, but there’s tea and biscuits while you wait.”
The common room is massive, with high ceilings and tall windows that overlook the grounds. The furniture looks antique, but somehow still comfortable.
A dozen or so students are already here, scattered in small groups. I clock the social dynamics immediately. Who’s comfortable, who’s nervous, who’s pretending to be comfortable while actually being nervous.
Most of them look comfortable.
I head for the tea service because I’m genuinely thirsty and because it gives me something to do with my hands. The biscuits are proper biscuits, the expensive kind. Chocolate Leibniz.
I eat three and feel no shame about it.
“Scholarship?”
I turn. A tall lad, maybe nineteen, with an easy smile and clothes that whisper old money. Dark hair, warm brown eyes, the kind of face that probably got him out of trouble in school.
“It’s that obvious?” I frown, not that I didn’t think it would be. You can’t fake generational wealth.
“You’re the only one actually eating the biscuits.” His smile widens. “Marcus Ravenswood. Second year.”
Ravenswood. One of the founding families. Of course he is.
“Kit Webb.”
“The Ashford Bursary, brilliant. Congratulations,” he says, like he means it, not like the taxi driver said it. “How are you finding it so far?”
“Big,” I say honestly. “And expensive-looking.”
He laughs. “Fair assessment. It gets less intimidating once you learn where everything is. Speaking of which, are you engineering or business?”
“Engineering. Sustainable energy systems.”
“Excellent choice. Professor Whitmore’s brilliant; you’ll love her.” He pauses, glances toward the doorway. “Fair warning, orientation includes a dinner tonight. Formal. So if you’ve got anything suitable in that suitcase…”
I have one decent outfit. Black trousers from Primark, a white blouse from the charity shop that I ironed carefully before packing. It’ll do.
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
“No problem. Oh, and Kit?” He hesitates. “There are the official rules, and then there’s how things actually work here. Not quite the same thing.”
Before I can ask what he means, a girl with blonde hair and a voice that could cut glass appears at his elbow.
“Marcus, darling, stop hoarding the scholarship student. We all want to meet her.”
She’s beautiful in that effortless way that comes with money and genetics and probably a skincare routine that costs more than my weekly food budget. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Georgiana Thornfield,” she says, extending a hand like she’s doing me a favor. “So lovely to meet you. The Ashford Bursary, how generous of them. You must be so grateful.”
There it is.
“Very grateful,” I say, matching her smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“Where did you say you were from?”
“Sunderland.”
“Oh.” Her expression shifts, something between sympathy and satisfaction. “How…Northern. Well, I’m sure you’ll fit in eventually. If you need any help navigating things, the right clothes, or the proper way to do things. Do let me know. I’m always happy to help those less fortunate.”
Marcus’s jaw tightens. “Georgiana.”
“What? I’m being kind.” She turns back to me, all sharp edges wrapped in cashmere. “See you at dinner, Katherine.”
