LANDON KING
The first golden brush of sunlight spilled across the glass walls of Landon's condo, casting a glow over the sleek marble floor beneath his bare feet. He stood by the window, tall and composed, a mug of perfectly steeped Earl Grey in his hand as he overlooked the city skyline. Even after three years in the US, the view still amazed him. There's nothing like the manicured gardens and grey castles of the UK, but dazzling in its own way.
The Royal Tower stood as a proud gift. It was once a grand, luxurious hotel, but now repurposed as the personal residence of the Duke's grandsons—the future generation of the House of King.
Fourty floors but only twelve were accompanied. Landon, the eldest, lived on the topmost floor. Naturally.
He took a final sip of his expresso and glanced at the clock. 7:38 a.m.
Time for breakfast.
He placed the cup down, smooth movements practiced over years of elite grooming, and retrieved his key card from the table. With the soft beep of approval, his condo door opened and he stepped into the private elevator, his reflection briefly catching in the mirrored walls.
The elevator descended with a soft hum. Landon adjusted the collar of his shirt, and stepped out onto the ground floor. The VIP dining room awaited just beyond the lobby. It's a room tailored for their comfortable morning meals, tucked behind gold-accented double doors.
He pushed the door open.
"East, I swear to God, if you flirted with another TA, I'm telling dad." Leighton's voice rang out, sharp and amused.
Across the glossy white table, Easton smirked, looking entirely unapologetic as he buttered his croissant. "She wasn't a TA. She was a guest lecturer. Difference."
"You're hopeless." Alistair muttered, shaking his head as he scrolled on his tablet, half-listening and half-researching whatever caught his morning interest.
Callister, seated beside Leighton, let out a laugh. "At least tell me you didn't ask her out during class."
Weston slammed his fork down. "Can we talk about something that doesn't involve East's dating history for once? I'm already losing brain cells!"
Easton raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what's your contribution to breakfast conversations these days, dear twin?"
Weston growled low, but before it could escalate, Landon cleared his throat lightly.
"Good morning."
Instant silence.
All eyes turned.
"Morning, Your Calmness." Easton said with a teasing grin, while Callister grinned and gestured to the empty chair beside him.
"Sit, sit. We're about to pick courses. If you don't hurry, East's going to take all the electives with hot professors."
Landon chuckled softly, shaking his head as he pulled out his chair and sat down. "Tempting as that sounds, I think I'll stick to International Politics and Ethics."
"Boring." Easton muttered.
"Necessary." Landon countered.
The table was a feast with steaming pastries, platters of fresh fruits, perfectly seasoned omelets and silver pitchers of fresh juice.
As breakfast unfolded, so did the brothers' chaotic morning banter like plans for classes, rumors about the new dean, even who would host the first party of the semester.
Eventually, as the clock struck 8:30, the group rose in synchrony, collected their bags and tablets and filed out toward the underground parking where their custom Sprinter van waited. It was black, bulletproof and fitted with plush seats worthy of royalty.
Landon slid into his seat last, casting one last glance back at the Royal Tower through the tinted window.
Another day at States' Elites University awaited.
He smoothed down his sleeves, already mentally prepared. Letthe semester begin.
Somehow today the morning traffic was kind to them.
Their custom Sprinter van rolled smoothly through the prestigious gates of SEU, the elite haven for the world's most powerful heirs and heiresses. As always, the security detail waved them through with barely a second glance—no IDs needed when your faces were on Forbes before graduation.
Landon stared out the tinted window as the manicured lawns and classic ivy-covered buildings passed by. Students milled about the campus, some dragging luggage, some already bustling toward orientation booths or seminar halls. But what caught Landon's attention—unintentionally—was the sudden wave of laughter that echoed across the open air. Loud. Unfiltered. Unapologetic.
His eyes shifted on instinct.
They were far, but unmistakable.
A group of six.
Clad in black, grey, and dark-toned luxury streetwear, they looked nothing like the royal scholars or the prep-bred elites that walked these grounds. Their presence didn't just stand out—it disrupted. It warned. Like a shadow slicing through sunlight.
Even at a distance, their energy was loud. Chaotic.
The Mafia Princes and their only Princess.
Landon's expression remained unreadable, but internally, the gears turned. He didn't know them personally. No polite handshakes, no shared events, no intersecting circles. But their names? Those were whispered in every corner of the university.
Credit to his ever-chatty brother, Easton, for that.
The one laughing shamelessly with a cigarette between his lips—Ivan Volkov. Easton's football teammate, a beast on the field and a wild card off it. Then there was Soren Bykov, the towering one with sharp cheekbones and a permanent glint of trouble in his eyes. Easton had taken a sports training class with him last fall and complained weekly about Soren's 'annoyingly perfect muscles and devil-may-care smirk.'
And beside them, the one with his fitted black tank top that clung to his frame like second skin, emphasizing every chiseled line of his torso and arms.
Aiden Morozov.
The contrast of the name alone made Landon's fingers tighten slightly around the strap of his sleek bag.
Despite his limited comprehension of Russian, he gleaned that Morovoz signifies 'Frost'. Similarly, he learnt that Aiden symbolizes 'Fire'.
Aiden's black jeans were baggy, low-slung with chains and rips near the knees, but somehow still deliberate like a storm barely contained in fabric.
Draped casually over one shoulder was a black leather jacket, the kind that looked custom-made and far too expensive for a university hallway. But it wasn't the clothes that always caught the breath in Landon's throat.
It was the ink.
Bold, unapologetic tattoos ran down Aiden's arms, dancing in chaotic yet intentional patterns over lean muscle. Landon's eyes hesitated, not because he wanted to look but because it was impossible not to.
On Aiden's left shoulder, a striking root-like design began. It was dark and sharp, crawling up his neck until it disappeared just beneath his jaw, ending right below his earlobe like a forbidden whisper. The tattoos on his arms sprawled across veins and bone like vines, shifting with every subtle movement of muscle.
Aiden Morozov is the most chaotic one. The supposed heir to the Morozov division of the Russian-American Bratva. And as far as Landon had heard, Aiden is the son of the pakhan. Dangerous, cunning, and—as much as Landon didn't want to admit—brilliantly observant.
He knew Aiden more than his brothers, purely by unfortunate proximity. They shared a few classes from the beginning.
Sat miles apart, of course.
Landon at the front, diligently taking notes, while Aiden sprawled across the back row like he owned the place, which he very well might.
They never spoke. Never acknowledged one another.
Still, Landon remembered the feeling of Aiden's eyes on him once or twice. Just curious flickers. Gone before he could react.
It unsettled him more than he liked.
He quietly shifted his gaze toward the rest of the group. Two more shadows walked just behind the main trio. One of them was Ryan Sokolov, a mystery. Landon had heard almost nothing about him. No sports, no scandals, no parties. Just a silent presence among wolves.
And then there was Ilija Orlov.
He walked like a nonchalant king, cold and untouchable with eyes sharp like a knife. All the campus boys were terrified of him, probably because he looked like he could kill them with a glance. Girls, on the other hand, admired him. Obsessively, even.
He's beautifully masculine. Long white hair, broad shoulders, slim waist. His beauty was surreal, hid aloofness intoxicating but his reputation made him unapproachable.
Landon respected that.
Out of all the mafia princes, Ilija was the only one who didn't seem to bask in the chaos. He walked through it.
His thoughts briefly drifted toward Liliya Morozov, Aiden's younger sister. He'd seen her a few times, especially once at the student council mixer last spring. She was the polar opposite of her brother. Polite, soft-spoken and impossibly warm. Always smiling. She had a gentle way about her, like she didn't belong in the shadows her brother ruled. If she hadn't looked so much like Aiden, he would have never guessed they were siblings.
But that's the only thing he and Aiden had in common, wasn't it?
Younger sisters.
Landon's heart softened slightly at the thought of Diana—probably enjoying her time with Bella in UK.
He shook off the chill that always came after watching them. The Mafia Heirs. A presence like fire, so brilliant, dangerous, and best admired from far away.
He quietly stepped out of the van as it stopped, smoothing the hem of his sweater vest and adjusting his bag's strap.
He wouldn't see them again today. Hopefully?
His first class of the year beckoned, and so did the silence of a familiar lecture hall.
He walked away without another glance back.
The wide double doors of the lecture hall loomed in front of Landon like the gateway to another long semester of solitude.
He exhaled slowly, calming the mild twist in his chest. New class. New professor. Same old silence.
The moment he stepped inside, he realized something was different.
The hall was packed.
Students buzzed with excitement, filling nearly every row with shoulder to shoulder, pens tapping, phones glowing. Some he recognized from previous classes, most he didn't. Laughter echoed from the front rows, where tightly grouped friends shared jokes and gossip.
Landon swept his eyes across the crowd.
Of course, he thought. All the front rows are taken.
He didn't bother sighing aloud. Quiet disappointment had become second nature to him.
He weaved through the crowd, silent and unnoticed, until he found it. Second to the last row. Entirely empty. No one had even spared it a glance. Typical.
He slid into the seat by the window and placed his notebook, pen and schedule sheet neatly on the desk. His movements were graceful, almost ritualistic. Predictable.
Lonely.
He adjusted his cufflink absently and stared ahead, trying to listen to the low chatter around him. Not that he was ever invited into it.
Moments later, the door clicked open and a middle-aged man in a navy suit walked in with a stack of folders and a calm, tired smile.
"Good morning, everyone." The professor began. "I'm Dr. Nicholas Rivera. I'll be your guide through Global Strategic Affairs this semester. If you're in the wrong place, now's the time to leave."
A few chuckles stirred.
Landon offered a polite smile, pen in hand.
But just as Dr. Rivera began his intro, the door banged open again.
Hard.
Every head turned.
A figure burst in—black tank top with leather jacket, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, chest rising and falling in deep pants like he'd sprinted from the other side of campus.
Landon's heart dropped.
Fuck! No, not again...
His thoughts spat the words before his royal restraint could catch them.
Aiden Morozov.
There was no mistaking the tousled dark hair, the sharp jawline, or the maddeningly calm eyes hidden beneath a storm of energy. Arrogance clung to him like cologne. But one thing was very clear.
Aiden liked to show it all off.
The careless confidence in every step... it wasn't accidental.
He knew people looked.
He wanted them to.
And it made Landon's skin prickle.
That damned unbothered smirk danced at the corner of his lips as he raised a hand in a mock apology.
"Hey, prof." Aiden said casually, not a hint of guilt in his tone. "Had a thing. Won't happen again."
Dr. Rivera gave him a long, unimpressed look. "Take a seat, Mr. Morozov."
Aiden strode down the aisle, completely ignoring the professor's exasperated expression as his sharp eyes flicked across the room, barely interested in the stares he drew.
Until they landed on him.
Landon froze.
He cursed internally, something he never did, not even in thought.
But did it again.
And yet, there it was.... Aiden's smirk, slow and smug, blooming across his face like a secret only he knew. His eyes burned with amusement, but there was no kindness in them. Just mischief. Purpose.
Landon sat up straighter, hoping—praying that Aiden would just pick a random empty chair near the back.
He scanned the room with mild panic.
Almost every seat was filled.
Except the one.
Next to him.
Of course.
Landon barely had time to react before Aiden sauntered down the steps of the lecture hall like he had all the time in the world, his heavy boots tapping against polished tile. When he reached the row, he let his jacket fall lazily into one arm and dropped into the chair next to Landon with a relaxed grunt, legs stretching out lazily in front of him like he'd claimed it years ago. His inked forearm rested on the desk, fingers tapping against the wood rhythmically, like he was already bored with the room.
Landon tried not to react. Not to tense. Not to breathe. But his muscles were stone. Back straight. Jaw clenched.
Aiden didn't say anything.
Not a word.
And Landon didn't dare look at him, but he felt him. He could feel his presence like heat. The weight of silence and steel that came with Aiden Morozov like a shadow at dusk.
Landon's own body reacted instinctively—stiff posture, clenched pen, skin prickling with tension. He tried to will the discomfort away, but every second stretched longer than the last.
They were polar opposites.
And yet, here they were. Sharing a row, sharing air, and, God help him sharing the same space that Landon had carefully carved out to be untouched by anyone.
He stared ahead, pretending to take notes, but his mind raced with unspoken questions.
Why him? Why today? Why now?
Three whole years of carefully avoiding chaos and fate suddenly decided today was the day to sit him next to it.
The lecture hall quieted again as Dr. Rivera resumed his welcome speech, pacing in front of the massive digital board with the confidence of a seasoned academic. His voice was calm, his tone engaging, but Landon barely caught a word.
Because the presence beside him was louder than anything else in the room.
Aiden didn't move much. Just leaned slightly back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, one knee bouncing ever so slightly. His scent was clean, sharp and annoyingly magnetic that wafted over now and then, impossible to ignore. There was something effortless about his arrogance, as if the rules of space and respect simply didn't apply to him.
Landon tried to focus. His pen scratched across the page with mechanical precision, but his mind was at war with itself.
Why sit here? There were other seats… Weren't there?
His eyes darted subtly to the side.
Aiden was watching the board.
Or pretending to?
But that ghost of a smirk hadn't left his lips.
Landon stiffened again.
Aiden wasn't even looking at him, and still... still, it felt like every movement Aiden made was a performance, designed for just one audience. Him.
As if he knew.
Knew that his nearness was a disruption. Knew that his energy was crawling under Landon's skin like a living, breathing force.
And worst of all, enjoyed it.
Landon cleared his throat softly and shifted in his seat, putting a little more distance between their elbows. Not that it helped much. The row was narrow, and Aiden had claimed his space like he owned it.
Five more minutes passed.
Ten.
Dr. Rivera had started going over the syllabus, speaking about debates and group presentations—words that usually excited Landon but now just echoed hollowly in his ears.
Then it happened.
Aiden adjusted in his seat. Just a small, careless motion but his knee brushed against Landon's under the desk.
Barely a graze.
But it was enough.
Landon's entire body jerked slightly. Not enough for others to notice but he felt it. The pulse in his neck quickening. The heat is blooming under his collar.
He didn't look at him.
Didn't dare.
But he felt the corner of Aiden's mouth tug just slightly higher. That damned smirk was growing wider. Like he had heard Landon's thoughts without a single word being said.
The air between them thickened. Not hostile. Not friendly.
Just... charged.
Landon took a slow, deep breath and turned his focus back to the board, burying himself in note-taking again as if ink on paper could protect him from whatever game Aiden Morozov was playing.
Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe Aiden just sat in the only seat left.
Maybe it wasn't about him at all.
But deep down, Landon knew better.
Because Aiden could've chosen to exchange seats. Could've made a scene, found his suitable seat. That's what someone like him usually did.
But he didn't.
He sat beside him. Silently. Deliberately.
And Landon had no idea why.