GOD SAVE THE RECKLESS

Nobody at Blackthorn remembers when Theodore Ashbourne-Vale and Maeve Ellis started becoming a thing.

At first they were just in the background of parties and blurry photographs.
Then suddenly they were everywhere.

His figure next to hers leaving some frat party at 2 a.m.
Her combat boots beside him on a velvet sofa.
Theodore staring at her across crowded rooms like he's trying not to laugh.
Maeve looking back like she might ruin his life for fun.

And then there was THE photograph.

The one where Maeve grabbed somebody's lipstick and wrote KING across Theodore's chest while a camera flash caught the exact moment it happened.

After that, people stopped pretending not to notice them.

Which would've been fine if Theodore wasn't practically royalty, Blackthorn's favorite rich boy disaster, and heir to a family half the country is obsessed with.

And it would've been even more fine if Maeve actually knew how to stay away from him.

She doesn't.

Nobody said nineteen was old enough to make good decisions anyway.