Chapter 6 Julian
The Dean’s office is at the end of the hall. I take my time in the corridor, running my fingers along the panels as I approach. Marcus is a dick, but I want to go over the logistics of my Hunt. They’ve changed it up on every Feral Boy so far and I’m not about to go into mine blind-sided.
Plus, if I know what’s happening, it’ll be easier to plan how to destroy the whole fucking thing.
The secretary is gone. Lights are off in her office, computer in sleep mode. It’s almost noon, so the absence is intentional.
The doors to the Dean’s office are shut. I test the handle and it clicks, so I step inside.
I expect the Dean—maybe a whiskey in one hand, the other braced on the corner of his desk, already rehearsing the bullshit he wants to say. Instead, I get her.
Amara Marcus is not built for office environments. She is shuffling, barely contained energy as she shifts foot to foot. She stands with her back to me, hands pressed to the window frame, framed by the gray light that bleeds through the glass. For a moment, she doesn’t register my presence.
Then I shut the door. The click loud and it startles her.
She turns, too fast, and in that instant the illusion of composure shatters. Her face is naked. No mask, no defense, just shock blooming into recognition. Her left hand finds the edge of her father’s desk as if she can appear more put together than she is.
I move further inside. The Dean’s office is not large, but the space between us is a no man’s land, riddled with questions she’s dying to ask.
She tries to recover, straightens her spine. The effect is comical. She’s not a woman trained to command rooms, not yet. She’s still in the phase where survival is an act of salvation. I could be charitable and call it resourceful, but I prefer to think of it as deliciously na?ve.
“Looking for your father?” I ask.
She hesitates. “He said he’d be here.”
“Yeah, well I’m looking for him, too.” I say this with a smile, because it’s obvious, and because I want to see what it does to her. She flinches, the motion so small it barely ripples the air between us.
“I—” she starts, then stops.
I circle the room, letting my fingertips trail over the top of the desk. The surface is immaculate, except for a single stack of papers by his fountain pen: contracts, ledgers, the apparatus of transaction. At least a hundred pages, all arranged in a neat pile.
She doesn’t want me to see them. She moves to block my line of sight, but it’s too late. I pluck the top page off the stack and examine it.
The letterhead is heavy, dark blue with gold finishing. The wording is clinical, brutal in its efficiency: “Agreement of Binding Alliance, Amara Marcus to Julian Roth, per Westpoint Board Authority.”
I flick the sheet with my thumb, savoring the clean snap.
“Did you know your value has a line item?” I ask, holding up the page.
Her cheeks go white, then red. “That’s not—”
“Not what?” I prompt. “Not binding? Not final?”
She shakes her head. “It can’t be legal.”
The lie is so naked it’s almost endearing. I set the paper down, careful not to wrinkle it.
I move around the desk until I am close enough to see the pores in her skin. She is sweating, but refuses to step back. The proximity is a test—hers, not mine.
“You’re not here as a student or a daughter,” I say, my voice velvet. “You’re here as an asset. Nothing about Westpoint is legal because they are what makes things legal. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
She blinks. For a moment I think she’s going to hit me, but her hands remain tight on the desk. “I’m here because it’s my duty,” she says. Her voice is quiet but it doesn’t tremble. “Legacy isn’t just a word. My family built this school. I’m here to fulfill what my father needs from me.”
I lean in, close enough that I can feel her breath catch between her lips. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not all I am.”
I laugh, a true laugh, letting the sound curl around her. “Of course it isn’t. But it’s all you need to be.”
She glares at me, jaw set, but her pulse betrays her. I can see it at her throat, frantic and wild.
“You know why your father didn’t show?” I ask.
She shakes her head, but I can see the answer blooming behind her eyes.
“Because everything is a game.”
She swallows. “He wouldn’t do that to me.”
“When was the last time he told you he loved you? Was proud of you? I’m going to wager a guess and say a decade? Maybe more.”
She sags, just a little, as if the tension left her muscles all at once. But I can see the gears turning. She’s trying to calculate the angle of my next attack, trying to brace for impact.
She’s not ready.
I seat myself in the Dean’s chair, leaning back, letting the leather creak under my weight. “Sit,” I command, pointing at the guest chair in front of the desk.
She hesitates, but sits.
The contract sits in front of me and I spin it around and slide it toward her. “Read the last paragraph,” I say.
She does. Her lips move as she reads: “In the event that the Marcus family line is in jeopardy, the Academy may enforce provisional terms of alliance, subject to immediate binding. Recipient is to comply with all directives as determined by the Board and its proxies.”
She looks up, eyes wide. “This isn’t binding. I could run. I could leave.”
I smile. “No. You can’t.”
She sets the paper down, careful not to tear it. “You think you’re going to intimidate me into compliance?”
Leaning forward, I prop my head on my hand. “No, Amara. I think you’re already compliant. I just want to see how long it takes you to admit it.”
She looks away, jaw working. I can almost taste the tears collecting in the side of her eyes.
I stand, slow and deliberate. “You can fight it,” I say, moving around the desk again, “but it’s already over.”
She tenses as I draw near, her breath sucking in and blowing out in rapid succession.
I stop in front of her, so close I can smell her skin. It’s not perfume, just the raw, clean note of someone who spent the last hour in a cold room. There’s a red mark on her wrist, probably from a cuff or a bracelet. I want to touch it, but I don’t.
Instead, I watch her, watching me.
She holds my gaze, but only just.
“You’re not afraid of me,” I say. “Why?”
She swallows, then lifts her chin. “Because you want to see if I’ll bend, if I’ll bow to you, and quite frankly, I want to see if you can make me.”
The answer stuns me, briefly. It’s so audacious, so unflinching, I have to laugh.
“Maybe you’re right,” I say. “But I guarantee you want to kneel before me. I can still feel how wet you were for me in that bathroom. Fucking delicious. Maybe we should test my theory, hmmm?”
She doesn’t reply. She’s staring at the desk, at the line in the wood where perfect meets flaw.
I reach out, slow, and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn’t flinch, but I can feel the shiver ripple down her neck.
“This is what’s going to happen,” I say. “You’re going to sign this contract, because that’s what your family wants. And after that, you’re going to realize that there’s nothing left to do but survive.”
Her eyes are huge. “And you?”
“Do you know what the difference is between value and worth?” I ask.
She looks up at me, wary.
“Value is what the market decides. Worth is what I decide. And somehow… I find you very, VERY worthy of carrying not only my name, but my child.”
She blinks, and I see a muscle in her jaw twitch. “Is this supposed to be comforting?”
“No,” I say, “but it is clarifying.”
She glares, but the effect is ruined by the tremor in her hands.
I grab her father’s bourbon off the desk and pour a glass, taking a sip before leaning closer, until our faces are almost even. “Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?”
She shakes her head, but I keep talking.
“I see a girl who’s been bartered for so long, she’s forgotten what it means to want for herself. I see someone who is so good at following orders, she doesn’t even recognize the shape of her defiance.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak.
She casts her eyes down, shame burning on her face.
“Look at me,” I cup her chin and force her head up.
She does.
“Now look at these papers.” I gesture at the contract, the ledgers, the ledger of her life.
“This is what you are to them. Ink on a line, a placeholder for the next iteration of power. But you—” I squeeze her chin, just enough to make it hurt—“you are more than this. Give yourself to me, and I will remind you exactly who the fuck you are.”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You have no idea who I am.”
I release her and move until I am behind her. “I can show you.”
She stumbles, but I catch her. My hands close around her wrists. I can feel her pulse, frantic and wild, just beneath the skin.
I guide her to the front of the desk. The paperwork crunches beneath her as I push her forward, palms flat on the surface.
She tries to turn, but I pin her, one hand on the back of her neck, the other on her hip.
“This isn’t right,” she hisses.
I lean in, breath hot on her ear. “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong. This is all that’s right.”
She struggles, but not enough to matter. I press my body to hers, letting her feel every inch of my intent. The heat between us is volcanic.
I slide my hand up her thigh, slow at first, savoring the way her muscles quiver under my touch. She tries to twist away, but my grip is absolute.
Her skirt rides up, the fabric gathering at her waist. She’s wearing black lace, expensive and delicate, but not delicate enough to withstand the pressure of my fingers as I hook them beneath the elastic and snap it against her skin.
She gasps, the sound half pain, half surprise.
“Why are you doing this?” she whispers.