Kingmakers, Year Three

4. Cat

4

CAT

I don’t know how in the fuck I’m going to survive two more years at Kingmakers with Dean, if he couldn’t wait until we got to the island to start harassing me.

I don’t understand why he even wants to.

I mean, I know I embarrassed him, catching him in an unguarded moment. But at the end of the day, he’s one of the most skilled and feared students at the school, while I’m a fucking nobody. If he weren’t keeping an eye out for me, he probably never would have noticed me again for the rest of our lives.

I’ve never done anything dramatic or surprising in my whole damn life. Except the one thing Dean happened to see.

God, what a comedy of errors. The fucking luck I have . . .

Why, why, why did it have to be Dean who saw me? If it were anybody else, they wouldn’t have thought two things about it.

Only Dean already had a grudge against me.

Only Dean is conniving enough to put the pieces together.

This man has been living in my head rent-free all summer long, when I should have been enjoying my first trip to America—two uninterrupted, blissful months in which the Griffins were overwhelmingly kind to me, including Caleb Griffin, Miles’ little brother, who was so friendly and attentive that Zoe thought he had a puppy-love crush.

I don’t think that was the case. Like Miles, Caleb just likes to prove himself. In this case he wanted to prove what a good host he could be.

Still, we’re friends now, and I’m glad Caleb will be coming to Kingmakers next year.

I shouldn’t have been fretting over Dean the whole summer, yet I could hardly think of anything else. He popped into my head a hundred times a day. He haunted my nightmares.

But my worst dreams featured Rocco Prince.

I’ll never forget the look of pure hatred on his face as the noose tightened around his wrist, jerking him forward. I’ll never forget the way his knife sliced down at me, missing my face by millimeters, before he was jerked over the parapet .

And then the long, strangled howl as he tumbled down . . .

And the birds. The fucking birds.

As we returned from the Quartum Bellum, I saw that flock of gulls wheeling and circling over where Rocco had fallen, screeching like they were screaming my guilt to everyone around. Tattling on me.

They dove down to the rocks, squabbling and fighting as they tore his body apart. Then they rose up in the air again, their beaks stained with blood.

I can hardly hear the sound of a gull without vomiting all over again. Their cry is a constant reminder of what I did. An accusation and a threat. Proof that what I thought could be hidden was instead immediately discovered in a way I never would have guessed.

I rip a comb through my damp curls, trying to clear my head.

I’m in the shared bathroom of the Undercroft, the air full of steam from the students taking their early morning showers.

I found Dean crying in a bathroom very much like this.

Why was he so upset that day?

Why did the death of Ozzy’s mother strike him so hard?

I don’t understand Dean Yenin. I don’t understand why he’s so full of rage and bitterness .

God my head is a jumble of thoughts, none of them pleasant.

Rakel comes to stand at the mirror next to mine, her short, choppy hair already drying, and a towel wrapped around her body. Her face looks blank without her makeup, as if she hasn’t put on her personality for the day.

“What’s wrong?” she asks me.

“Nothing,” I say.

“You look stressed.”

“I’m fine.”

There it is again. Nobody is ever actually fine.

I watch Rakel arrange her collection of brushes and pots, then begin the delicate process of painting her face.

Anna Wilk tends toward classic goth makeup, but Rakel’s oeuvre is much more varied. Some days she looks vampiric with dark red lipstick and chalk-white cheeks. Others she looks consumptive with pink all around her eyes and dark shadows under her cheekbones. And some days, like today, she resembles a wicked fairy with thick black liner, two-inch lashes, and shades of sparkly purple all over her eyelids, cheeks, and even the tip of her nose.

She finishes her look with three different nose rings, a spiked eyebrow stud, and a serpentine cuff that winds up her ear .

“You’re an artist,” I tell her.

Rakel smiles. “Thank you,” she says. “That actually means something, coming from you.”

“I filled half my sketchbook this summer,” I say, with a glimmer of happiness. “The Bean, the Willis Tower, the Ferris wheel . . . now I’ll never forget what I saw in Chicago.”

“You should show me after class.”

I look at my own decidedly less-interesting reflection in the mirror.

I’ve never dressed with much panache. I’m so petite that my clothes swim on me. Half the time I look like a kid playing dress-up. My hair is a mess of black curls. My face . . . cute, I suppose. But nowhere near as stunning as Zoe’s. She’s the beautiful one. I’ve always just been the kid-sister.

“Could I borrow a little makeup?” I ask Rakel.

“Sure.” She shrugs.

I stare at the rainbow array of products, having no actual idea what I’m doing.

Rakel laughs. “You want some help?”

“Yes, please,” I say gratefully. “I mean . . . I’m not trying to dazzle anybody. I just want to spice my face up a little.”

Rakel surveys my features with a professional objectivity .

“Your eyes are your best feature,” she pronounces. “And we’ll keep your freckles.”

She starts painting my face.

I watch in the mirror to see what she does.

It really is like painting, in the sense that she outlines and shades the contours of my face just as you would paint a portrait to show depth and perspective.

I’m mildly frightened to have those pointed nails so close to my eyeballs, but Rakel works with surprising gentleness. The brushes and powders and creams feel quite lovely against my skin.

Rakel uses shades of plum, peach, and golden brown that match my Mediterranean coloring quite nicely. When she’s finished, I look older. Confident and glamorous. But still myself, not a wicked fairy.

“That’s really good!” I say, thoroughly impressed.

Rakel is pleased. “I watch a lot of tutorials.”

The fresh look cheers me up a little. I’d rather be Glamorous Cat. She’d know how to keep out of trouble, and how to stand up to Dean without him torpedoing my entire life.

With new energy, Rakel and I return to our room to change into our uniforms .

I kept all the same clothes from last year. Yet, as I pull on my skirt, I notice one tiny inch of bare flesh between the top of my knee socks and the bottom of the pleats.

“Look at that!” I say to Rakel. “I must have grown. A bit, at least.”

“Wow,” she says, mockingly. “Keep it up and you might hit 5’2.”

“You’re not tall, either!”

“Compared to you, I’m Shaquille O’Neal.”

I scowl at her. “Now I don’t know if I should give you your present. But you did do my makeup pretty nice . . .”

“What present? What is it?” Rakel demands, eyes bright with curiosity.

I dig through my half-unpacked suitcase, finding the painting I made for her, carefully backed with cardboard and wrapped with paper so it wouldn’t crumple or flake on the journey over.

Rakel rips off the brown paper wrapping, eager but careful.

“Oh!” She gasps, face alight. She turns the painting so I can see it, as if I don’t already know what’s on the canvas. “I’ll hang it up on the wall. ”

“That’s why I made it for you,” I say. “So we’ll have a little life down here.”

Rakel snorts. The album cover I painted for her is the furthest thing from “life” in the sense that it depicts a Dali-esque sphere of melting skulls, but it’s from Rakel’s favorite band, so I knew it would make her happy.

“This is a good gift,” she says, in her honest and unsentimental way.

I’m sure she would have told me it was shit if she didn’t like it. Which is nice, because now I know for certain that I did a good job.

“Come on,” I say. “We better hurry, or we won’t have time for breakfast before class.”

Rakel and I hustle up the stairs to ground level, dazzled as always by the brilliant burst of morning sunshine after the soft golden lamplight of the Undercroft.

We only have a few minutes to stuff ourselves with bacon and coffee before we have to run across campus to the Keep.

Kingmakers is so large and sprawling that I could stay fit just by sprinting from class to class. Unfortunately for me, that’s not nearly the only exercise I get. My schedule includes grueling conditioning sessions, combat classes, and classes that aren’t meant to be particularly taxing, like Marksmanship and En vironmental Adaptation, but which strain my limits all the same because I’m so damn small.

At least I know what to expect this year. I packed plenty of Band-aids for all the blisters that will blossom on my palms and feet, and I’m already well acquainted with the location of the infirmary and the ice dispensers in the dining hall.

Rakel and I find our Interrogation class on the second floor of the Keep easily enough. I spread my notebooks and pens out across my desk, determined to take notes on every single word that comes out of Professor Penmark’s mouth. I want to score well on my exams. In my Freshman year, I was simply trying to survive. This year, I’d like to find out if I might just have what it takes to run with the rest of the mafiosi.

Professor Penmark slouches into the classroom in his creepy, silent way. He looks even thinner than last year, his pallid skin stretched tight over his bones, his many tattoos a jumble of colorless shapes. He has a long, unsmiling face and dark eyes without any glimmer of life, like a dead thing dug up from the ground.

I always found him off-putting. Now I despise him.

I’ll never forget how he dragged the chained-up Ozzy across the floor of the Grand Hall without a hint of sympathy in those black eyes. I almost think he enjoyed it .

I know he enjoys teaching the Torture Techniques class. He forces us to practice non-lethal torments on our fellow students, including electrocution, stress positions, pressure points, and dry-boarding. If we don’t comply with enough enthusiasm—aka sadism—then he “demonstrates” the procedures himself.

Luckily, today’s Interrogation class involves only psychological techniques.

We’ve already covered ego-fragmentation and learned helplessness. Now Professor Penmark lectures us on deception.

“Information is useless if you cannot tell if it is true or false,” he says, in his thin tenor. “How do you know if your subject is lying?”

His dark eyes crawl over us as we sit captive behind our desks.

“Lack of eye contact,” Joss Burmingham guesses. His room is across the hall from mine, but we’ve never spoken because I’ve never seen him outside of class not wearing headphones with the volume turned all the way up. He and Rakel must be in a competition to see who can go deaf first.

“No—too much eye contact,” Lola Fischer contradicts him.

Dixie Davis gives Lola an approving nod. The two girls share the room next to mine. They’re both from Biloxi, Mississippi, and were already best friends before they came to Kingmakers .

“Correct,” Professor Penmark says. “And also incorrect.”

Lola’s smirk of satisfaction fades away as quickly as it arose. She scowls at the professor, as confused as everyone else in the room.

“Try again,” the professor says, enjoying our discomfort.

“Vague details?” Charlotte King ventures.

“Stuttering?” Jacob Weiss says.

Professor Penmark’s flat stare gives nothing away. I would never know if he were lying or being truthful. The only thing I can tell about this man is that he enjoys inflicting pain. Which is why I’m sure he was a very effective debt collector for the Las Vegas mob. You can’t get money from a dead man. But you can make a man wish he were dead . . .

“Subjects can display a lack or an excess of any particular behavior when lying,” the professor informs us. “They may sit still to avoid physical tells. Or they may squirm under your gaze. They may babble and include far too many details in their fictional narrative. Or they might speak in sentence fragments and fail to provide details when pressed. You cannot determine whether a subject is truthful or deceptive unless you first establish a baseline. Which is why you must ask questions to which you already know the answer, then observe the subject’s responses when they answer correctly, as well as when they obfuscate. ”

I scribble away in my notebook, trying to capture every tip. I understood what the professor said, but it’s much easier said than done. Especially in real life, without time to think or plan.

“I need two volunteers,” Professor Penmark says.

No one raises their hand. When Professor Penmark asks for a volunteer, nothing pleasant ever follows.

“Lola,” the professor smiles, baring his crowded teeth. “Why don’t you come to the front of the class.”

Lola rises from her chair, wary but determined not to show a hint of nerves. She marches to the front of the room, her plaid skirt swishing around her long, shapely legs. Carter Ross gives a wolf whistle and Lola smiles as she spins to face us, making the skirt flare out almost high enough to show her underwear before it settles in place once more.

“Who else . . .” Professor Penmark muses, looking over each of us in turn, enjoying the way most of the students refuse to meet his eyes. I can’t tell whether I’d be better served to avoid him or boldly stare back. I go for the latter.

“Cat!” the professor barks. “Front of the class.”

Wrong choice.

I slip out of my seat, stumbling over my own feet before hurrying up to join Lola. Nobody whistles for me. A couple of studen ts snicker until Rakel turns around and glares them into silence.

Lola faces me, knowing we’ll probably have to compete in some way. She’s smiling, pleased that she’ll only have to beat me, and not somebody intimidating.

Lola is intimidating. Her big blue eyes and soft southern accent don’t fool me for a second. She’s a killer.

Professor Penmark hands us each a plain envelope.

“Read your objective. Don’t show your opponent,” he says.

I crack my envelope, then scan the card within. The single sentence reads: Find out if their father has ever been in prison.

How in the hell am I supposed to figure that out in a subtle way?

“Each of you has a piece of information you must extract from your subject,” Professor Penmark says. “You must answer your opponent’s questions, but you are allowed to lie if you wish. When you think you’ve captured the intelligence, raise your hand.”

Lola purses her full pink lips as she reads her own card. She looks up at me, smiling with anticipation.

I’m sweating .

From what I’ve learned so far in our Interrogation classes, the usual methods to get someone to disclose information are threats, appeals to conscience, and incentives. It will be hard for me to apply any of those techniques against Lola.

Despite rooming right next to each other, I don’t know much about her.

Only that she’s beautiful and knows it. She takes great care over her appearance, waves of caramel-colored hair laying over her shoulders, subtle gold jewelry, and the wardrobe of a Manhattan socialite. Even on the island, she’s somehow managed to procure a professional-level manicure.

It’s curious, too, that she embraces this look of doll-like femininity when the rest of the Dixie Mafia are a rough, countrified bunch, partial to filthy, ripped jeans, cowboy boots, and necklaces of gator teeth. This includes Lola’s right-hand woman Dixie Davis, who, with her wild mane of ginger-colored hair, freckles like paint spatters, and harsh voice, is as crass and unkempt as Lola is refined.

What I infer from this is that Lola cares very much about controlling how other people perceive her. She’s prideful and vain. Justifiably so, perhaps. But that may be her weak spot.

Is Lola’s objective the same as mine? Is she going to ask about my father? Maybe her question is completely different .

God, this is brain-bending. I can’t be sneaky in five different ways at once.

Should I start asking about her family? Is that too obvious?

What if she lies? Will I be able to tell?

“Don’t be nervous, Cat,” Lola says, giving me a smile that shows all her gleaming white teeth. “We’re just having a friendly conversation.”

“Right,” I murmur. “It should be fun.”

“You’re from Spain, aren’t you?” She says, resting a hand casually on her hip and cocking her head at me.

I’m already tensing up, thinking I shouldn’t answer any questions honestly. But Lola already knows the answer to that—and it wouldn’t be the objective on her card because it’s common knowledge.

“Yes,” I say, carefully. “I’m from Barcelona. And you’re from Biloxi.”

“That’s right,” Lola says, lightly.

I suppose we both have a baseline for honest answers now.

“Any siblings?” I ask her, hoping to ease around to the topic of parents.

“Just me,” Lola says, still smiling .

Now that one’s a little trickier. Lola certainly has the pampered look and confidence of an only child, but she’s not in the Heirs division. So either her father isn’t a boss, which would be strange considering her standing amongst the rest of the Dixie Mafia, or he has a different successor in mind—an uncle or older sibling of Lola.

Fuck, I don’t know which it is. I don’t think I’m very good at this.

“I know you have a sister,” Lola says, softly. “Zoe . . . she’s gorgeous, isn’t she? It’s hard to be the ugly sister.”

Carter Ross snickers from the front row of desks.

I can feel the dozens of eyes watching us, none more than Professor Penmark, who feeds off my discomfort and Lola’s malice like a psychic vampire.

The gloves are coming off—Lola took that shot at me to stoke my emotions. She wants me upset and incautious.

“I always thought Zoe was the prettiest girl at our school,” I reply, calmly.

It’s a subtler jab than Lola’s, and more effective. I’m used to being second to Zoe. Lola doesn’t want to be second to anyone. I see the slight narrowing of her eyes—she didn’t like that at all .

“Zoe ran off with Miles Griffin, didn’t she?” Lola persists. “That’s quite the upgrade from Rocco.”

My hands twitch involuntarily. I really don’t want Lola to pursue that line of questioning. Her card can’t possibly have something on it about Rocco Prince, can it?

Lola sees me flinch. She pounces like a cat on a mouse. “You aren’t jealous, are you? Zoe’s living the dream in L.A., and you don’t even have a boyfriend yet?”

There it is.

I think I know her objective.

“I’ve had plenty of boyfriends,” I lie.

Lola giggles, not believing me for a second.

“Plenty of boyfriends?” She scoffs. “Come on Cat, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

I’m going to have to switch tactics, because if Lola’s objective is to suss out my sexual history, she’s going to figure out that I’m a virgin in two seconds flat.

It’s time to go on the offensive.

“Carter Ross might think you’re dressing up for him,” I say to Lola, “but your aesthetic has Daddy’s Girl all over it. That’s who it’s really for, isn’t it? The pink blush, the strawberry lip gloss . . . I bet if I checked that gold locket you’re wearing, it’s a gift f rom dear old Dad.”

Lola’s big blue eyes narrow into slits. I’ve already learned that particular tell—it means I hit her in a sensitive spot.

No time to fuck around—I have to press the advantage.

“You don’t have any siblings. And yet you’re not an Heir. Which means no matter how hard you’ve tried to please Daddy, he hasn’t named you his successor.”

The color rises in Lola’s cheeks. She hasn’t answered back.

I’m making wild assumptions, one after another, but I think I’m right.

“Is it plain old sexism? Did you fuck up somehow? Or maybe he just doesn’t know you well enough after his time away? He still sees you as his little baby. Maybe if you try really, really hard, you can prove you’re all grown up now . . .”

“You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” Lola snarls at me.

That’s not a denial.

In fact, that’s what people say when the facts are correct but they don’t like your interpretation.

I raise my hand.

“You think you have the intel?” Professor Penmark inquires .

“Yes,” I say. “Lola’s father was in prison.”

Lola’s mouth drops open. Her whole face is now the color of Dixie’s hair.

“You filthy little cunt!” She shrieks.

Before she can slap my head off my shoulders, Professor Penmark steps smoothly between us, plucking Lola’s card out of her hands. I can just make out the single typed sentence:

Find out what age they had their first kiss.

I’m deeply relieved that Lola failed to reach her objective. I’d rather jump out the second-story window than have the entire class find out that I’ve never been kissed, not once in my life.

My satisfaction ebbs away when I catch sight of Lola’s shaking hands and livid face. I just embarrassed her in front of the whole class. And she’s not exactly the forgiving type.

“Not bad,” Professor Penmark tells me. “You didn’t get verbal confirmation from the subject, but implied affirmation can be useful.”

It’s the first time I’ve ever received a compliment from Professor Penmark. I can’t say I enjoyed it—it’s quite unpleasant having him stand this close to me, looking into my face with those dead black eyes.

“Thanks,” I mutter, hurrying back to my seat .

I can practically hear Lola fuming behind me. Waves of loathing radiate in my direction.

Oblivious, or just not giving a shit, Rakel says, “Nice job! I thought you were fucked for sure.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I was betting on you,” Joss Burmingham says, leaning across his desk to give me a little fist bump.

Joss has never spoken to me before. I’ve got to admit, it feels good to earn some admiration outside of our programming classes.

Until Lola hisses at me, “You think that was clever?”

“It’s just an exercise,” I say. “No hard feelings.”

“Get fucked!” Lola barks, only quieting down when Professor Penmark shoots her a look telling her to pipe it so he can continue with his lecture.

I pass the rest of class wondering if I should have just answered Lola’s questions. I could have let her win—it would have been easier.

The other half of me rebels against that idea.

Why does Lola get to be aggressive and cruel, and I just have to roll over and take it?

I saw my opening and I went for it .

Was it a little mean?

Maybe. But that’s why we’re here—to learn how to get what we want.

And in that moment, I wanted to win.

Class ends, and Rakel and I gather up our bags.

Dixie Davis slams into me as she passes, almost dislocating my shoulder.

“Watch it,” she says.

Lola tosses her hair over her shoulder, still fuming.

“Gonna hold onto that one, isn’t she?” Rakel says, watching them stalk off down the hall.

“Apparently,” I sigh.

“Well, good thing we only have pretty much every single class with them,” Rakel laughs, giving me a friendly punch on the very same shoulder Dixie just tried to destroy.

I follow Rakel down the stairs, already losing any sense of pleasure earned by my win.

Fuck me. I’ve gone and made another enemy.

Why can I not go five goddamned minutes without getting myself in trouble ?

I’m so consumed by my own thoughts that I run right into Dean Yenin waiting for me outside the Keep.

I know he’s waiting for me by the way he grabs the front of my shirt and lifts me up off my feet, totally unsurprised by my appearance.

“Watch where you’re going, Cat, ” he hisses into my face.

“Let go of her,” Rakel says.

“Fuck off, Black Death,” Dean snarls at her.

“Eat shit, Zack Morris,” Rakel sneers back at him.

“Rakel!” I gasp, half-choked by Dean’s grip on my collar. “Just . . . go on without me.”

She stares at me like I’m speaking Swahili.

“Please!” I wheeze. “Just go.”

She looks between Dean and me for several seconds. Then she narrows her eyes and says, “Fine. If that’s what you want.” She heads off to the dining hall without me.

Dean releases his grip on my shirt so I can breathe again.

“That’s better,” he says softly.

Actually, I’m sure it’s about to get worse.

Dean looks anything but cheerful. His face is heavily bruised on the left side. He’s got a cut on that cheek and a nasty black eye, t he purplish marks especially dire against his fair skin. He looks like an angel stripped of his wings and fallen all the way to earth.

“What happened?” I say without thinking.

Wrong question. Dean’s top lip pulls up in the snarl that I’ve quickly come to recognize as the harbinger of his most intense aggression.

“Never mind that,” he growls. “Where the fuck have you been all day?”

“Breakfast. And class,” I stammer.

“Why weren’t you waiting for me outside the Octagon Tower this morning?”

“I . . . why would I be?”

“Because you’re my slave, Cat,” Dean says, in a tone of stating the obvious. “What good are you to me in the dining hall and at class?”

“But . . . I have to go to class,” I squeak.

“Yes, you do. And you’ll walk from class to class with me. Carrying my books. Every single day.”

“ What?”

“You heard me. ”

Dean’s eyes are fixed on mine, steady and unblinking. His pupils are so large that the irises comprise barely more than a thin halo of violet.

“Why do you . . . I mean, okay,” I say, knowing better than to argue.

“You mean, ‘Yes, sir,’ ” Dean corrects me.

My cheeks flame and I feel an intense impulse to tell him to fuck off. But that would be suicidal.

“Yes, sir ,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

“Good girl,” Dean says softly.

His low purr sends a thrill through my body.

Am I completely fucked in the head that I feel a flush of warmth at his approval? Maybe it’s just relief that he might not have me murdered in the immediate future.

His smile of satisfaction quickly turns to a scowl.

He seizes my chin in a steel grip.

“What the fuck is on your face?” He demands.

“Makeup,” I say, trying to twist my chin out of his grasp.

He pinches it all the harder.

“I hate it,” he hisses. “Wash it off. ”

“What? No, I just?—”

“Clean that shit off your face,” he barks. “Do it now, then get your ass over to the dining hall.”

He lets go of me so abruptly that I stumble back.

I want to scream with frustration at this fucking maniac and his ridiculous demands. But I can’t do it. I can’t say one damn word to him, and he knows it. All I can do is spin on my heel and march off toward the bathrooms in the Keep, where I wash all Rakel’s expertly applied makeup off my face.

What the fuck is his problem?

Since when does he hate makeup?

Anna Wilk wears a shit-ton of product on her face, and it never seemed to bother him any.

I don’t think he hates makeup at all. He just relishes my misery.

With my face freshly pink and shiny, I walk back to the dining hall, dragging my feet the whole way.

I don’t want to go in there.

I don’t want to experience whatever new humiliation Dean has been dreaming up .

But I’m hungry. So I join the line of students waiting for their portion of pesto chicken pasta, then I carry my tray toward the tables.

I see Leo, Anna, Chay, and Ares already eating, laughing together at some joke. They look so lighthearted and comfortable. God, I wish I could join them.

I can feel Dean’s cold stare fixed on me. When I turn to meet his eyes, he jerks his head toward the empty seat he’s saved right next to his own.

Please God, let the ground swallow me whole.

I feel like the entire hall of students is staring at me as I turn toward Dean’s table.

Anna has spotted me. She calls out, “Cat!” thinking I didn’t see her. I have to give her an awkward shrug before resuming my hateful journey over to Dean.

Bram Van Der Berg, Valon Hoxha, Pasha Tsaplin, and Motya Chornovil watch me approach, silent and unsmiling. I dislike every one of them. They’re a bunch of spiteful bullies who delight in tormenting weaker students. I feel like I’m voluntarily lowering myself into a den of vipers as I drop down into the only empty seat at their table.

If they’re vipers, then Dean is the king cobra. He strikes with lightning speed the moment my ass touches the seat .

“Where’s my milk?” he demands.

“I didn’t know you wanted milk,” I mutter.

“Go get it. Now.”

Biting back the retort I’d like to give him, I stand once more.

Valon Hoxha sniggers.

“Get me a milk, too,” he says.

“You don’t give the orders,” Dean rebukes him, his tone as sharp as a slap. It smacks the smile right off Valon’s face, and he sulks instead.

“She’s getting up anyway,” he grouses.

Dean ignores him. He wants to enjoy watching me cross the dining hall once more so I can retrieve his fucking milk.

I walk as quickly as I can to get this over with, grabbing the first frosty glass bottle of milk I see and carrying it back to him, slamming it down just a little too hard in front of him.

“There you go, your majesty,” I say.

My face is flaming as I sit down once more.

“I want grapes, too,” Dean says.

I turn to stare at him, thoroughly incensed.

“Why didn’t you tell me when I?— ”

It only takes one look in those crazed eyes to shut my mouth. Dean is fully invested in this game, and that means he’s only too happy to deal out consequences if I disobey. Silently, I stand once more to walk back over to the food.

Dean’s friends watch this parade with avid interest. I’m quite sure that none of them know how Dean acquired his own personal servant, and their curiosity is mixed with envy. For a bunch of power-hungry douchebags, nothing could be more appealing than a girl forced to jump to attention every time they snap their fingers.

I seize a bundle of purple grapes, grown in the vineyards outside the castle grounds, and I ferry them back to Dean like an obedient little waitress. I plop them down next to the milk and resume my seat, praying he doesn’t have any other cravings.

“Feed them to me,” Dean orders.

“. . . You want me to feed you grapes?”

“That’s right,” he smirks.

I hope he chokes on these fucking grapes. I’d like to ram them right down his throat.

Instead, I pluck off one dusky purple orb and hold it out to him. Dean’s full lips part as he opens his mouth .

I place the grape on his tongue. As I pull my hand back, my fingers graze his lower lip. A shiver runs down my spine.

I’m certain Dean sees me twitch. He doesn’t miss a thing.

He bites down hard on the grape, crushing it in his mouth.

“Very good,” he says, in that deathly low voice.

Every boy at the table is staring like they’re watching a peep show.

“What else can you make her do?” Pasha whispers.

I’m sure Dean’s friends aren’t the only ones watching this mortifying display. I don’t dare look over at Anna’s table. She must think I’ve morphed into a masochist in the few short weeks since Chicago.

The problem is that if I can’t look at Anna, and I can’t look at Dean’s leering friends, the only place left to fix my eyes is on Dean himself.

Strangely, his injuries, the marks of his mortality, only make Dean seem all the more inhuman because he refuses to acknowledge them. Refuses to be cowed or humbled.

I watched Dean win that boxing tournament almost unscathed. I’d hate to meet the man who actually landed a blow on him.

“Another,” he says, his eyes drilling into mine .

I pluck another grape off the stem, lifting it to his lips.

This time, his tongue slides against the ball of my thumb as he takes it from my fingers. That instant of wet, hot friction sends a flushing warmth through my whole body. I know my face is bright red, I know I’m squirming in my seat. I don’t understand how my body can betray me like this when I fucking hate Dean!

How can I loathe someone so much, and yet I can’t take my eyes off him? I’ve never been so present. I see the tiny golden hairs on Dean’s skin, the minute lines on his perfectly-shaped lips, the edges of his strong, white teeth. I feel his breath on my fingertips, warm from his lungs and faintly scented grape.

“That’s enough,” Dean says softly. “Clear my dishes away.”

I’m happy to clear his dishes, just to get away from him and the encircling mass of the other four boys, who have leaned over the table so they can watch our every movement. Bram Van Der Berg frowns suspiciously, his vertical scar and narrowed eye forming a shape like the crosshairs of a trigger pointed directly at me.

Why does Dean have to be so public about this? People are going to ask questions.

He doesn’t give a fuck. It’s the brazenness that excites him.

I drop the dishes off with the kitchen staff, not having eaten a single bite of food. Dammit, now I really am starving .

Too late. Dean appears at my side, already carrying my bookbag. He thrusts it into my hands, and then as soon as I sling it over my shoulder, he dumps his own armful of books on me.

“Carry those,” he orders, tossing back his shock of white-blond hair.

“Fine,” I mutter, staggering under the weight of the books.

I’m seething with fury, and it’s only the first day of this treatment.

I’m not going to make it through the school year. I’m just not.

I’m going to snap and strangle Dean, and then he’s going to rat me out to the Chancellor, and they’ll reopen the investigation into Rocco’s death, and they’ll find evidence that it was me, because I wasn’t that fucking sneaky. I know there’s some mistake, some piece of evidence I missed that will tie me to his death as soon as Luther Hugo knows where to look.

I stalk alongside Dean, arms burning under the combined weight of his books and mine.

Once again I’m a little shadow, stuck to the side of a smarter, stronger person.

Only this time, it’s not my lovely sister I’m trailing.

I’m bound to the devil instead.