13. Dean
13
DEAN
C at stays overnight in the infirmary.
I was only able to sit beside her for an hour before Professor Howell came and hollered at me for not reporting back to him, then booted me out of the infirmary and sent me out to the field to clean up the mess left from the competition.
Due to the interruption of the Sophomore tower delaying our team, the Seniors retrieved their flag first, and the Freshmen second. It doesn’t matter—we still beat the Sophomores and secured our place in the next round.
By all accounts, Lola Fischer threw a tantrum over her elimination, blaming Cat for their loss .
I’d like to fucking strangle her for sending Cat up there in the first place.
By the time I help the grounds crew haul off every last scrap of lumber, it’s fully dark and too late to try to visit Cat again.
When I return to the infirmary in the morning, Sasha tells me that Cat left early so she could clean up and attend class as normal.
I track Cat down between first and second period.
She looks relatively revived, other than the scrapes and bruises all down her arms, and the bandage on her forehead. Her uniform is nicely pressed, and I can’t help but notice her leather collar peeking out from the neck of her blouse. The sight gives me a Pavlovian thrill.
“Why didn’t you come find me?” I demand. “I was worried about you.”
Cat smiles. “I figured we’d see each other tonight.”
“You want to meet me in the Bell Tower?” I say, in an undertone because I don’t want the passing students to overhear. “I thought you’d take a few days off.”
“I’m fine,” Cat says. “I don’t need any days off.”
My pulse quickens and I feel my cock swelling, aroused by the fact that Cat isn’t using her accident as an excuse to avoid me. She wants to meet me tonight .
“Nine o’clock?” I say.
“Of course.” Cat nods.
Then, to my astonishment, she winks at me and heads off to class with a flirtatious little flick of her skirt.
It occurs to me that when I first met Cat, I mostly observed her while she was stressed or scared. Often due to my own behavior toward her. Now that she’s relaxing a little . . . she’s actually quite playful.
I like it. She’s teasing me and even flirting with me, like she’s trying to get a rise out of me.
If she wants to poke the bear, I’m happy to show her how beastly I can be.
All in good time, however. I don’t believe she’s fully recovered. I’ll have to be careful tonight, even if the sight of her in that plaid skirt and collar has already whipped me into a fever pitch with hours yet to go before I’ll see her again.
I’m in such a mood of anticipation that I don’t immediately snap Vanya Antonov’s neck when he deliberately slams into me in the hallway of the Keep.
“Watch it!” I say, more annoyed than infuriated.
“It’s you who better watch yourself, Dmitry, ” Vanya sneers, as Silas and Bodashka join him in crowding around me. “It’s your f ault we placed last in the challenge. If you hadn’t been distracted by your little pet?—”
“Say one more word and I’ll knock your teeth down your throat,” I snarl back, getting right in Vanya’s face, not giving a fuck that it’s three-on-one in the otherwise deserted hallway. I’ll fight all three of these assholes and every other friend they’ve ever met.
“Where do you get that arrogance, Dmitry?” Bodashka hisses. “When your father’s a gargoyle and your grandfather’s a fucking disgrace?”
I switch my attention to Bodashka, seizing the front of his shirt and pulling back my fist to execute my threat on his face instead.
Until I hear the sharp sound of someone clearing their throat.
Vanya and Silas step back, as if they weren’t just about to leap on me from all sides.
“Let go of him,” a low voice orders.
Snow’s hulking figure fills the hallway. Slowly, I release Bodashka.
“Get to class,” Snow commands the other three boys.
Sullenly, they obey—not without Silas making a derisive hissing noise as he passes me, and Vanya muttering, “We’ll finish this conversation later. ”
Snow watches them out of sight, then says to me, “Aren’t you getting enough practice already, Dean?”
“Might as well hit Bodashka as the heavy bag,” I say. “They’re equally useless at fighting back.”
Snow shakes his head at me, but I think I see a hint of amusement in that frosty stare.
“You’re late again,” Snow says.
“I know,” I sigh. “I’ll miss Chemistry.”
“Why don’t you come with me, then,” Snow says.
“Where are you going?”
“Conditioning,” Snow grunts.
He’s already dressed in the gray sweat shorts and white t-shirt that form our standard gym uniform. Since that’s what he wears every day, I hadn’t thought anything of it.
“I’ll have to change,” I say. I don’t want to fuck up my trousers and sweater vest.
“Meet me outside the gates,” Snow nods.
I hustle back to the Octagon Tower to change, then run across campus to the heavy stone gates that allow exit from the castle grounds. I’m already starting to sweat by the time I meet up with Snow. He gives me no rest, immediately breaking into a steady jog across the field .
That’s fine with me. I’d put my stamina up against a racehorse. I can fight, fuck, or run for hours.
I fall into pace beside him, impressed as always that his fitness matches that of a man twenty years his junior.
“I met your wife,” I tell him.
“I know,” Snow says.
I picture Snow and Sasha convening in the apartments attached to the infirmary. Telling each other all the events of their day.
What would it be like to share all that had happened to you with another person, instead of keeping it locked inside yourself?
“She’s very beautiful,” I say.
Snow chuckles. “The most beautiful woman in the world. And yet, that’s only my tenth favorite thing about her.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. I’m not used to men speaking of their wives that way. It’s very sentimental, for someone as stern as Snow.
We’re crossing the field, heading south toward the river bottoms. I’ve run all over this island, usually alone. It’s pleasant to jog with someone else. I’ve trained with Snow enough times that there’s no awkwardness between us .
“Sasha told me you were very concerned about your friend,” Snow says.
I can’t tell from his measured tone if he’s implying anything.
“I thought Cat might be seriously injured,” I reply stiffly.
“It’s good to care about someone,” Snow says.
“It’s not like that.”
“You don’t care about her?” Snow says, turning his head to fix me with that cool stare.
It’s impossible to lie to him. He sees everything, from my smallest mistakes to the rebellious thoughts in my head.
“Maybe I do,” I admit. “A little bit.”
“That’s good,” Snow repeats. “Love is not weakness.”
“I don’t love her.”
“Love is not just for a wife,” Snow says.
I’m not sure what that means.
We jog on in companionable silence.
I shower in the Octagon Tower, heading back to my room with a towel wrapped around my waist. I pass Leo going in the opposite direction, likewise wearing a towel.
He grins. “Hot date tonight?”
I frown back at him. “Why do you say that?”
He shrugs amiably. “Post dinner shower—that’s usually the reason.”
I suppose that means he has a date with Anna himself, but I don’t think he’s trying to rub it in my face. Honestly, I don’t care. I already have my head full of plans, and I’m thinking about only one girl.
“Hey, I wanted to thank you,” Leo says.
“For what?” I ask suspiciously.
“Well, for all the work you put in on the challenge, for one thing.”
“We came in third.”
“Made it to the second round, that’s all that matters.” Leo shrugs. “But mostly I wanted to thank you for helping Cat.”
“Why would you thank me for that?”
I bristle at the idea that I was helping Cat for Leo, as if she belongs to him. I helped her for my own benefit, if anything .
“Miles is gonna marry Zoe,” Leo says, as if stating the obvious. “So Cat is family.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Well.” Leo grins and gives me a friendly parting nod. “See ya around.”
“See you,” I say.
It’s the least-aggressive encounter Leo and I have ever had together. One might almost call it pleasant.
I don’t know when I stopped hating him. I didn’t mean to. The realization slowly came over me that hating him wasn’t getting me anywhere. It was a festering rot, eating away at me from the inside.
That’s not to say we’re friends. But I don’t seem to have the energy to burn with fury in his direction. Not with boxing five days a week and Cat in the evenings. My focus has shifted.
I hurry back to my room, having no intention of being late.
I dress and comb my hair in front of the mirror hanging on the wall.
Bram lounges on the bed practicing tricks with a battered deck of playing cards. His black hair has grown all the way down past his shoulders. I don’t know if he’s cut it once since Freshman year. The scar across his eye makes it look like he’s squinting in a suspicious way. Which he usually is .
“Where are you going?” he demands.
“Out,” I say.
“I gathered that. Where?”
“Gonna study,” I say vaguely.
I look at my reflection, stone-faced. I resemble my father. Which means I probably look like my Aunt Yelena, too. They were twins, after all.
I wonder if Leo sees his mother when he looks at me.
Probably not, since it was hate-at-first-sight with both of us.
But perhaps there was an alternate reality where we could have been friends.
I’ve been plagued with thoughts of what could have been, all my life.
How do people accept the one and only path they find themselves on?
No one else seems to suffer this endless anger at the hand fate has dealt them. Not even Bram, who looks like he’s about to push Mufasa off a cliff.
“I’ll come to the library with you,” Bram says, tossing down his cards and making as if to get up from the bed.
“No,” I say rudely .
Bram scowls. “What’s the deal with you lately?”
“You’re the one acting strange,” I say dismissively. “Pretending like you study.”
Bram is still throwing a few choice curses in my direction as I grab my bookbag and exit our room, without him tagging along.
I don’t mind bringing my books. Cat and I do study sometimes, when we’re finished with our other activities. And despite what she said, I’m not sure how many other activities there will be tonight. She can’t be more than half-healed.
Still, once I’ve climbed the fire-blackened steps of the Bell Tower, carefully avoiding the gaps in the stone, I set up my portable speaker so we’ll have music, and I light the dozen half-melted candles.
Then I pull out my contracts textbook, settle myself on the pile of cushions I stole from the Keep, and begin to read. Only two weeks remain before end of term exams. I still intend to place first in my year. It will take all my focus to beat Anna, not to mention Ares, Isabel, and the other academically-inclined Junior s.
I’m so absorbed in contract law that this time Cat does manage to sneak up on me unaware. Her stealthy shadow crosses the curved stone wall and she stands before me, firelight dancing on her glistening black curls. Her skin glows copper bright and her dark eyes shine.
“There you are,” I growl. “Why aren’t you naked yet?”
Obediently, Cat begins to strip. Once she’s down to her socks, I order, “Leave those on.” I’ve come to like those knee socks even better than full nudity.
“Turn around,” I say.
Cat rotates slowly on the spot, assuming that I want to examine her.
And I do—but not for the usual reason. I’m tallying up every cut and bruise on her slender frame, assuring myself that there’s no crucial injury I hadn’t yet seen.
Cat spins gracefully on the ball of one socked foot. Her naked skin has a rosy glow, as if she’s some unearthly creature summoned from the fire. A fire sprite bewitched and put under my control—until I loosen the collar from her neck.
“Come here,” I say in a low voice.
Cat sinks down to her knees and crawls over, keeping her eyes fixed on mine .
She’s become so much more comfortable around me that she really does move as sinuously as a cat. She lays her head in my lap, curling up next to me.
“Stroke my cock while I read,” I order. “Don’t put it in your mouth.”
I want it in her mouth, of course, but I’m taking my time.
Cat plays with my cock using both hands, like it’s her toy. She strokes the shaft gently with her fingertips, then cups my balls and gently tugs. She dances her fingers around the ridge separating head from shaft, and rubs light circles around the tip.
Her touch is exquisite. She’s very good with her hands, probably from all her time spent painting and drawing. I’ve seen her sketchbook—she’s quite talented. But what I told her was true—she would have been wasted at art school. The more I get to know Cat, the more I see that her talents are far more varied than charcoal and paper could fulfill.
I keep studying. Cat’s touch makes the words float through my brain, light and ephemeral. My eyes unfocus from the page, and instead I watch the flickering candlelight, my whole body warm as that flame.
“Don’t speed up,” I order, leaning back against the cushions.
Cat continues stroking her hand up and down my shaft, increasing neither the pace nor the pressure. Her hands are delectably soft, and her touch gentle. The pleasure increases even t hough the pressure doesn’t. I feel right on the edge of climax, but it’s not quite enough to tip me over the edge.
“Just like that . . .” I groan. “Don’t change a thing.”
Cat continues to stroke me, steady and unhurried. In fact, she seems to be enjoying the sensation of the smooth skin of my cock against her palms almost as much as I am. Her eyes are half closed, her breathing steady.
She sighs. Her warm breath against my cock makes me shiver. The orgasm begins.
It’s no ordinary orgasm—I feel the waves of pleasure, and the deep satisfying sensation, but not the accompanying contraction of my balls. I don’t actually ejaculate. It’s just the climax, no cum comes out.
I groan all the same from how good it feels. My head lolls back and my toes curl up.
When it’s over, Cat examines her hands, mystified.
“Did you . . . cum?” She asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“But . . . where is it?”
“I don’t know,” I reply. “Keep going. Same pace.”
Cat keeps stroking my cock, just as light as before .
In the aftermath of the orgasm, her touch is almost too intense. Each stroke of her hand seems to run over bare nerve. But it’s still intensely pleasurable, and I begin to experience that sense of building again, as if the orgasm reset and is starting over. My cock has stayed hard the entire time—in fact, it might even be stiffer now than it was before.
“Keep going,” I moan. “Exactly like that.”
Cat obeys. She seems intensely curious to see what will happen. We’re both in uncharted territory.
Sure enough, the climax builds and builds until it tips over once more, Cat carefully maintaining just the right level of stimulation. In fact, this time she squeezes the head of my cock slightly harder as I cum, which increases my pleasure without forcing the ejaculation.
Tremors run down my body in waves.
“What in the fuck is that?” I say, as my whole frame shakes.
“You’re like a girl,” Cat laughs. “Having multiple orgasms.”
“If this is being a girl, then sign me up,” I say. “Do it again.”
Cat sits up so she can adjust her angle. This time she cups and strokes my balls with one hand, while lightly jerking off my cock with the other. She’s pulling my cock so it’s pointing downward instead of standing out from my body. That feels even b etter and makes me harder than ever as the blood rushes down.
She increases the pressure a fraction, never too much. The third orgasm is already beginning, less and less space required between them. I’ve never cum three times in less than ten minutes. The flood of oxytocin through my body suffuses every cell. My head floats above my shoulders like a soap bubble.
I’ve dropped my textbook god knows where, and I don’t care. All my senses are focused on Cat’s hands on my cock, on her expert rhythm.
“Oh my fucking god . . .” I moan, as the third climax rolls over me.
Cat’s eyes are bright with interest. She gives me no time to recover but keeps stroking. She seems to view this as a challenge, like she’s trying to set a record.
I’m sure as fuck not going to stop her.
As the next climax builds, she closes her mouth around the head of my cock and gently sucks, the warmth and wetness ten times better than her hand.
“Fuuuuck me!” I cry, pushing her head down on my cock.
I thought that would make me blow all the way, but now that I’ve discovered this strange trick of orgasm without ejaculation, it see ms like it will go on forever. Cat makes me come twice more with her mouth in rapid succession.
The orgasms aren’t as strong this way, but they’re intensely pleasurable and relaxing.
I feel blissfully weak, and I don’t protest when Cat climbs on top of me, straddling me with her strong thighs and lowering herself down on my cock.
Her pussy grips me, wet and ready. She starts to ride.
She seems to enjoy me in this wrung-out state, too exhausted to boss her around. I let her ride my cock at any pace she likes, and she experiments with leaning forward and back, riding me fast and slow. I cum inside of her just like I did in her mouth, with a long, slow climax that feels intensely warm and relaxing.
Cat starts to cum too, and it really is funny how both of us can ride the waves of orgasm several times in succession.
It makes me feel connected to her in a new way. I can see that she loves making me cum over and over—she doesn’t tire of it. In fact, each of my climaxes seems to motivate her to seek another. She seems to be counting them up in her head, highly pleased with herself.
I understand that, because I feel exactly the same when I’m making her cum. It gives me a sense of accomplishment. It fuels my competitive drive. As she shivers and moans on top of me, I think to myself, No one could fuck her like I do. No one could make her feel like this.
I’ve never experienced anything like this. It’s sex on a whole other level. I wonder if this is some bizarre one-time occurrence, or if we could learn to do it again?
If this is my only chance, I’m going to make the most of it. I never want it to end.
Or at least, that’s what my brain wants. My body is feeling the effects of an unprecedented number of orgasms. I’m tiring, but I want at least one more. I can feel the cum boiling in my balls, as if all the loads that should have been released are clamoring to get out.
I roll over on top of Cat, pinning her down in the pillows.
“I’m gonna put the biggest load inside you,” I growl.
“Do it,” Cat whispers. “Give it to me.”
She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me in tight.
Her pussy feels warmer and wetter than it’s ever been. I know I’m going to have to fuck her hard to get this last orgasm.
I drive into her with all my strength, grunting, “You okay?” because even in this state of insanity, one small part of me still wants to be sure she isn’t injured .
“Fuck me hard and don’t stop,” Cat says, looking up into my eyes.
She’s feral, cheeks flushed and curls wild around her face.
I fuck her harder than I ever have before, my hips slamming against her. I fuck her and fuck her until the last orgasm rips through me, carrying along that entire load of cum that goes pouring out of me, deep into Cat instead. It’s wet and sloppy and primal, and intensely satisfying. I’m making sounds I’ve never made before.
And Cat is loving it, I can see that on her face. Her eyes gleam with triumph, like this is the biggest accomplishment of all, making me cum as I never have before in my life.
Cat lays on my chest.
I stroke my fingers through her hair.
I always pet her like this, when we’re finished.
It’s her reward, and she’s never earned it as thoroughly as she did tonight.
Her steady, satisfied breaths are the sighs of a sleepy little kitten .
I don’t think of Cat as a pet that is disposable or beneath me. I think of her as an exotic, unearthly creature that I’ve captured and tamed. Far more valuable than an ordinary human.
She was so frightened by me at first.
I remember the day she saw me crying in the school bathrooms.
I had never felt rage like that. I honestly could have killed her.
Looking back on it now, I realize it wasn’t anger that drove me . . . it was shame.
“Dean?” Cat says quietly. Her head shifts slightly on my chest as she looks up at me.
“Yes?” I say.
“Why do you always want everything to be so clean and organized?”
“I like it that way. I hate mess. When something doesn’t smell good I can’t stop noticing—it nags at me, it distracts me, it drives me insane.”
“Do I smell good?” Cat asks.
“You smell better than anyone,” I tell her honestly.
“Really?” she says, pleased .
“It’s one of my favorite things about you. It’s like catnip, I can’t get enough.”
I can tell she’s smiling, even though I can only see the edge of her face illuminated by the candlelight.
That’s all I had planned to say, but relaxed and in a strangely candid mood, I find myself continuing:
“My father’s house in Moscow . . . it’s filthy. Nobody can come inside except me, and I hate being there. He didn’t use to be that way, but it’s gotten worse and worse. I can’t stand it. I’ve always been . . . ashamed of it.”
“Oh,” Cat says.
That one syllable carries so much sympathy and sadness that it pains me. I don’t want her to feel sorry for me.
“Anyway,” I say gruffly. “My house will never be like that.”
“I’d like to have a studio . . .” Cat says dreamily. “A big, open room full of sunshine, with lots of plants hanging down, greenery everywhere. That’s where I would paint.”
“You still want to be an artist?” I ask her.
Cat hesitates. “Well . . . I don’t know. But I’ll always want to draw. ”
“That sketch you made of the girl by the well . . . it was beautiful. Not just beautiful . . . it made me feel things. It was the sketch that made me sure of what you’d done.”
We haven’t spoken of Rocco in several weeks.
I don’t bring it up because I know Cat feels guilty, even though she shouldn’t. It was necessary. I would have eliminated someone far more innocent than Rocco, if my sister were in danger. If I had a sister, I mean.
“Sometimes sketching is the only thing that makes me feel better about something,” Cat says softly. “That’s how I used to deal with my dad being an asshole. Well,” she laughs, “it used to be the only thing that made me feel better.”
“What do you mean?” I say.
“This has been strangely cathartic, too,” Cat says, sitting up on her elbow to look at me.
“You like it?” I say.
“I think you know that I do.”
We look at each other for a long time.
This is the most honest Cat and I have ever been.
So when she asks her next question, I feel compelled to answer, even though I never talk about this, ever.
“What about your mother?” she says .
“She left me, when I was ten years old.” I take a breath, wanting to stop, but compelled to tell her what I’ve never told anyone before. “My father was drinking. He was becoming more and more angry, and violent. Breaking things in the house. Throwing things at her. I don’t think he’d struck her yet, but he shoved her down and she hit her head on the dining room table. He regretted it afterward. He tried to pick her up, tried to apologize, but she ran and locked herself in her room and didn’t come out for hours.”
“I’m so sorry,” Cat says, her big dark eyes fixed on mine.
“They were happy once. They loved each other, and they loved me. But he was in pain. He was bitter. He drove her away. And she left. Just packed up and disappeared while he was out. She didn’t warn me. I came home from school and the house was dark and quiet . . . I knew. I just knew.”
Cat’s eyes glitter with tears. She blinks, and they run down her cheeks in parallel tracks.
“Dean . . .” she says.
“I don’t care!” I say, suddenly embarrassed that I laid open this wound for her to see.
Cat knows I’m lying.
“Can I ask you one last thing?” she says .
I don’t know if I can take any more questions. But she interprets my silence as assent.
“Why were you so sad the day that Ozzy’s mother died?”
I can tell she’s afraid to ask that question, but it must have been eating at her all this time.
I have to really consider it.
I know why I was angry—I had never allowed anyone to see me cry. I had never lost control like that.
But why was I crying in the first place?
I take a deep breath, trying to still the miserable pounding of my heart.
“I just . . . I just realized that no one would do that for me,” I tell her quietly. “Ozzy’s mother laid down her life for him. My mother left, and she didn’t even take me with her.”
I tried so hard to keep my voice steady, but it cracks at the very end.
I’m grateful that Cat puts her arms around me so I can hide my face against her neck.
“I’m sure she didn’t want to leave,” Cat says. “She must have been frightened.”
“I know,” I say hollowly. “I think he found her and killed her after. She hasn’t called or written in years. ”
“Zoe says our father killed our mother, too,” Cat murmurs. “She says he let her bleed to death after her last baby.”
Cat holds me tight, squeezing me with all her might.
She’s small, but strong. It’s a good hug.
She draws back and looks at me.
“Your father was drinking . . . because of what Leo’s father did to him. Because of the burns.”
“Yes.”
“Do you hate him still?” Cat asks.
I know she means Leo, not my father.
“No,” I sigh. “I’m tired of hating him.”
“It’s so sad,” Cat says. “That your father did love your mother once . . .”
“The more he loved her, the more he felt he wasn’t worthy of her,” I say.
“That’s just wrong!” Cat cries.
I nod.
But deep inside, I fear that I might feel the same.