27. Cat
27
CAT
I can’t believe Dean hasn’t snapped yet.
I only started this whole thing because I thought it would be the easiest way to get him to leave me alone. I thought I’d give him one order and his pride would intervene. I expected him to tell me to fuck off, and everything would go back to the way it used to be.
That’s not what I wanted—but it seemed inevitable.
Instead, he keeps coming back for more.
Day after day he lets me order him around. He listens to the jeers and catcalls from Vanya and Bodashka. I can see his hands shaking, his fists clenching. I know how badly he wants to rain down retribution on their heads.
But I told him not to do it. And he’s actually obeying .
I’m not getting any pleasure out of this. I’m not dominant by nature—I don’t enjoy being cruel.
Still, I feel driven to push him and push him.
Only then can I believe that he truly loves me.
I want to give in. It’s torture sitting next to him, worse even than when I was his slave. He smells so fucking good, and he’s so goddamned handsome. He’s even developed enough of a sense of humor that he can laugh at himself when Leo throws some gentle teasing his way. A year ago, he would have flipped the lunch table over.
Maybe I should end this and tell him he’s forgiven.
It’s what I want to do.
But there’s one, cold kernel of fear inside of me still.
I don’t know what it will take to wash it away.
As a complicating issue, Lola is up to new tricks. Someone broke into my room, and I know it was her. She rifled through all my belongings—just mine, not Rakel’s.
When I found the room in upheaval, I ran to my dresser, terrified that she’d stolen the ruby necklace. I almost cried with relief when I found it still tucked safely inside a clean pair of socks, in the back of my drawer. Though I told Dean I was going to throw it away, I never could .
Only after I put everything back in its proper place did I discover my missing sketchbook.
The sketchbook contains nothing but drawings. I have no diary, no personal letters kept in my room.
Still, it felt like the worst kind of violation.
My drawings are highly personal. They’re my outlet, my most private thoughts and feelings.
I only hope that stealing that book and burning it is the worst that Lola plans to do. It hurts to lose it, but I dread what other plans she might be concocting.
The next morning Dean is waiting outside the Undercroft to walk me to class.
He’s not supposed to talk to me, but as soon as he sees my face he asks, “What’s wrong?”
His voice is so gentle and genuinely concerned, that before I can think better of it I tell him, “Lola broke into my room. She went through all my stuff and stole my sketchbook.”
Dean frowns, considering.
“What do you think she’s doing? ”
I instantly feel a wash of relief that he doesn’t dismiss the action as more of her harassment. He knows what Lola is like, and he knows she’s building to something nasty.
“I really don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know why she’s so determined to turn this into a vendetta.”
“Some people hate to see other people change,” Dean says quietly. “It threatens them. They can only feel in control when their environment stays static.”
“I don’t want to be static,” I say, looking into his face.
“Neither do I,” Dean agrees.
It’s the first calm conversation we’ve had together in a week.
I expect Dean to start pressing me to forgive him again, but instead he simply holds out his hand for my bookbag, so he can carry it for me.
“It’s alright, I’ve got it,” I say.
I sling the bag over my shoulder and offer him my hand instead.
My fingers slip inside his, warm and natural and comforting.
We walk to class hand in hand, over fresh grass with the first buds of purple clover coming up. The breeze from the fields outside the castle walls smells of spring .
Now that Dean is finally staying quiet, not pushing me for conversation, there’s a hundred things I want to say to him.
He walks with his long strides carefully matching my pace. He’s been right beside me this whole school year, one way or another.
We reach the Keep. I’m supposed to go up to the third floor, and I know Dean has his boxing class over in the Armory.
All of a sudden, I don’t want to part, not even for an hour.
I clutch his hand, looking up into his face.
Dean smiles down at me.
“I’ll be right out here waiting for you,” he says.
But when I come out of the classroom after Chemistry, Dean is nowhere to be seen.