Chapter Eight #2
Despite the fact that students at Vandenberghe come from both the caverns and the main castle, where the noble families all live in relative comfort compared to the squalor of the lower class, the two groups don’t mingle much.
The school has tried, hoping the camaraderie that house loyalties inspire will breach those lines, but honestly, the effort is laughable.
The nobles dine on meat and wine while those in the caverns fill their babies’ bellies with warm broth to keep them from starving.
It’s disgusting, and forcing us to wear matching ties won’t make us the same.
A table full of sophomores from the caverns goes silent. As we pass, I hear one of them hiss, “Roque slut.”
My breath catches, but I have to keep my expression blank as I pass. A traitor—that’s how they see me now. I’m a traitor to their families living in squalor if I marry into the family at the root of their oppression.
I brace myself, expecting Roze to do something drastic and cruel, to threaten the one who said it at least. But instead, he slows his step till he’s right beside me and slings an arm around my shoulders.
He looks down his nose at those at the table as we pass, pulling me in close.
The warmth of his body beside mine slows my racing heart, and suddenly I don’t feel quite as alone as I did a moment ago.
He pulls me close, buries his face in my hair like he’s giving me a kiss on the head, but instead he whispers, “Don’t listen to them, Sinclair. Head up. Eyes forward.”
I wonder if he’s had to tell himself the same thing before.
As we move toward a table on the far side of the room, I try to ignore how his arm feels on my shoulder, casual and cocky, like he couldn’t be more pleased to shove his new fiancée in the face of everyone he sees.
I also ignore how it feels to be nestled into his side, his shoulder fitting just over mine, his gloved hand hanging just above my breast.
The scene that flashed in my imagination earlier returns—some dark corner of the library, lips and hands everywhere. Except this time his hands aren’t on my sides, but under my shirt. The cool leather of those gloves is sliding over my hot skin, teasing me until I’m breathless and begging.
I take a deep breath to shove the image out of my mind.
Cerise is always trying to get me to loosen up about sex.
If I’m honest with myself, I wish I could, but when I think about having that first time with someone who I don’t deeply care about, I know I can’t do it.
I don’t judge Cerise—she’s seemed happy with every dalliance she’s had.
But I don’t think I’m capable of that sort of casualness. It’s just not me.
That’s to say nothing of my shadows. I have no idea what they’d do in that situation.
But Roze already knows about your shadows, a treacherous voice whispers in my mind. You know he won’t betray you.
No. I cannot let myself think that way. Roze is awful and dangerous and—
I hear my name whispered on someone’s lips.
“Viola Sinclair, of all people?” a girl nearby whispers to her friend.
I catch her eye for a moment and then whip my head away, urging the redness I feel on my cheeks to cool. I wish I could turn and run from the room. Forget lunch. I’d rather starve than be fodder for gossip.
“Could you try to look less like you’re repulsed by me?” Roze mutters in my ear as we finally sit down.
“Sorry,” I mutter, trying to force my face into something more agreeable. A group of girls laugh at a table nearby.
I smile to myself to pretend not to notice.
“Not like that,” he says, a bite in his voice. “You’re smiling like a lunatic.”
“Well, this might come as a shock to you, Your Highness, but I’ve never been engaged to a prince before. I don’t know how to do this.”
He sighs and his voice softens. “Just relax.” His fingers slip down my spine, searing my skin despite the leather gloves and my sweater between us. His hand curls around my waist and pulls me close, so that our thighs are touching.
Oh Saints.
I can’t think. I can’t breathe.
I can feel the pressure of his hand on my waist so distinctly—the length of his fingers, the elegant bones inside them.
“Perhaps if you would stop touching me so much, I could act more naturally.”
He scowls at me. “The touching is what makes it natural, Sinclair. Have you ever seen two people in love, or was that not in any of your books?”
I bite back a retort. My face warms again, partly because this is a painful reminder of just how loveless my life has been. I didn’t grow up watching my parents show affection. But, I suppose, neither did the Prince. Yet somehow, he’s developed social graces, and I haven’t.
“Let’s just get through this,” I mutter, consciously scooting closer to him.
He stiffens, like I’ve surprised him, and I can’t help but smirk as I reach into my bag.
I draw out the book that Professor Borges gave me and examine it on my lap, running my fingers over the Hivernian runes—symbols that are familiar but still a mystery to me.
And here they are, wreathing the symbol of Castelle.
I’ve been reaching for the book at odd moments, fingers skimming it in my bag while we walk the halls, like I almost can’t help but touch it.
Roze desperately wants a culprit for his father’s death.
I would rather leave those secrets for only the walls of the castle to know, but I do want to know why my professor gave me this book.
I glance toward the door and see Cerise stroll in with her hands buried in her pockets.
She doesn’t spare me a glance, heading instead for her friends in Marquet-Blanc House.
Before she sits with them, she looks up and meets my gaze.
And then her eyes swing to Roze. She hesitates for just a moment before changing direction and heading to our table.
“Oh Saints,” I breathe.
“What?” Roze asks.
I turn to him quickly. “Cerise is my best friend. She thought I hated you and now thinks I’ve been lying to her for months. She’s furious, but she means the world to me, so don’t make this any worse. I’m begging you—”
He raises a brow. “Begging me, are you?”
“Roze—”
“Hello,” Cerise says frostily, but she’s not looking at me. She’s looking at Roze.
“Hi,” I say. My voice is too high, too bright.
“Hello,” Roze says, his tone cold.
She locks her jaw. It’s a split second before she makes her decision.
Then she’s dropping her book bag by our table and pulling up a seat.
Her body language is anything but warm, anything but casual, as she takes a roll out of the basket in the center of the table and stabs it aggressively with a knife, slicing it open like it’s either Roze’s neck or mine.
“You know,” she says as she dips her knife into the beet jam and slathers it like blood across the roll’s insides, “I’ve had some time to mull this”—she gestures with her knife between Roze and me—“over, and I’ve decided it makes sense.
I think you’ll be good together.” Her words are biting, practically dripping in sarcasm.
“Both stubborn and opinionated. Excellent at lying, keeping secrets. There’s a lot in common there. ”
I can’t stand this. “Cerise, I’m so, so sorry. I wanted to tell you. I really did.” I didn’t lie to you. Not once.
“I’m afraid this is my fault. Cerise, is it?” Roze interrupts. His hand moves to my back, and a smile plays on his lips. “Viola wanted to tell you about our relationship, but I insisted we keep it a secret. It was mortifyingly selfish of me, and I apologize.”
He smiles, and I swear my heart fails for a moment. For a face that is almost always wearing a scowl, his smile is breathtaking. Earth-shattering, really. He could destroy kingdoms with that smile—never mind lovers.
Charming. That’s the only word for this version of Roze. Completely, devastatingly charming.
Cerise narrows her eyes, not one to be reeled in by a handsome smile. She looks at me as if asking for my response. I grin sheepishly at her and shrug.
“I see,” she says.
Roze’s hand presses more firmly into my back. “Darling, may I get you a cup of tea?”
Darling. There’s that word again.
I turn and smile at him. “That would be glorious. Thank you.”
He takes a moment to let his eyes pass over my face. His jaw clenches. And then he stands, strolling elegantly toward the tea station. I watch him walk away for a moment and then turn to Cerise.
“Cerise …” I want to have a speech prepared, some sort of properly outlined treatise on why I deserve her forgiveness and friendship. But I have nothing. So instead, I just stare at her, silently begging for mercy.
She frowns, takes a bite from her roll, and shrugs. “I wasn’t entirely joking when I said it makes sense,” she says carefully. “You’ve been picking fights with Roze for years.”
I raise my brows. “And … how does that make this make sense?”
“All that rage—it’s a type of passion. It has to go somewhere. Sooner or later, you were either going to kiss him or kill him.” I gape at her, not sure how to respond to that. “You still didn’t have to lie to me about Kole, though.”
I bite my lip. This is the worst of the lies—how do I explain why I broke down to her that night weeks ago and confessed how I felt about Kole? She’s always been open with me about anyone she’s been interested in, and I’ve guarded that trust like a sacred thing.
Now she thinks I’ve spat on her trust.
“I was nervous,” I lie, hating every word. “I invented all that to throw you off the scent. I was so worried you’d see through me, and if you found out … I just couldn’t let anyone know. Not yet.”
“Why? Afraid we’d all think you were getting cozy with the royals?” Her eyes darken. “Do you know what they’re calling you in the halls, Viola?”