Chapter 11
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Lead pellets sink through my chest as I follow the messenger’s instructions to the dean’s office. I see my feet, hear the thud of my leather boots against the tiled corridor. But it’s like my body belongs to somebody else.
I don’t even have it in me to be nervous.
In fact, I feel almost nothing at all.
It seems like it takes forever and no time at all before I find myself in front of an ornate set of carved doors. The left sits slightly ajar, and I take that as an invitation to enter.
Inside, I find a room decorated with plush cream rugs and walls dressed in white silk. Ivory wood desks and cabinets fill the space, along with a reception desk where a woman sits clicking away on her keyboard.
At my entrance, she looks up and blinks. “Can I help you?” she asks in a crisp voice.
“I’m here to see . . . Dean Withers.” My voice cracks as a concerned line forms between her eyes. “I’m Poet Graves.”
My cheeks heat as she gives me a pitying look. “Oh. Of course.” She pushes herself up from her desk, rolling her chair back.
Everyone else in the office studies me with open curiosity. I recognize that I will feel self-conscious about this later, but their scrutiny slides away as I focus on what awaits me. It is a bittersweet reprieve.
At the edge of the reception desk sits a tablet with an invitation for those interested in Storm Guard training to sign up for the cadet program. I’ve been hesitating for the past week, worried that my father will find out.
My fingers itch to pick up the stylus, but he sits on the other side of one of these doors, and I have no doubt he’s already angrier with me than he’s ever been in his life.
“This way,” the receptionist says, waving me over. I glance one more time at the tablet, then follow her down a hall toward another grand door. She raps sharply on the surface before swinging it open.
The dean sits at another desk made of creamy white wood, only this one is three times the size of any in the reception area. Inlaid with frescoes along the back and sides, the top is painted with a stunning array of watercolor flowers.
Across from her is a set of chairs in which two people currently sit.
My parents.
“Hi,” I say. “Mom, Dad, what are you doing here?” I force the inflection in my voice, as if I don’t know exactly why they’ve come. I fool no one.
My parents share a meaningful look before my father turns toward Dean Withers. She presses her hands to the surface of her desk and stands.
“I’m sorry we haven’t had the chance to meet formally yet,” she says to me. “I’ve heard so much about you from your father.”
I blink. Has she?
The question is enough to pull me out of my fog, and my thoughts snap into focus.
“However, you have more pressing matters to deal with today. Hopefully, we can get to know each other better at some point.”
She rounds her desk and reaches for my mother. “Sariah, it was so good to see you.”
My mother nods stiffly and allows the dean to clasp her hands in hers, but there’s no warmth in it. Dean Withers purses her lips at my mom’s obvious dismissal. It throws me off. I’ve never known my mother to be rude to anyone.
“Grady,” the dean says to my father. “Sorry we couldn’t talk any longer, but I must be off. Feel free to use my office for as long as you need.”
My father offers her a warm smile and takes her hand before kissing the back of it. “It’s always a pleasure, Selena.”
Her cheeks blush a soft pink before she pulls her hand back.
I’m not surprised. I’ve met this charming man before. This is the scion of House Fiama. This is not my father. I catch the flash of annoyance that flits over my mother’s face. What on earth is going on here?
“Poet,” the dean says to me with a dip of her chin, and then she walks out.
“You know each other?” I ask, stalling for a moment.
“We’ve been friends for many years,” my father says evasively, and I again catch my mother’s pinched expression. Is Dean Withers one of my father’s . . . dalliances? Surely he wouldn’t be so obvious right in front of his wife?
The door closes behind the dean, leaving me alone with my parents. The weight in my stomach intensifies. It’s a feeling I’m all too familiar with. Dread.
When I turn back to my father, all pretense of affability is gone. In its place is the man I know and fear.
“Poet,” he says in that voice. The one I know so well. “Care to explain what happened last night?”
He says it calmly, almost frighteningly so, but I don’t miss the pulsing vein in his temple. My entire body trembles, so I clasp my hands in front of me and hope he doesn’t notice.
I open my mouth, then close it. Everyone wants an answer from me, but I don’t have one. I just acted on instinct. It felt like the right thing to do.
“I can’t,” I say, and his jaw hardens.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” His voice shifts. Becomes cold and deadly. Scary. “Do you know how foolish I look right now? The sharks are circling, waiting for me to make one wrong move, and then my daughter, my only child, walks into Amery and makes a mockery of me!”
His voice pitches up until he’s shouting loud enough that I’m sure every word is carrying beyond these walls. He’s a towering pillar of fury, his face flushed, his eyes wild. His fist curls at his side, and I wonder if he plans to use it.
I take a step back. It’s instinctive, but we all notice it.
I don’t know what to say to calm him down. An apology won’t fix anything. What I did was unforgivable; I know that. He’s right, and I’ve humiliated him. I enjoyed a brief moment of satisfaction by defying him, but I took it too far.
Unlike Knox, this isn’t just about him. I am his daughter and therefore an extension of his leadership. I didn’t just betray my father last night; I betrayed everyone in Fiama.
“Answer me!” he shouts. “Why did you do this?”
Tears burn the backs of my eyes as I shake my head. I will not let them fall.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp. “I’ll fix it. I still have more tests. I’ll fix it. I promise.”
“Trey is beside himself,” my father says.
“He’s threatening to end our alliance and bond Knox to the Jenkins girl.
” He continues on, shouting about the Ardens and our marriage.
About everything he stands to lose if Knox marries someone else.
I feel myself shrinking under the weight of his ire.
My father might be the scion of House Fiama, but only if he has the support of Society’s highest ranks.
Many people might believe he’s currently the best thing for the city’s safety.
But that doesn’t mean others don’t want his power.
That they don’t think they could do the job even better.
Jenkins. As in Winter, my roommate and nemesis. Someone who would give anything to take my place. She has no idea how much I wish she could.
I shake my head and focus on my father. I nod along, trying to absorb every word of his anger. My attention slips to my mother, her back straight, her gaze darting between my father and me. Our eyes meet for the briefest second, anguish and despair flashing over her expression.
I know she’s sorry about everything, but she’s also never tried to stop it.
And it’s silly to hope. What could she possibly do?
“Poet, are you listening to me?” my father shouts, and I nod immediately. I am listening. I feel every word imprinted onto my skin.
“I’ll fix it,” I vow again. “I swear to you I’ll fix it. Everything will be fine.”
My father huffs out a long breath. His eyes are bright with rage, and that lock of dark hair has fallen over his eyes. He shoves it back and peers at me like he’s trying to parse out the delicate pieces of me he wants to break.
“You had better fix this,” he says in a low voice. “So help me—”
I raise a hand. “I will pledge to Fiama. You have my word.”
Finally, his shoulders drop. “I’m counting on you,” he says, and I nod, again suppressing the urge to cry.
“I know you are,” I answer. “I know. I won’t let you down.”
“Without your brother—”
“Please don’t,” I whisper as the first tear slips down my cheek. I can’t bear to hear anything about Raine right now. He pledged to Fiama without question. He did everything that was expected of him, and then he was taken from us. It isn’t fair.
My father grinds his jaw, his eyes flashing before he huffs out a long breath. “Fine. The only reason I expect to be called to Amery again is to oversee your pledge to Fiama in two months.”
“Of course,” I say. He nods and turns to my mother, who stands up from her chair and smooths down the front of her dress. Why did she even come if she wasn’t planning to say a word?
“I miss you,” I say to her, and she rushes over to hug me. I wrap my arms around her and bury my face into the crook of her shoulder. I inhale deeply, savoring the smell of her perfume as she rubs the back of my head.
“Is everyone being kind? Are you okay?” she asks. That feels like a loaded question, and I can’t bring myself to burden her with the truth.
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” I lie, feeling the tension loosen in her body. We hug for another few seconds before my father clears his throat.
“Sariah, we should go. We’re due for lunch with the general in twenty minutes.”
My mother pulls away and wipes the corner of her eye. She takes my hand and searches my face before giving me a watery smile. “Take care of yourself,” she says before she turns and scurries out the door.
When she’s gone, I look up at my father, who offers me a scrutinizing look.
“Don’t fuck this up. You won’t like what happens then,” he says before turning and leaving, too.
After the door slams, I count to fifty before I’m strong enough to move. My hands shake, and my breath hiccups in shallow gasps. The various aches and pains in my body throb with the echoes of my conversation and the stress slowly crushing me under its weight.
My only consolation is that the storms are quiet today.
When I’m sure my parents must be gone, I look around the room, wonder-ing why I’ve been left alone in the dean’s office. But small red lights buried into the ceiling remind me I’m being watched.
As I enter the reception area, several pairs of eyes find me. The woman who helped me earlier offers me a sympathetic look. Obviously, they all heard every word. They aren’t Society, so I assume all they see when they look at me is a spoiled rich girl, and they aren’t wrong. I am exactly that.
When I backed down from killing someone in the name of the city’s protection, I further proved my uselessness.
Why am I the only one who couldn’t do it? Am I just . . . weak?
Nevertheless, the receptionist’s expression is kind, and that nearly breaks me.
With my fists clenched, I pass through the desks, and again my gaze snags on the tablet for Storm Guard registration. I stop in front of it with my fingers twitching.
I let my family down today. My entire House. My father is rightfully angry with me.
But a quiet, selfish voice whispers in my head that my family hasn’t ever done much for me. I’ve been beaten and cowed into submission. Forced to marry a man I hate.
But I’ve also had a roof over my head and a full belly my entire life. I think of Rook. I could have been a Solitude, cobbling scraps together simply to exist.
The smart thing would be to walk out of here, pledge to Fiama, graduate on the path my father set for me, then marry Knox.
I can make myself do at least one of those things, but there’s one I will never be able to live with.
My father is already furious, so what’s another transgression?
I pick up the stylus from the holder, gripping it tightly enough to make my knuckles blanch. I feel the receptionist’s eyes on me as I tap the screen. I stare at the blank lines and the names already listed, most of which I don’t recognize.
Except one.
Rook Athira
His strangely artistic script is scrawled three lines up, and I don’t know why that confirms my decision.
Before I can think twice, I scribble my name on the next blank line.
Really, what could my father do that he hasn’t already threatened?