Chapter 4
Over the next twenty-four hours, I did my best to forget my conversation with Casimir.
I hadn’t seen him since our encounter in the faculty lounge, and yet I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
The only silver lining was that my preoccupation with the strange boy I’d met distracted me from my grief where August was concerned.
August’s name struck a painful, twisting chord in my heart, but I refused to let the memory of his cold dismissal poison my thoughts.
Because when I did think about him—about the lies and promises he’d whispered in my ear—I was consumed by the sudden urge to break things—bones, promises, anything fragile enough to shatter.
And yet, against the overwhelming feeling of shame and sorrow, a new feeling lingered at the edges of my emotions concerning August: fear.
I couldn’t wrench the image of his wild dark eyes and sallow complexion from my mind.
There had been something unhinged in his gaze that night in the Labyrinth, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it meant.
Moreover, what could’ve caused him to lose weight so quickly?
Was it academic stress or something more nefarious?
Gwen had to rush off to meet with her Latin study group, so I headed to dinner alone that evening.
After scarfing down a pile of mashed potatoes, a heaping serving of wilted greens, and a mysterious meat pie—the contents of which I didn’t dare inquire about—I left the long mahogany table where I’d been sitting and moved to chuck my empty tray onto the pile near the exit when I stopped dead.
My gaze landed on August. He’d been conspicuously absent from classes over the past two days, which was out of character for a man who could only be described as annoyingly punctual.
And yet here he was, seated with a group of ten or so students I didn’t recognize.
I guessed his dinner companions must be members of the secret society he’d recently weaseled his way into.
To August’s right sat a woman with long silvery hair and striking gray eyes.
She wore a scalloped blouse that emphasized her elegant, ivory neck.
Seated opposite August, a man with jaw-length pale blonde hair turned to say something to his dinner companion, giving me a split second to absorb his sharp, sloping features and elegant clothes before I realized that I knew him.
Devereaux Graves.
I barely registered the cacophony of students in the bustling dining hall as a pair of cold, silver eyes landed on me.
Like Casimir, Devereaux possessed high cheekbones and angular features that should have rendered him undeniably attractive.
But unlike Casimir, Devereaux’s beauty was spoiled by his perpetual, sneering arrogance.
Despite Devereaux’s haughty demeanor, I was transfixed by those hypnotic gray eyes as he observed me with a mildly curious expression.
As he swept a curtain of cornsilk hair from his face, I saw that his fingers were dripping in diamond-encrusted rings.
As if anyone at Ouverham could forget who he was, or the lofty status he maintained as the head of the Gilded Circle. For some reason, this overt display of wealth bothered me more than the way his lip was curled in haughty disdain.
Before I could tear my gaze away, Devereaux crooked a ring-laden finger in my direction, beckoning me to approach, his lips curving into a cold smile.
My instincts urged me to leave, to walk out of the dining hall. I commanded my feet to move toward the exit doors, but they refused; instead, a sudden, irresistible curiosity had me slowly moving toward their table, as though drawn by some invisible gravitational pull. Like a marionette, I obeyed.
Devereaux did not release me from his gaze until I reached their table. I noticed, with some dismay, how the others seemed to unconsciously angle their bodies toward their leader, as though eager to fulfill any inane request he cared to toss their way.
Obsequious little ferrets, I thought.
It was like watching some twisted reenactment of The Last Supper, Devereaux seated as the focus of their collective worship.
The man himself surveyed me with an expression of polite interest when I reached the table, and, with a graceful flick of his wrist, gestured for me to sit down next to August. “Have a seat, Arden,” he said.
But… no. I didn’t want to sit down. I wanted to flee. My instincts were screaming at me to decline the offer, but for some reason, I ignored them. I took a seat on the bench beside August and glanced warily over at Devereaux.
He reached across the table, offering me his hand.
Did he want me to shake it? Spellbound, I obliged him.
At the first brush of his skin against mine, something happened.
The strangest sensation spread up my hand and settled into my limbs—warm and viscous, like liquid gold.
I didn’t have time to prepare for what came next.
Devereaux’s grip tightened, and all of the muscles in my body went taut before they forcibly relaxed.
Aside from my eyes and mouth, which I still held control of, every muscle and limb was rendered utterly useless.
It felt like paralysis. Devereaux smiled as he assessed my dawning horror.
The first and most likely explanation, was that I was experiencing some sort of brain aneurysm. The second and more horrifying possibility was that Devereaux Graves had severed my neurological control over my limbs with a single touch, as if by magic. But that was impossible.
I stared at our intertwined fingers, willing myself to break the contact. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t tear myself away.
Devereaux spoke then. “Arden Farrow,” he said quietly.
His voice was like a purr, and the sound of it sent a shudder down my spine. Beside me, August had gone rigid. Slowly, I raised my eyes to meet his dreadful gray ones. Up close, his eyes were a cold, penetrating silver, as though they’d witnessed centuries of cruelty.
“I’m glad to finally meet you,” he said, still not releasing his grip on my hand.
The incongruity of his polite words and brutal hold had me grasping for a coherent reply.
All I could think to say was, “You’re the one who recruited August.”
From my vantage point at the table, I now became conscious of the curious stares of nearby students, their eyes flicking away as soon as they were detected.
A quiet laugh rose in Devereaux’s throat.
“Yes, and we’re delighted to have Augustus join us at last.” He inclined his head toward August, who still did not raise his eyes from the table.
“I admit, we were eager to meet the girl who’d stolen dear August’s heart,” he added, the words punching like knives into my gut.
This admission baffled me. Why would August tell them about us, considering everything he’d gone through to keep our relationship secret?
“Love can be so complex. The turmoil, the yearning,” Devereaux mused with a sigh. “I don’t envy you any of it.”
I huffed out a humorless laugh. “I’m surprised he told you,” I admitted.
“Oh,” Devereaux said, his smile widening. “I make it my business to know everything about my friends.”
Unsure of what to make of that cryptic remark, I hazarded a glance at the others at the table.
Farther down the table, a dark-haired girl grinned at me with a set of stained, yellow teeth; to her left, a boy with skin as pale as moonlight stared off into space, apparently bored with Devereaux’s theatrics.
The silver-haired woman on August’s right, however, leaned over the table to peer at me with interest. Like the others, her clothing looked expensive.
But these were not the members of the Gilded Circle I knew by reputation.
No, this was the new secret society August had ditched me to join.
“Dev,” clipped silver-haired woman, the hint of a foreign accent on her tongue. “Shall we move this conversation elsewhere? Society matters aren’t for the general public to hear.” Though her tone was light, the taught lines of her face belied her underlying anxiety.
Her mercurial gaze was fixed on Devereaux, and a small kernel of hope rose in my chest.
Devereaux’s eyes widened innocently, his expression half petulant, half playful.
As if to underline this, a few locks of white-blonde hair fell forward, framing his alabaster face.
“I don’t see the harm in Miss Farrow learning about our little society,” he taunted.
“Besides, when will I have another opportunity to get to know Augustus’s girlfriend? ”
In response, the silver-haired lady rolled her eyes, but she did not intercede further.
I found my voice long enough to correct his mistake.
“August and I are not together, nor did I break his heart. And I’d appreciate it if you’d let go of me,” I added, once again trying and failing to wrestle my hand from his grasp.
He must be some kind of mentalist, I concluded.
What else could explain the way my body obeyed him?
Devereaux smiled serenely, ignoring my request. Instead, his pale fingers cinched around my flesh hard enough to leave bruises.
“She’s even prettier than you described, Sinclair,” he observed, cold eyes glittering with mirth as he leveled his gaze on August. “It’s too bad you two lovebirds couldn’t work it out. ”
I tried not to wince. I’d been wrong about Devereaux Graves.
He wasn’t just some rich, conceited asshole on a power trip.
He was a sadist who got off on tormenting people.
The silver-haired woman glowered at Devereaux from beneath hooded eyes for a long moment before she looked away and lifted a glass to her lips.
I was surprised to see that the substance she was drinking looked suspiciously like wine.
The Tusk had a strict ban on alcoholic beverages, and yet here these people were, drinking openly without a care or fear of being caught.