12. Chapter Twelve #2
My heartbeat is in my ears, and I bite my lip to stop tears from forming. She wants to hurt me. I’ve had people not like me before, sure. I’m not sure why this is different.
“Don’t give them any fuel. There are cameras in here.”
My hands shake as the cloth napkin in my hand pushes around the wine, which is seeping into the wood grain of the floor. I focus on the sound of his voice and the task right in front of me until I regain my composure.
How is he talking to me? Then I remember the drink . . . The sparkling glitter at the bottom of the glass must have been a potion.
“You drugged me.”
“It’s harmless and only lasts about an hour once it kicks in. Call it an intimidation trick my grandfather taught me. It’s important that you pass their test and that it doesn’t look like I helped you. Just keep yourself calm and smiling, and they won’t have anything to use against you later.”
Dacre is actually helping me. So I didn’t imagine the concern in his eyes when he helped with my nosebleed.
I drop the sopping wet napkins on the tablecloth and straighten my skirt.
“There.”
“Perfect.” She knocks her plate off the table, shattering the porcelain and sending the food flying across the floor and into my hair. “Now eat.”
Another plate hits the floor. Luther yells, “Mine too!”
I wish I were still drunk, so at least I wouldn’t feel so sick. All the emotions I’ve shoved down are stirring in my gut and up my throat when I think of my mother. I’ll have to tell her this.
For some reason, I imagine falling into her arms and crying while she picks peas out of my hair, and my obedient smile almost slips. I’m glad she isn’t here to see this.
“Ah, no eating rule. Remember?” Dacre’s voice is monotone as he pops another bite of soufflé into his mouth. He’s barely looking at me.
“Breathe,” he reminds me.
“Since when are you a stickler for rules?” she says.
“Since I had to spend my night supervising this shit. She sits here with me,” Dacre says before Verity can get in another word. He points a finger at me and then at himself. “Come.”
He motions to his lap, widening his stance for me to sit on his leg.
“You can’t be serious.”
“My lap is better than the floor.”
I do as I’m told, taking my seat on the warmth of his lap. I’m immediately overtaken by the smell of his cologne again. It has to be expensive. Something they bottle up on the far end of Vviveren because I’m sure nothing has ever smelled this good before.
I try to keep my chest out and shoulders back to hide the fact that I want to melt into his jacket. It has to be because he’s warm and my back is drenched, but there’s something nice about it.
I never want to hide, but right now, I’m thankful to be partially hidden at Dacre’s side. I’m not alone.
“You don’t move from my side for the rest of the evening. Do you understand?” The heat of Dacre’s words on my neck makes me sit up straighter. He’s saying it to me, but he’s staring at Luther.
“Say it.”
“I understand,” I say as I dig my fingernails into his thigh.
“Nice to see you haven’t become a tyrannical leader, always taking exactly what you want,” Luther says.
It’s sarcasm. Luther’s demeanor has gradually curdled the drunker he’s gotten.
I’ve never wanted to go home more in my entire life, and I mean home, far away in the seclusion of the trees of Groveshire. My bedroom with my sisters was the safest I’ve ever felt, and I haven’t thought of it once since I left. Now all I want to do is crawl under my bedspread and never come out.
Doxlothia isn’t a place for dreams. It’s a place full of blood, sweat, and tears. Secret deals and coercion. I think I finally understand. I’ve been playing checkers, and everyone here is playing chess.
“So, Emma, this must be the wildest night you’ve had, huh? You and your sisters don’t strike me as the partying type,” Luther asks.
“We didn’t drink much in Groveshire. My dad hated alcohol. He’d freak out if I brought home wine to cook with.”
“Oh, Professor Osborne? He’s on my schedule for next semester. Everyone thought he’d never come back, and he’d turned into a Donor-Program-hating hermit.”
A little harsh, but accurate. I can’t fault him for that, I guess.
“He had no one else to blame when my mother died.” I grip the table when I feel myself tilting.
He still blames the Donor Program; he’s just less vocal about it. I think if I joined it would break his heart. Loss makes everything more precious. Even our blood.
“Right. It’s easy to blame others for a tragedy.”
I bite down. Hard.
Luther rests his chin in one hand and swirls the remnants of his wine in the other. “Death is just part of life. No need to . . . go on placing unnecessary blame.”
My foot taps against what I think is the chair until Dacre’s leg adjusts beneath mine, and his thumb rubs along my thigh.
Calm finds me unexpectedly in the midst of the inferno. I focus on the rhythm. His thumb moves side to side and then in circles. It’s not sensual; it’s a signal. An anchor that I grab onto for dear life.
“Don’t listen to them. You’re almost done.”
“They’re talking about my mother.”
“Come on, Em. Deep breath in through your nose.”
I do it because I want to, not because I’m being told, and it helps a little.