Chapter 32
Dervla
Wednesday night approaches faster than I’m ready for. Nerves hit my stomach as we make our way across campus, but they soon disappear when we see the queue to get in.
“Wow,” I murmur.
“What did you expect?” Aidan says.
“About six people and a fire code violation,” I say.
Cormac laughs under his breath. Declan just scans the line with that calm, watchful look of his, counting faces, exits, risks. Aidan looks pleased in a way he is trying not to show, which means he is very pleased indeed.
The queue snakes from the assembly hall doors down the path and halfway across the quad.
Girls in black dresses and boys in suits and untied bow ties.
Cigarettes glowing in the dark. Laughter too loud, voices pitched with gossip and anticipation.
It is exactly what I wanted. Visible. Messy. Impossible to ignore.
And then people start noticing us.
Conversations hitch. Heads turn. A few people automatically step aside, forming a channel through the crowd without being asked. It would be ridiculous if it didn’t feel so fucking good.
I smooth my hands over my dress, more to give myself something to do than because it needs it.
Black, fitted, long sleeves, short hem. Docs and bells, obviously.
Hair down. One of the aces sits tucked into my bra like a private joke.
The bruises on my thighs are hidden. The marks on my throat are not.
The guys are suited up, looking like hotter versions of James Bond.
They surround me. They protect me. They own me.
“Remember,” Aidan says quietly, close enough that only we can hear, “you don’t react to every stare. Let them come to you.”
I glance at him. “That sounds fake as fuck.”
“It’s effective as fuck.”
“Charming,” I mutter.
His eyes drop briefly to my throat. Satisfaction flashes there and vanishes.
“You look exactly dangerous enough.” Cormac opens the hall door. “After you.” The heat and noise hit me at once.
Music rolls across the main floor, low enough for conversation, loud enough to make everything feel deliberate.
The black-clothed tables are full already.
Chips click. Cards slap. Glass catches the light.
Boys who spent their lives pretending to be men throw money around to impress girls who look bored by it.
Girls who know exactly what attention does to people stand in little groups and make themselves impossible to ignore.
It is vulgar and polished and completely St. Augustine’s.
It is also ours.
Heads turn the second I step inside. Not all at once. In waves. Recognition moves through the room until it reaches the edges and comes back again.
I smile.
Not warmly. Not invitingly. Just enough to tell them I know they’re watching, and I don’t mind one bit.
“Well,” I say under my breath. “Would you look at that?”
Aidan’s hand brushes the base of my spine for a second, grounding me before he takes his hand away.
“Go on then,” Declan says near my ear. “Rule your kingdom.”
I snort and step further into the room.
The effect is immediate. People part. Not dramatically. Just enough. Enough to say they are watching me and making room for whatever I decide to do next. It sends a sharp, ugly thrill through me.
“Ten minutes,” Aidan says quietly as he peels off toward the entrance. “Then downstairs.”
I nod in acknowledgement and keep moving.
Cormac disappears into the crowd toward the hidden stair access, already shifting into fight-night menace.
Declan stays close enough to reach me, far enough that it looks casual.
There is nothing casual about Declan when he is watching a room.
His gaze keeps moving, never sticking anywhere long enough to be obvious.
I stop at the blackjack table and put my fingertips on the felt.
The dealer looks up, registers me, and immediately gets more careful with his face.
“Buy in,” I say.
He names a number that is stupid enough to be theatre and low enough not to scare off the rich kids pretending they know what risk is. I hand over the cash that was stuffed in my Doc Marten and take the chips he slides across.
Declan drifts to my right, one hand in his pocket, expression blank in that way that means he is watching absolutely everything.
A blond boy in a dinner jacket two places down gives me a quick once-over, spots the marks on my throat, and nearly misses his card.
I take my seat and stack my chips neatly.
“Didn’t think you played,” he says, trying for smooth and landing somewhere near irritating.
“I do loads of things people don’t expect.”
His mates laugh a bit too hard because nobody at St. Aug’s ever knows whether they’re in on the joke or being made into one.
The first hand is nothing special. I play conservatively, let the table settle, let people look at me without rewarding them too much. They keep glancing over anyway.
The second hand I win.
The third too.
By the fourth, the blond boy is sweating.
“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters as I take another little stack.
“Bad night?” I ask sweetly, thanking Dad for teaching me this game when I was old enough to count.
Roisin sidles up before he can answer and sits. She gives me a searching stare before she says, “Downstairs?”
I nod and stand up, taking my chips with me and handing them to Declan to stuff in his jacket pockets. He takes them without comment, his fingers brushing mine once before he steps back into position.
Roisin rises with me. “Good turnout.”
“A bit more than six people,” I say.
“You do enjoy proving yourself right by being wrong.”
“I enjoy being watched while I do it.”
“That much is obvious.”
We move through the crowd together. I feel the shift as people see where I’m heading.
Curiosity sharpens. Conversations dip and then restart in a lower register.
The hall is all polished bullshit and expensive perfume upstairs, but the real pulse of the night is underneath it, thudding up through the floorboards.
At the partition near the back of the stage, one of Aidan’s boys steps aside for us. The staircase down is narrow and badly lit on purpose. The air changes first. Colder. Damper. Then the noise hits.
Not music. Not conversation.
Roaring.
The under-stage space is packed. Bodies shoulder to shoulder around the roped square, faces lit hard under the strip lights, notes and chips changing hands at speed. The smell is sweat, drink, damp stone, adrenaline. It hits the back of my throat and settles there in the best possible way.
She steps away from me, and I instantly get the feeling I’ve walked into something.
“The Apex needs to be challenged!” she shouts over the noise.
I step back a fraction as the area goes quiet and the two men fighting stop to look over at Roisin. This is where I see just how powerful she is. She breathes, people notice. She orders me to be challenged; there is acquiescence.
“Make the move,” Declan murmurs, pressing closer to me.
“Who? You?” I call out.
She smiles. It’s terrifying and sinister and makes me wish I’d taken her up on her offer to look out for me. This is clearly the opposite of that.
“Not me,” she says, gesturing to the back of the room.
The crowd parts, hanging on every word, turning their heads.
My gaze follows hers, and I gulp. “Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me?” I mutter.
“No,” Declan says, immediately as Cormac and Aidan surround me. “She gets a champion.”
“Not how it works, Finnegan,” Roisin says and claps her hands. “Three thousand on the Apex.”
“You bitch,” I hiss, taking a step forward.
“Surrender your weapons,” she says, taking over control and pissing me off in the process.
“You aren’t doing this,” Cormac says, gripping my wrist.
“Yes,” I say, not taking my eyes off the challenger, “Yes, I am.” I pull Henrietta out and slap it against Declan’s chest. He grips it to stop it from falling to the ground.
I move forward, shooting Roisin a murderous glare.
Don’t trust any of them.
If I needed confirmation, this is it.
“Dervla,” Aidan murmurs.
“I’ve got this,” I say, leaning over to the betting table and pulling an elastic band off a stack of cash.
I twist my hair into a knot, my hands steady.
Roisin will die an ugly death for this. I don’t know how she knew; I don’t care. She is dead.
“Dervla,” Cormac snaps. “You can refuse and give it to one of us.”
“And that makes me look weak. Besides. This is personal.” I step into the ring, the crowd baying like wolves around me as bets are placed—mostly against me. As I meet the gaze of the challenger, I assume a fighting stance. The bell rings, and my opponent smiles like they already know how this ends.
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