Octavia
Whatever people might think, the days that follow that kiss in class make one thing clear. When it comes to Markev, I am a coward.
I’m not afraid of him, but I’m afraid of what he does to me.
I hate his guts, or at least I think I do.
And if that sounds uncertain, it’s because it is. You probably don’t get it.
Frankly, neither do I.
I don’t like the fact that I let him kiss me.
Twice.
I don’t like the way my body responds to his touch.
I have never wanted anyone to touch me, let alone kiss me, so why does it have to be him, my sworn enemy, who stirs all of this in me?
There is no space left on my body for cuts, at least not in places no one would see.
And I cannot begin to explain how deeply I loathe myself for the way I react to him. For allowing the kiss. For kissing him back, at one point.
Even now, walking toward the dining hall, the void presses in, and the voices refuse to quiet, no matter how hard I try.
Tainted.
Tainted.
Tainted.
I’ve had a nightmare every night since that last kiss, and to put it plainly, I’ve stopped sleeping.
So last night, I painted until dawn, then went for a run, longer than anyone reasonably should, hours without stopping.
I have no idea what my face looks like this morning.
I didn’t dare look in a mirror, not when I knew it would only send me spiralling further into the void.
To be safe, I layered on extra concealer when I did my makeup.
Once I enter the dining hall, I take my seat at our usual table. My sister is already there, with Piper beside her and Adelaide sitting with Isaak across from us.
I pause, and actually look at Isaak Markev, searching for the resemblance everyone insists is there.
There isn’t much of it.
Yes, both Markev cousins are tall and broad, but the similarities end there.
Even their eyes are different. The shape of their faces, the way they carry themselves, none of it reads as shared blood to me.
Their fathers are brothers, yet whatever resemblance exists between the men seems to have skipped the sons entirely.
Isaak’s father is the elder, the Pakhan of the Markev Bratva. The younger brother holds just as much influence, only without the title. Either way, power runs thick in that family.
The thought alone makes my jaw tighten.
I don’t think about the Markev family. Ever.
I don’t allow it.
Hunter Wardgrave enters and takes a seat across from Piper. He arrived at the academy at the same time as the Ferrum Syndicate boys, which tells me everything I need to know.
He isn’t here to teach, he’s here as a Ferrum Syndicate heir.
I don’t have him as a lecturer, for obvious reasons, but Piper does, she has him for Crisis Management and Strategic Risk.
In short, none of them are here to study. Vass, the Markev cousins, and Wardgrave are all a few years older than us, old enough that they should have been done with university by now.
I have all the information I need on each of them, because when you welcome the enemy onto your ground, you prepare for things to explode.
And they will.
Eventually.
They all have an agenda, and it isn’t peace. It isn’t education either, we’ve already established that. And it certainly isn’t a truce between the Thirteenth Circle and the Ferrum Syndicate.
If it doesn’t touch me, I don’t care.
I already have too much on my plate.
But if this reaches my sister, or Piper, or Eleanor in any way, I won’t hesitate. I’ll go after the leader of the Thirteenth Circle myself, the one who allowed this farce to begin in the first place, even if we’re meant to be on the same side.
Supposedly.
Because it doesn’t feel that way anymore.
My sister glances at me as I slip an arm around her shoulders, her familiar strawberry scent wrapping around me.
“Hi,” she says.
I soften instantly. “How are you feeling?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m fine. Stop fussing.”
“It’s my job.”
“No,” she snaps. “It really isn’t.”
She has Type One diabetes, and I know she lives a normal life with medication and care.
But it terrifies me nevertheless.
I need to know she has her insulin, that she won’t faint, that her blood sugar is where it should be. I’ve always looked after my baby sister, the way I look after the people I love, to the point of staying back a year at school just to keep us together.
She hated that.
Oh well.
The air shifts, and everyone turns toward the door as it opens. Markev walks in beside Arlo.
His eyes catch mine instantly, and he winks.
Winks.
I drop my eyes to the menu as the noise in my head swells, because that wink does things to my body that feel downright illegal.
The voices grow louder, piling over one another until it’s almost intolerable.
I’m staring down at the menu, but I don’t see a single word.
All I can see is the black void pulling me under.
I slip my hand under my jumper, find the blade there, and press the tip to my finger until it breaks skin.
The pain pulls me back.
I finally breathe again.
I keep doing it, finger by finger, to stay here—to keep myself from losing it in the middle of the dining hall.
It’s suffocating, this constant war between my body and my mind. I feel like I’m fighting myself all the time. On one side, emotions I can’t control. On the other, the guilt that follows them.
In short, I can’t control my own head, and that is terrifying.
I keep reading the menu, even though it takes much longer than it should for the words to make sense.
The menu remains a crime against humanity.
Everything is vegan, courtesy of Mr. Vass deciding that because my sister is vegan, everyone else ought to be too, so she won’t feel uncomfortable.
I don’t actually know his reasons. My sister avoids talking about him like the plague.
I order something with a name that tells me absolutely nothing about what’s going to end up on the plate.
Conversation flows around the table, but his attention never leaves me.
He sits opposite me, and since the moment he walked in, his eyes have stayed fixed on my face.
His attention flicks to the hand under my jumper. His eyes narrow, thoughtful, but he says nothing.
When the food arrives, I glance down at my plate and nearly groan.
I haven’t slept, I’m exhausted, and I’m starving.
And I ordered pasta with white sauce—which means milk, butter, cream, something dairy.
I almost cry, I swear.
Maybe the exhaustion is finally getting to me, or maybe it’s hormones and my period creeping up, because I am not a crier.
And yet here I am, on the verge of it, which feels so wrong, and so unlike me.
Before I can touch it, the plate is whisked away.
A second later, another one is placed in front of me. I stare at it for a moment, confused, taking in the burger, the fries, the salad. Vegan, sure, but still.
I look up.
He’s already watching me. I suppose he never stopped.
“You hate dairy,” he says simply.
My heart trips, and I swallow hard. Something unfamiliar presses in my chest, something I don’t have a name for.
I say nothing, watching him take a bite of the pasta. “Vegan chicken,” he adds dryly. “My absolute favourite.”
Isaak looks at him like he might actually commit murder. “Are you ever going to eat without complaining? Every single day since the menu changed, it’s the same thing.”
“No,” Markev replies with a shrug. He glances at Arlo. “You’ll never hear the end of it. I still don’t know how you could do this to me. You know how much I love my meat.”
Their voices fade into background noise as I pick up a fry, my hands trembling slightly. Everyone else is absorbed in the conversation, but Piper looks at me and offers a small smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes.
Like the rest of us, she came back changed.
Damaged.