Chapter 7 Roth #2
I pass Luther the side dish of cantaloupe as usual and he devours the rest in two bites, returning his focus to the enormous plate of food the waitstaff delivered when they sat down.
Thane barely glances at his own before leaning his head back and closing his eyes, head surrounded by a halo of enchanted smoke.
Right on time, Hurricane Killian finally makes landfall, nearly tipping over my coffee in the process when he crashes into the table.
He merely grins and shrugs when I glare at him, scooting his chair closer to the table.
“Chill, man. Nothing spilled—don’t get your dick in a twist.” Luther’s lip twitches and Thane scoffs. I flick my eyes to them before watching Killian with disdain as he shovels food into his mouth so quickly I question whether he even tastes it.
“You guys see the new girl yet?” he asks, and I struggle to comprehend how he seems to be speaking, breathing, and eating at the same time.
“What new girl?” Thane asks with one eye cracked.
Luther is silent as usual, but the crook of his eyebrow gives him away.
I scoff at how they immediately perk up like dogs hearing the word “treat”.
The addition of new blood always causes a domino effect to the hierarchy here at Dreadhurst—posturing will escalate to infighting as those at the bottom scramble for a way to the top, and those at the top fight to keep their place.
No one here wields enough power to unseat our reign, but there’s always a few who are stupid enough to try—and then we finally get to play.
“Victoria was showing her around yesterday but she cock-blocked me before I could get her name.” My interest piques at the mention of Vivica Hektreia’s youngest daughter. The Councilwoman is just as powerful and ruthless—if not more so—than our parents. Not to mention the rest of the Dark Council.
“Sounds like you’re slipping, Killer,” Thane taunts in his signature raspy voice, raw from smoke as he closes his eyes once more. Killian chuckles without stopping to inhale the steadily decreasing amount of food on his plate.
“That was foreplay, we’re just getting started.
It’s about time we got some new blood in here,” he crows with his mouth full, making me cringe inwardly.
The vibration of my phone interrupts our conversation, and icy dread drips down my spine when I see who the message is from.
Killian and Luther put their forks down, and Thane opens his eyes at the subtle change.
By the expression on my face, they all lean in, concealing our conversation from prying eyes and eavesdroppers.
Renard Kovacs
Do you have it yet?
Roth Kovacs
He’s been uncooperative.
Renard Kovacs
You have one week.
“Need any help?” Thane asks quietly after I show them the message.
I shake my head and finish my meal despite my stomach twisting from his implied threat.
Luther and Killian share a loaded look while Thane keeps his gaze on me.
I know what he’s not asking aloud. Because he knows how unmoored I feel right now, under my outward calm.
He knows that my palm is itching to feel the stinging pain of impact on hard flesh, but all I can do is clench my fists under the table, fingers turning white at the pressure.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply, attempting to compose myself, but when I open my eyes, the breath seizes in my lungs.
Piercing red-brown eyes find mine from across the room and pry apart the hairline crack in the controlled mask my father just opened.
And that one, endless moment between heartbeats holds me captive.
Then she blinks, and the tether snaps, leaving me breathless as I wrestle with the ruins of my shredded self-control.
Thane frowns, following my gaze, but she’s gone, lost in the throng of students.
I look at him, silently pleading for him to understand what just happened, because I sure as fuck don’t.
He crooks his eyebrow and my jaw clenches.
I look back to where she disappeared, but the scorch marks inside my chest, burning hotter than my power ever could, are the only proof of her existence.
And that makes me furious.
I stand suddenly, ignoring their questioning looks. All at once, I feel too full—my skin stretched thin trying to contain my fire—and empty, the ravenous maw in my chest desperate to devour.
“I’ll see you later,” I announce, and once again the crowd parts for me when I exit the Great Hall, curious looks turning fearful in my wake.
I find the professor hiding in his shabby office ten minutes later. The gormless insult to wielders everywhere has evaded me long enough, and I smirk when the heavy door closes, trapping him in here with me.
“Office hours aren’t until—”
“I’m not here for office hours, Professor.” He turns to face me and pales instantly.
Spineless.
“Mr. Kovacs,” he sputters, “what can I do for you today?”
“You’ve been ignoring me, Drystan,” I say, stepping further into his office—a predator, playing with his prey. For every step forward, he steps back, eventually bumping into his desk.
“Mr. Kovacs, as I’ve said before, I cannot help you.”
“Hmmm.” I slowly approach him, letting the anticipation and dread build.
Ancus Drystan is in his fifties, but his time as Dreadhurst’s advanced Potions professor has not been kind.
In the twelve years since his wife divorced him following the revelation of his numerous affairs, he’s lost most of his graying hair, and his face bears the classic signs of alcohol dependency: splotchy cheeks and the deep bruises of exhaustion under his bloodshot eyes.
I wonder how someone could have possibly found him appealing.
Perhaps when he was younger—if that someone was deaf, dumb, and blind.
Now, he trembles with need for a drink despite the early morning hour, his collar is mussed, tie askew, and his worn polyester sport coat bears more than one mystery stain.
Barely coming up to my chin when I close in on him, he trembles, and the scent of his palpable, bitter fear is so thick I can taste it.
The gaping maw inside of me screams to consume it all.
“That’s close enough—” he stutters.
“I thought we had an understanding, Drystan.”
“Mr. Kovacs—”
“How old is your daughter, Drystan? She’d be about what, fifteen years old now?” His eyes widen in shock—turns out he didn’t bury that secret as well as he thought.
“Her mother’s been looking for you. Seems your last few hush money checks have bounced.
Instead of going towards the care of your bastard child, you’re drinking down the little money you have left.
Unsurprising, considering your ex-wife raked you over the coals in the divorce, not that you didn’t deserve it.
” His already splotchy cheeks flush, bloodshot eyes narrowing as my grin grows.
“Mr. Kovacs, I will not be intimidated by a student, no matter who your father is.”
“Let’s be more intentional with our choice of words here, hm?
‘Intimidation’ implies conditional terms. For example, ‘if you don’t produce the potion for me by the end of the week, then I will incinerate your body from the inside out’—that presumes you have a chance to avoid having your bones burnt to ash should you comply.
” He chokes on a gasp, trying to put space between us as I loom over him, motioning between us with my finger.
“That’s not what’s happening here. Your compliance is a foregone conclusion.
To put it in simple enough terms even you can understand: you will produce the potion one week from today.
You will notify me of the status of your progress every day until then.
” He blusters, anger and fear warring on his face, but I’m not finished.
“Should you fail to produce the potion, there will be consequences. Should the potion prove not viable, there will be consequences. Should you mention this conversation to anyone, or allude in any way to what you are doing and who you are doing it for, there will be consequences.”
“I—do you have any idea the risk—”
“First, I will ruin you professionally. Headmaster Church might be interested to know one of his professors has a penchant for fucking and impregnating his students—you and I both know you’re not worth the trouble of defending those charges.
Then, I will ruin you personally by facilitating your former victim’s legal motions to take what remains of the pittance your wife left you with.
And when you eventually try to run because you’re a craven coward, my familiar will hunt you down, rend your flesh, and shit out your pulverized bones into an unmarked grave.
I’ll burn whatever’s left, and your only legacy will be the tragic excuse for DNA that you begat. Am I understood, Drystan?”
The struggle between his sense of self preservation and the remnants of his morals plays out on his face. Just when his shoulders slump in acceptance, the office door swings open, startling us both.
Dark, red-brown eyes widen in surprise and everything besides the fist gripping my chest falls away.
She’s maybe a year or two younger than me.
Her lean body, wrapped in an ill-fitting uniform, could stand to put on a few pounds, but even from here, her curves are apparent.
I see the silver glint of piercings running down her ears through the dark curls that frame her face, where a thin septum ring pierces through her nose.
I don’t know where to look, only that I want to commit every inch of her to memory to dissect later.
Her light voice breaks the silence first. “I’m trying to find the headmaster's office…” She trails off, and her eyes narrow when she registers how close the professor and I are.
Leaving him forgotten, I slowly make my way to where she stands in the doorway.
She looks at Drystan behind me, as if he could help her.
He can’t even help himself. I tower over her, but she doesn’t wither.
In fact, the closer I get, the more her eyes shine with defiance.
“You’re in the wrong place, pretty bird,” I coo with an edge of malice.
Part of me delights at her resolute indignation when I take another step, herding her towards the threshold.
As the distance between us closes, her unique scent permeates the air.
The other part of me, the one that’s furious about the foreign sensations she’s awoken, revels in her growing uncertainty.
“Can you tell me where it is, then?” she hedges, staring up at me. I crook my eyebrow at her boldness, and she backs into the doorframe, startling when she realizes I’ve cornered her.
“Where did you come from?” I ignore her question, reaching out to feel if her wild curls are as soft as they look. She slaps my hand away and we both freeze in shock.
“Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?” she demands, and my other hand reflexively circles around the thin column of her throat, squeezing hard enough to steal her next breath when she swallows.
Her eyes widen and she clutches my wrist, trying to pry it from her neck.
The moment I release her, she flees down the hallway without a second glance, and I watch her disappear.
My hand still tingles from the memory of massaging her pulsing throat, and my fingertips throb with the urge to feel her heartbeat again.
“One week, Drystan,” I say without looking back, and let the door slam behind me. The echoes of her pounding footsteps on the cold marble floor sing to me, mimicking my own violent pulse.
They follow me to my first class, just like the other sounds she made—her light voice that grew more stern as I taunted her.
The little gasp that escaped her pink lips when I stalked her like a predator.
And perhaps most tempting of all, the slap of her hand against mine, so reminiscent of my own hand against heated flesh.
Fascination becomes fixation as the day passes, and my mood darkens.
Professors and other students alike vie for my attention and approval—despite refusing to acknowledge their pandering, it only inflames their attempts to gain my favor, deepening my disdain.
It’s insulting, to be so powerful and so disrespected by their contemptible supplication.
Our parents relish in it—they love to sit on their proverbial thrones, congratulating themselves for fortuitous scheming and manipulation while everyone else worships at their altars. We just want to be left the fuck alone.
Not even Luther’s merciless combat drills quiet my racing mind by the time we sit down for dinner, watching and waiting for the pretty bird with the dark eyes to flit into the Great Hall.
I don’t know if I want to put her in a cage until I can discern why I feel this way, or snap her wings for making me feel anything in the first place.
One thing is clear: I need to know who—and what—she is.