5. Dirty Hands
Dirty Hands
Elias
Julian’s knife game left me with a scar that might never fade, but it also opened up a whole new avenue of opportunities.
In one night, I went from being Elias Lennox, the eyesore nobody, to “Noxie”, the boy who’d do just about anything for a prize.
The guy who crashed Caspian Berthold’s vintage Mercedes when he no longer wanted it.
The guy who helped the Avigneux heiress secure a proposal from her on-again-off-again boyfriend by sleeping with her and letting himself get caught and beaten up.
The ghostwriter behind dozens of personal statements, essays, and debate preps that got richer, older students into Oxbridge and Ivy Leagues.
But no matter how hard I work, there’s one thing I can’t manage to do.
Break into the upper echelons of Spearcrest. Gain access, finally, to the Blood Brotherhood. Become untouchable.
Because it doesn’t matter how useful I am to those rich kids—to them, I am and will always be an outsider. You can give an outsider a reward or a payment, but you never give him a seat at your table.
And whether or not I like it, I need a seat at their table.
I’ve only got one year left in Spearcrest, and my adoptive father, Mr Pearson, is running in the upcoming election this year. Whether or not he’s victorious, my usefulness to him will soon dwindle, and I don’t imagine his generosity will linger in its wake.
But I refuse to go back to square one, no matter what. I’ve got one foot on the ladder, and it might be on the lowest possible rung, but I’m not allowing myself to be shaken loose, to drop back into the squirming, suffocating mud of poverty.
I’m going to keep climbing until I reach the top.
And to get to the top, I need to get into the Brotherhood.
And the one person who can help me do so is standing in my bedroom, and I’ve just told her to kneel at my feet.
“Come on, get on your knees, love, and take your money back.”
My voice comes out soft, and I’m surprised by the amount of tenderness I feel right now.
She’s looking at me with hatred and fear and shame all burning in her eyes, but what I feel in this moment isn’t the triumph of bringing my enemy down.
It’s the possessive affection of acquiring something precious and useful.
A beautiful tool—a golden key.
Will she do it? I wonder. Is she desperate enough to stoop this low?
Of course she is. She wouldn’t have come to your door if she wasn’t.
Desdemona descends to her knees with supreme grace.
Her back is straight the entire time. When she leans down to retrieve her money, her long hair slides forward; she pauses, tucks it behind one ear.
She doesn’t say a word. I have the feeling that what I’m making her do is binding her to me, more intimately than if I’d asked her to part her lips for my cock.
When she’s done, she stands. She places the money back in the envelope, which she slides into the pocket of her blazer. She gazes down at me, utterly cold and somehow unfathomably distant.
“Was that nice for you?” she says.
It falls from her lips like she can’t help it. I smile.
“You think you’re the first pretty girl I’ve gotten to her knees in my bedroom?”
She doesn’t flinch. “I imagine none of them made you feel as good as you feel right now.”
Hah, clever girl.
“Maybe,” I concede.
“Are you going to tell me what it is you want?” It’s almost impressive, how still she is, how blank she can make her face. “You’ve clearly got something in mind, and I’m clearly going to agree, so why waste your time?”
“I thought you said time was a commodity I had in abundance?”
“I insulted you, granted, and you’ve insulted me back. Anything else we need to tick off before you name your terms?”
God, she’s fucking cold. The blush is still in her cheeks, though, and I know she won’t soon forget the humiliation I forced her to endure.
Will she relive this whole moment later? When she gets back to her room, lying in her clean, monogrammed pyjamas, in her clean, tidy bed? Will she cry bitter, angry tears, muffle choking sobs into her pillows?
“I’ll do it,” I tell her. “I’ll go to prison for beating up Hastings.”
“You might not have to,” she says stiffly. “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure it doesn’t come to that.”
“But it might come to that,” I tell her. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
She’s silent for a moment.
Then she bites out: “Yes.”
“There’s only one thing I want in exchange.” I smile. And then I finally bring down the guillotine that’s been hanging over her neck since she walked in. I name my price. “You.”
I don’t know quite how I expected her to react. Maybe I expected her to gasp, to reel back in dignified shock. Maybe I expected her to flinch, to gather her pride. Maybe even slap me and tell me she’s not for sale.
She doesn’t do any of those things. She misinterprets me, exactly as I thought she would. Her clever eyes move from me to my bed, and back to me.
“You want me to sleep with you?” she asks.
And I know right then and there that she would, if I said yes. Desdemona, the perfect golden girl, would sell herself to me to cover up this crime.
And that’s the exact moment I realise what’s brought her here tonight.
This isn’t about her, or Hastings, or Spearcrest.
This is about her siblings.
And suddenly, the ground is tilted beneath me, the axis of balance and power ripped off-kilter. In one split second, I become the one who’s doing something ugly and base—not her. The realisation comes with a bitter taste I’m forced to swallow back.
“Don’t be silly, love.” My voice comes out a sharp hiss. “You don’t have to demean yourself like this.”
I stand, all the enjoyment suddenly drained out of me. Gesturing towards the desk chair, I bite out, “Sit down.”
I grab a jumper from a half-open drawer and pull it on, shoving my hand through my hair to push the dark rough curls back. Dropping down on the edge of my bed, I lace my fingers together, facing her, looking straight into her eyes.
She’s already prepared for the worst. This is going to be nothing to her, so might as well be practical with it.
“I want you to date me,” I tell her. “Properly, openly, in public.”
Her eyes have widened ever so slightly. I shrug and cross my arms.
“If you want me to risk prison and a permanent criminal record, then you have to make it worth it for me. I’ve only one year left in Spearcrest—once I leave, I’m going to have to fend for myself.
I want all the connections I can get, every opportunity I can possibly get my hands on.
And that starts right here, right at the top, which you and all your nice rich Brotherhood mates have done a great job at keeping me out of. ”
“You think I have nothing better to do with my time than keep you out of those stupid Brotherhood parties?” She sneers. “If you want to go, nobody’s stopping you.”
I tilt my head. “Said the princess to the peasant.”
This cuts her to the quick. Her eyes narrow viciously.
“You’re no more a peasant than I am a princess.”
“Then you’ll have no problem getting me into the palace,” I tell her. I stretch out my hand between us. “One more condition.”
“What is it?”
“I want to finish my exams before I get arrested.”
For a second, she frowns, and her eyes flick over to the windowsill—which is lined with old Carl Sagan paperbacks. Should’ve hidden those, too.
“If I can help it,” she says finally, “then you won’t be arrested at all.”
She’s lying to herself, but I can’t quite tell if she realises that yet.
“But if I am,” I say firmly, “then I want it to be after my exams.”
She nods. “I’ll do what I can.”
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a mobile phone. It’s been smashed so thoroughly that it would basically take an exorcism to get anything out of it. I raise an eyebrow, and Desdemona lets out a short, sharp sigh.
“Birnam’s phone,” she says.
“The incriminating evidence.” I meet her gaze, but don’t take the phone quite yet. “Does that mean we have a deal, Head Girl?”
Desdemona nods.
“I’ll date you. I’ll take you to all the parties. I’ll give you access to all the rich people you want to impress.” She names the terms blankly, with the functionality of a robot. She hesitates only a fraction of a moment before she says, “Does it mean I have to sleep with you?”
I laugh. “If you want to.”
“I don’t,” she says. “I won’t.”
Never say never. You might look at my dirty hands, one day, and find you want them all over your clean, perfect body.
“You only ever need to do as much as you need to do to convince everyone that we’re actually together,” I clarify. “Do you agree to that?”
She considers it for a second, absorbs it. Or maybe she’s gathering all those emotions she’s hiding and burying them deep down.
She nods.
“So we have a deal?” I give her my hand.
She takes it. Her grip is firm and cold; there’s the merest tremble in her fingers. “We have a deal.”