8. Bloody Steak
Bloody Steak
Desdemona
Negotiating with Elias Lennox is a little like trying to play tennis against someone who’s trying to punch you in the face.
In the end, it yields the following rules:
No private meetings in his room—only the head girl study.
No touching in private, only in public.
Mutual courtesy.
Total honesty.
No falling in love.
“No falling in love?” I laugh in Elias’s face when he says it.
Negotiations are almost over—I’ve already grabbed my tennis bag and my racket. I’ve just shoved the shed door open, letting in a flood of cool night air, when he proposed this final rule.
“You can’t be serious.”
Elias shrugs. “You don’t agree it should be a rule?”
“I don’t believe it’s a necessary rule.”
“You planning on falling in love, yeah?” he says, walking up to me where I’m standing in the doorway. The distant floodlights from the tennis courts carve out the features of his face in harsh lines and embossed shadows. For a moment, he looks spectral, almost dangerous.
“You know I’m not,” I snap.
He smiles. “Then it should be an easy enough rule to follow.”
I feel a surge of something completely new: violence. I want to slap his face, kick him, shove him into a wall. To humble him, to bring him low—take something vital from him.
But this is the difference between me and him: I can control my baser instincts.
Forcing a neutral smile onto my face, I say, “If it makes you more comfortable, then fine. We’ll add it to the rules.”
He laughs, quietly, almost sweetly. “All these rules, love. Makes me wonder what would happen if we broke ’em.”
“Why would we?”
“Because breaking rules is fun.”
“Breaking rules is for people who have nothing better to do.”
He rolls his eyes. “Spoken like someone who never has fun.”
“My idea of fun, I can imagine, is vastly different to yours.”
“Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” he says, throwing me a look from beneath lowered lids. “One way or another.”
Inexplicably, a shiver runs through me, scattering goosebumps up my arms. Elias laughs again, low and mocking, pushes past me out of the shed, and walks away with a casual wave of his fingers.
Zafira catches me the following day, while I’m rushing on my way to a prefects’ meeting.
Our friendship is an odd one: during school, we both tend to keep to our own circles. She’s a bit of a loner and doesn’t really hang out with the rest of my friends. Instead, we spend most of our time on the tennis court.
What I like most about her is that she’s a fast learner and a fierce competitor. The kind of opponent who wouldn’t offer victory as a consolation prize to anyone—not even if her opponent was a crying child.
“I’ve got a meeting in five,” I tell her as she firmly loops her arm through mine.
She’s the only girl in our year who’s as tall as me. She grins, showing sharp white teeth.
“Perfect. Five minutes is all this is going to take.”
I throw her a look. “I can give you advice on how to improve your backhand later.”
“Nice try.”
Zaffy pulls me suddenly off course, half-dragging me into an alcove, her body blocking off the flow of third year students heading to lunch. A marble bust of Marie Sk?odowska Curie watches down on us, her iconic updo crowned with a halo of sunlight.
“What’s going on between you and Elias Lennox, then?”
“Who told you there’s anything going on?”
“Don’t be so difficult.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Don’t be so nosy.”
“How could I not be?” Zafira smirks. “This one’s not like the others.”
A wave of heat rises into my cheeks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Zafira pokes my cheek. “None of the others ever made your face that red, for one.”
I bat her hand away. “Drop it.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll report you for breaking uniform regulations.”
Zafira glances down at herself. She wears the Spearcrest uniform a bit the way you’d see the token rebel in a boy band wear one: loose tie, buttons undone over a wife-beater, golden chains, one bearing a gilded hamsa pendant.
The waist of her skirt is rolled up, showing long bruise-smeared legs, knee-high black socks and combat boots.
“I don’t get it?” she says, looking back up. “We look the exact same?”
I laugh and shove past her. “Go to class. You’re going to make me late for my meeting.”
“Wow,” she says. “All this just to avoid admitting you have a fucking crush.”
Now my cheeks are definitely red. I stride quickly away from her and call, “See you on the court.”
“Tell your little boyfriend not to interrupt us next time!” she calls back.
I whip around. Not my boyfriend, I almost say, but catch myself at the last moment.
The Spearcrest dining hall sits at the heart of the Old Manor, the oldest building on campus.
It’s large and grand, with long tables, wood polished smooth by time and use, underneath a vaulted ceiling.
Portraits of former headmasters hang along the walls, and a large stained-glass window overlooks the entire room, depicting Saint Thomas Aquinas, the patron saint of scholars.
But ever since I started at Spearcrest, I’ve always had the feeling that entering the dining hall felt more like entering an arena.
The painted headmasters, the glass saints and angels of the window, the other students, the teachers at the staff table—all judging me: what I’m wearing, eating, saying—who I sit with.
The feeling never really went away. Today, it feels heightened, even though I know I’m just imagining it. Walking into the dining hall, I feel as if a sudden silence has fallen, like the air itself is holding its breath.
“Relax, love,” Elias murmurs. His arm is thrown casually over my shoulder. It’s wiry, surprisingly strong. His body radiates ridiculous heat, heat that’s seeping into my skin, trickling into my veins, pooling into my cheeks.
“I am relaxed,” I mutter back tightly.
“You look like you’re walking up to the gallows.”
I don’t reply.
Students are looking up, turning around, wide-eyed, as we make our way through the hall. Looking at us, then one another, gasping and whispering. I should be used to it—it’s the same thing every time I date someone new.
But this time, it feels different. My feet are heavy as they drag me inexorably to the table where I always sit.
Lunch has already been served, the smell of meat and fresh-baked bread and too-sweet fruit saturating the air.
One by one, I see my friends look up, lower their cutlery or glasses from their mouths, staring.
Mira Rajahn’s pouty, glossy mouth falls open—Emerald almost drops her fork. Their eyes move from me to Elias and then linger on him as he casually drags my chair out for me. I glance at him in surprise, and he shoots me a grin.
My chair is right next to Mira’s—the one next to mine is normally occupied by Dimitri Kavinski’s hulking form.
Today, though, Dimitri’s not here—his chair is occupied by his pearl-pale fiancée, like Banquo’s ghost at Macbeth’s feast. Next to her is Blaise, who’s watching me and Elias with a spark of amusement dancing in his eyes.
I hesitate, glancing around the table. There’s enough space for people to crowd together, to make space for one more chair. But nobody moves.
They’re all watching me, waiting to see what I’ll do. Without speaking, they’re telling me I shouldn’t have brought Elias to this table. And now they’re waiting to see how I’ll answer.
“Bit crowded, your table, love,” Elias says, leaning slightly so that he doesn’t have to raise his voice.
His lips don’t quite touch me, but his breath flutters the hair at my temples, smelling of peppermint.
“Wanna sit somewhere else.” His eyes meet mine, bold, almost daring. “Or maybe you’d like to sit on my lap?”
My teeth clench so hard I feel the dull, familiar ache in my jaw. I want to grab his wrist and walk away, walk out of the hall—but something stops me.
Julian. He’s sitting a little further away, slowly chewing on a piece of bloody steak, staring at Elias.
His lips, shiny with grease, are twisted in a smug smile.
I remember, suddenly, vividly, Julian’s knives.
I turn to look at Elias: the scar on his cheek is a pink line, slightly raised.
I notice it every time I look at him—have to stop myself from staring.
From asking him why he’s not had it surgically removed, why his adoptive parents didn’t do anything about it.
I meet his gaze and register the quick flash of surprise in his dark eyes when I smile at him.
“Actually, yes,” I tell him. “I’d like that.”