10. Big Man
Big Man
Elias
The following evening, when it’s finally time to get ready, I smoke a cigarette, shower twice, tear through my closet, then finally give up. Fuck it, they’re going to judge me either way, right?
All day, I’ve been catching eyes on me: the people who aren’t invited to the Cyprian stare at me with disdain, as if to say, “Really? Him?” And the people who are invited look at me with hunger, anticipatory smiles, like they just can’t wait to see this dog walk on its hind legs.
No pressure, then.
In the end, I throw on the best of what I’ve got, comb my fingers through my hair, spray cologne and set off.
Desdemona didn’t offer to share her fancy limo with me, and I didn’t expect her to.
Her embarrassment at inviting me was plain for all to see—I wasn’t about to give her any reason to back out.
The ice queen, it turns out, is just as much a prisoner to public condemnation as the rest of us. Not something I’m going to forget in a hurry. But just because it’s going to complicate my plans to climb—doesn’t mean I’m giving up.
I’m more than half-surprised to find Desdemona waiting for me outside the Cyprian.
Her arms are crossed, her back straight as a column of marble.
In the gritty darkness, in the slashing rain and sleazy streetlights and howling noise of London, she looks a little like a goddess stumbled onto our world on some ineffable errand.
She’s wearing a white dress, like the first time I saw her.
This one is short, perfectly tailored, with shoulder straps so thin they look like white filaments. Her hair is swept up, and there are delicate pearl bracelets on her wrists, but no other jewels.
Her face is one deep frown.
She reaches out for me the moment I cross to her side of the street and pulls me under the club’s black-and-white marquee by the lapels of my jacket.
“What on earth are you wearing?” she hisses into my face.
I glance down at my shoes, which she’s looking at like they’re the murder weapons that killed her entire family.
“Uh—my best shoes?”
“Are you a forty-year-old investment banker?” she says. “Why aren’t you wearing normal shoes?”
“At your fancy club?”
“My cousin paid six thousand pounds for the booth. You can wear whatever you want.”
Then why were you so embarrassed by what Julian said yesterday?
Asking that question, though, would be like firing a loaded gun and expecting flowers to pop out.
“Isn’t this the kind of thing you should be teaching me?” I ask instead, mild enough. “You’re slacking, love.”
“You think I don’t have anything better to do with my time than telling you what to wear?” she snaps.
She suddenly spreads my jacket open.
I smirk. “Easy, girl.”
She ignores that blatant bit of provocation.
I watch her closely as she busies herself removing my cufflinks, popping open the top buttons of my shirt, shoving my hair back from my face with her fingers.
Her touch is impersonal and business-like, but there’s a sort of dark satisfaction brewing beneath my skin.
When she tries to step back, I grab her hand, keeping her close.
“You’ve made a mess of me,” I tell her. “Is it my turn to make a mess out of you, then?”
She laughs, cold and hollow. “You couldn’t if you tried.”
I step into her, taking her waist in my hand. It’s narrow, with a pleasant curve, perfectly cinched by her dress.
“Rule number three,” she says, and now it’s her turn to grab my wrist. “No touching in private, remember?”
But her body is warm to the touch, more responsive than maybe she herself realises. This could be fun, this thing between us. Needling her. But it’s counterproductive. You’re not here to have fun, remember? I tell myself. You’re here to climb.
She’s just the rope.
The Cyprian doesn’t smell like sticky stale alcohol and body spray, but like wealth: expensive perfume and fizzing champagne.
The decor is standard fare: chandeliers and velvet banquettes; dim lights, casting everything in the kind of flattering shadow that’s designed to make beautiful people appear dangerous and dangerous people appear beautiful.
There’s no queue at the bar, though, no neon signs. No one here is desperate for attention—they’ve already got it. The music isn’t deafening, it’s vibrant and deep, like an external heartbeat, seeping through skin and into bones.
Desdemona cuts through the crowd with that high-born glide, crowds parting for her as if moved by some greater force, some invisible, obedient hand. I follow her, noting the way heads turn—noticing her, placing her, appraising her.
Heiress, ice queen, kingmaker.
With her famous parents and all her shiny trophies, Desdemona is a darling of gossip rags: she can’t do anything without being splashed across a magazine spread.
I wonder if they’re all waiting for her to fall.
The six-thousand-pound booth is a sunken alcove behind dark velvet drapes, with a lacquered table where champagne bottles already await in a huge ice-filled silver bucket. I glance around, a faint smirking pulling at my lips.
This is how rich people spend their money?
Six thousand pounds for fake privacy, for the illusion that the rest of the world has been shut out, for the false superiority of overlooking the busy dance floor.
“You’re late, cuz,” an indulgent voice drawls in greeting.
Blaise Blackwood. I observe him closely, this time: he’s heir to two dynasties, and he’s one of the founding members of the Brotherhood. Exactly the kind of person I need to get on side.
He’s easy to like: light-hearted and relaxed, his shirts are usually unbuttoned, his black curls cut a little long. When he sees me, his eyes alight on me with a sparkle of delighted curiosity, completely devoid of dislike or disdain.
“Noxie!” he says, like I’m an old friend, an acquaintance fondly remembered. “Really, not your usual type at all, D,” he adds impishly, eyes flashing from me back to Desdemona, who’s sliding into the booth with the rigidity of an ice statue. “Trying something new?”
A burst of low, feral laughter. I finally look up towards the hulking shadow next to Blaise.
Dimitri Kavinski is the largest person in every room he’s in; everything shrinks in comparison to him. He’s big and thick with muscles, with light brown skin and short black hair. He looks old enough to be everyone’s oldest brother by a generation, even though he’s the same age as us.
You wouldn’t guess it by looking at them but he and Blaise are cousins.
Together, they are the heart of the Blood Brotherhood, its foundation and its entry point.
Aside from that, they’re opposites in every way.
Where Blaise is easy-going and charismatic and light-hearted, Dimitri is heavy and unsmiling and dark, a permanent black cloud hanging over his head.
And right now, he’s looking straight at me with pitch-black eyes, and his laughter doesn’t sound like amusement—it sounds like a threat.
“You really think you got what it takes to be hers?” he says. “None of the others lasted a year.”
What’s the worst thing Dimitri Kavinski could do to me?
Mock me, make me cry, beat me half to death.
All fine by me, so long as it ends in him making me sign his stupid blood pact and becoming part of the Brotherhood.
“None of the others are made like me.”
It’s not my normal brand of arrogance, but it doesn’t have to be. Dimitri is going to be my way into the Brotherhood, and he’s not going to let me in because he likes me. He’ll want me to push and push hard, because that’ll be the most amusing thing to him.
Maybe my bluff works: Dimitri scoffs and rubs his jaw with a big thumb. There’s a wolf’s head tattooed on his hand—tattoos are strictly prohibited for Spearcrest students, but being a Russian oligarch’s grandson really makes you a law of your own.
“You think you’re a big man?” he says.
“Big enough for what I need to do.”
If he doesn’t pick up on the innuendo, Desdemona certainly does.
“I’m right here,” she snaps, but she’s glaring at Dimitri, this time.
“She’ll play with you,” Dimitri says, eyes still on mine. “But she’ll never be yours.”
“Maybe I don’t want her to be mine.” I give him my cockiest smirk. “Maybe I just want to be hers.”
Blaise laughs softly. “A hopeless romantic, in this day and age?”
I give a humble shrug. “Stranger things have happened.”
“You don’t say,” snorts Dimitri. “Cyprian letting anyone in these days.”
“He’s not scared of you,” Desdemona snaps. “So stop trying to intimidate him.”
She says it with such cold authority that Dimitri visibly settles back, and I cast her a glance I don’t want to be too full of admiration, even though it is. I wonder what it would be like, to have someone like her on my side, in my corner. Not for pretend, not as a subterfuge, but for real.
Whoever ends up with you is going to be one lucky fucking bastard.
What a dangerous, pathetic thought.
I slump back in my seat, thigh pressed against Desdemona’s in a silent signal. She doesn’t move away, even though her knuckles have gone white as she clutches the flute of champagne Blaise hands her.
“Nobody’s intimidating your new friend, cuz,” Blaise is saying sweetly. “Rest assured.”
“Boyfriend,” I correct mildly.
“He’s my date,” Desdemona says, almost at the same time.
We exchange a glance.
Fuck.
There’s a sudden, pointed lull, everyone watching us. Mira, wide-eyed and confused. Blaise and Emerald, searching and suspicious. Dimitri, full of disdain and derision. Girls are leaning towards each other, whispering. Fuck this. I’ve made it this far—I’m not falling at the first hurdle.
Slipping my fingers up Desdemona’s shoulders and to her neck, I lightly cup her jaw, leaning down.
“Stop playing hard to get, love,” I murmur against her mouth.
Her eyes are wide with panic, screaming out a silent threat—I can almost see the shape of the words don’t you dare forming on her parted lips. I tilt my head in a silent question. Don’t I dare what?
For a moment, we gaze at one another, the Cyprian suddenly miles away. There’s a flush in Desdemona’s cheeks like she’s been racing across a tennis court, her pulse a frantic flutter in the swan-like column of her neck.
I lower my lips to hers, and her eyes flutter closed.
I have you, love.
I pull away with a low laugh.
“Not that hard to get, then,” I say, rough and playful, as her eyes burst open.
She’s actually a thousand times more gorgeous when she’s pissed off. She opens her mouth to say something, and I interrupt her, speaking low and sweet.
“Careful,” I breathe. “Everyone’s watching, and it’s too early to throw.”
“I’m not throwing,” she says, but her gaze falls out from under mine. “You are.”
“I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to do,” I tell her. “I’m putting on a show.”