17. Invisible Knife
Invisible Knife
Elias
There are several moments in my life that are burned indelibly into my memory. I don’t get to choose them—most of the time, the ones that are burned the deepest are the ones I’m most desperate to forget.
Not this one.
I’ll remember this sight forever, and this is how I’ll remember it:
Desdemona sitting above me, a pale star in a dim cosmos. Her eyes on mine, void and hungry all at once. The inherent cold of her presence and the delicious soft wet heat between her legs.
When Desdemona came on my fingers, she melted down onto her desk like a banner falling from the sky, a silent, silken crumpling.
I was shocked by the sensation that struck me then: like I wanted to stoop and press myself to the soft fabric of her, curl into that banner until it was wrapped all around me.
It took all my self-control not to lower myself to her and press my face to her body, my mouth to her mouth.
And, fuck, doesn’t that just reek of romance?
Wanting to make her come is one thing: it’s scheming, conquest—it’s politics. Me using my golden key to open the doors I need opening. My way up into the Brotherhood, and out of the Pearson noose.
But wanting to kiss her open mouth afterwards and catch her sigh of pleasure into my own mouth—that’s murky territory. That’s a tactical fumble, a slip-up. Plain, reckless stupidity.
A mistake I categorically cannot afford.
And yet…
I’m still painfully hard by the time I get back to my room. The image of her is a fresh, indelible burn—the wound sings, sears, demands attention.
I smoke a cigarette to calm myself down, but that doesn’t help at all.
My hands shake even as I take deep drags of toxic smoke.
With a sigh of frustration, I kick back from my desk, cigarette trapped between my teeth, and unzip myself, taking my cock into my hand.
The cold wind blows in from the open window, carrying with it the occasional splutters of rain, but it does nothing to cool me down.
You don’t get to corrupt me.
Desdemona’s voice echoes in my head. There had been so much strength in those words, such determination. She’d said it almost like a warning, but I don’t think that was a warning at all.
I think it was a challenge—no. A request.
My head falls back, muscles pulling taut in my neck. My hand pumps up and down as my eyelids flutter closed. My teeth are clenched around my cigarette, and my heels are dug into the floor—where, not so long ago, I made Desdemona kneel.
I will never rise up to your level, but maybe I can drag you down to mine. So yes, love. I’ll corrupt you.
Maybe, her voice echoes huskily in my memory, I’ll be the one to corrupt you.
Yes.
My cock is so hard the want is an ache, deep in my belly. My muscles strain like I’m fighting something. Yes, Desdemona. Corrupt me. Smear all that golden light all over me. Corrupt me, love, until I don’t even recognise myself.
I come hard, suddenly, surprising myself, my entire body jolting.
Desdemona.
I can’t quite tell whether I say her name or think it or hear it. Pleasure slams into me in hard bright waves, powerful enough to make my forearms shake.
When the orgasm finally recedes, I drag my head slowly back up, creasing my eyes open to find myself a mess: fallen cigarette ashes on my chest, sticky cum on my fist.
What a fucking mess, I think, closing my eyes.
What a fucking mess.
“Noxie!” A huge arm falls around my neck when I walk out of philosophy class, dragging me into the gravitational field of a big body. “Where you headed?”
If he wasn’t filthy fucking rich, Dimitri Kavinski would be the kind of person respectable people cross the street to avoid. He’s tall, broad, and he has a big fuck-off scorpion tattoo on his neck that’s definitely not school regulation.
“Physics,” I tell him.
The muscles in his arms are so thick that he’s cutting off circulation in my neck without him even having to squeeze.
The hug is a threat, really, but Dimitri is one big scary gateway into the Brotherhood, and I want in.
So I stand very still, like all animals do when they’re caught in the jaws of a bigger animal and they’re figuring out an escape plan.
“You smart, huh?” Dimitri says.
He smells like alcohol—I raise an eyebrow. It’s eleven on a Thursday, not even lunch time. I’ve known kids like him, kids that drink hard and early and in public places, and that only ever means one thing.
It means: I’m drowning. Watch me but don’t help me.
“I have good teachers,” I tell him.
“So do I,” he says.
“Yeah, but I actually go to their classes.”
He barks out a rough laugh. Around us, neatly dressed rich kids hurry to and from class, eager to avoid him.
Outside the tall, narrow windows that line one side of the corridor, the sky is full of clouds dark as bruises.
The air is still and electric, but it’s still not as tense as the space between me and Dimitri.
“You’re a funny kid,” Dimitri says. “Give you that.”
“We’re the same age.”
“Dess doesn’t do funny, ya know.” He says it conversationally, dragging me with him down the corridor like we’re two good mates heading to class together.
“You here to warn me away from her?”
“Course not.” He suddenly swings me leftways and up into the north tower, where a broad spiral staircase leads up to the old art studios. A cold wind hushes past us from the top of the tower as we climb up the steps, Dimitri’s weight sagging against me. “I’m gonna help ya.”
He leads me to the building’s second floor, where the windows offer a view of the grounds below, the heavy oaks, the Gothic Spearcrest skyline. The clouds gather thick and sooty, low in the sky, threatening imminent rain.
“Why would you want to help me?” I ask Dimitri.
The corridor is deserted: the studios on this floor are empty this time of year, and won’t get busy until the end of term, when photography students need to develop their photographs or fine art students need somewhere to hide while they paint.
Dimitri releases me into the stifling silence, and even though he’s no longer got me by the neck, I’m very aware that I’m still trapped.
“You of all people should know,” he answers with a smirk. “Because I want something in return.”
“You gonna sell her out for a favour?” My tone is light, but I meet and hold his gaze.
He pulls a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his blazer pocket and tucks one between his teeth. His lighter flicks between his fingers, a silver spark followed by a flame—he’s surprisingly dexterous for a guy his size. He pushes his hand back through his hair, which is short, thick and black.
“You’re taking the moral high ground?”
He doesn’t sound offended—more like amused at my hypocrisy. I shrug and shake my head when he offers me a cigarette.
“Why don’t you just tell me what you want?”
He takes a deep drag and exhales a serpent of smoke that disappears into the shadowy alcove above our heads. He glances out of the window we’re standing next to: outside, it’s begun to rain at last, a thick, heavy sheet that drains everything of its colour.
Dimitri jabs his chin in the direction of the window.
“You know who that is?”
I follow his gaze. The window overlooks the courtyard below: thick grey flagstones and a fountain with a stone statue that’s gotten more mossy with each passing year.
Next to the fountain is a pale figure: a girl wearing the dark Spearcrest uniform, her hair so pale it’s almost silver. She stands in the rain, unmoving, her arms hugged around her, her hair so wet it’s moulded to the shape of her skull like a thin ghostly shell.
I recognise her—not from the cafeteria, the time Desdemona sat on my lap, but mostly because her face has been splashed all over the Spearcrest Inquisitor ever since she arrived.
“Natalya Valenkova.” I glance at Dimitri. “Your fiancée…”
At first, I don’t even know if he’s heard me. His gaze is fixed on her, black and unflinching. There’s a darkness in his expression that makes the blood in my veins suddenly cold.
“She’s not my fiancée,” he says finally.
His voice is so low it rumbles underneath the sound of the rain beating on the windowpanes, making them rattle in their wooden frames.
The next time he speaks, his voice comes out in a whisper, a disturbing mix of awe and resentment and fascination. “She’s a weapon.”
“A what?”
He tears his gaze away from her. “I need you to get me some dirt on her.”
“What kind?”
“Any.” He gestures with his hand holding the cigarette, scattering a sprinkling of black ashes. “Info. Weaknesses. Mistakes.”
I stare at him. “What’s she doing down there?”
He gives me another empty, predatory smile. “Waiting for me.”
“In the rain?”
“Nothing’s forcing her to stay there.”
“Did you tell her to stay there?”
He shrugs. “You in or not?”
This isn’t the first time I’ve been asked to do something like this. The thing about being rich and powerful is that you always have something to lose. And when everyone has money and power, the only way to get the upper hand on someone else is by having something on them.
I glance down at Natalya Valenkova, standing alone in the rain for all to see, just because her asshole fiancé told her to. Her chin is tilted up. Her eyes are fixed on the building, and for a moment, I have the eerie impression that she’s watching us right back.
And I’m suddenly reminded of Desdemona, kneeling stiff-backed on my bedroom floor, picking up all her dirty money. Doing something she’d rather die than do, all because she feels she has no other choice.
So the question is…
What’s the invisible knife at Natalya Valenkova’s throat?
“Not.” I push off the wall. “This isn’t the kind of shit I do.”
“Thought your whole thing was solving people’s problems?”
“If you don’t want a fiancée, then the problem is easy to solve.” I tilt my head. “Break off your engagement.”
He stares at me for a long time, and then he lets out a hoarse, lazy laugh.
“Dess is gonna eat you alive and spit you out.”
There goes my way into the Brotherhood, then. Guess I’ll be working hard at that Halloween party.
“Maybe.” I turn away from him with a half-hearted wave. “Or maybe that’s what Natalya will do to you.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Dimitri calls after me. “Better watch your back, Noxie!”
“You’re a big boy,” I call back. “Stab me in the front.”
I walk away to the grim rumble of his laughter.