“Well.” Zoe considers. “I suppose it’s because it shows a man’s masculinity and strength.”
“Do you ever . . . let Miles tie you up?”
I want the earth to swallow me up, but I also need to know.
“Yes,” Zoe says. “But Cat . . . the reason we can do kinky shit is because I trust Miles. He knows my limits. He pushes me to the edge, but he would never hurt me.”
“Right,” I say. “I understand.”
Zoe sighs, and I know she’s probably biting the edge of her lip, just like I’m doing thousands of miles away.
“I’m not going to tell you what to do, little sister. But please . . . be careful.”
“I will be,” I promise.
“I miss you,” Zoe says.
“I love you,” I reply.
I end the call.
Even though Zoe doesn’t approve of me dating Dean—how could she?—she loves me and supports me no matter what.
And she did answer my question, without entirely meaning to.
The reason why I’m willing to do all these things with Dean, the reason I let him tie me to that wall . . . is because I do trust him. As much as he scares me, I’ve come to believe that he won’t actually hurt me. Not in any real or lasting way.
The pain of whipping and spanking is nothing compared to the pleasure that comes after.
I get up earlier than usual the next morning, so only a dozen other students are scattered throughout the dining hall when I grab a bowl of oatmeal and a pot of mint tea.
I prop my Extortion and Racketeering textbook up against an earthenware milk jug, intending to study and eat simultaneously. All the time I’ve been spending with Dean is undermining my efforts to improve my grades this year.
I’ve only read through a single page before Hedeon plops down in the seat next to mine saying, “Who in the hell decided that oatmeal’s an acceptable breakfast food? If the Victorians ate it, that should be reason enough to chuck it off the menu forever.”
“It’s actually pretty good. It’s got blueberries and cinnamon and—”
Hedeon shoves away his untouched bowl.
“It’s still slop,” he says.
He hasn’t shaved in a week or two, and his thick, dark stubble is halfway to a beard. It makes his eyes look all the more blue.
I can’t help casting a nervous glance around the dining hall, in case Dean sees us sitting together all alone. He’s obviously touchy about Hedeon, which is laughable because there’s never been the slightest spark of romance between us.
Hedeon just wanted me to use my access to the computer lab to search through old student records. He never explicitly told me that he was looking for his parents—that was my assumption. I think I’m right though, because Hedeon seems to hate the Grays, despite the fact that they named him heir over his brother Silas.
I feel guilty that I let that secret slip to Dean. I didn’t mean to. He quite literally tortured it out of me, however pleasant that torture might have been.
Even though I wasn’t able to access the student records, I did suggest to Hedeon that he might find paper copies amongst the detritus of cast-off filing boxes, broken furniture, and abandoned sports equipment in the old stables.
He never told me if he found what he was looking for.
I ponder if I’m brave enough to renew the topic now.
Hedeon sits sullen and silent, his expression as unwelcoming as I’ve ever seen it. If I wait for him to be in a good mood, I might as well wait for the second coming.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Uh, Hedeon . . . did you ever . . . find that thing you were looking for?”
“What?” He says, startled out of whatever moody thoughts were swirling around in his head.
I can feel myself blushing, but I persist, “In the boxes . . . in the stables . . .”
His jaw clenches, and I think he’s going to tell me to fuck off and mind my own business. Instead he says, in a low, defeated tone, “No. I found a box of records from around the right time, but the files didn’t say anything useful. It was stupid to think they would.”
“Do you know your parents’ names?” I ask, hesitantly.
He shakes his head, his dark hair hanging down over his eyes.
“I don’t know anything about them. I only assumed they came here because a long time ago I found a gray envelope crumpled up in the back of a drawer. It had half a wax seal on it—the Kingmakers seal. At the time both Silas and I were too young for school, so it wasn’t for us. It’s the only clue I have. The Grays won’t tell me anything, not even my mother’s name. I have no pictures. I have nothing at all.”
I frown, considering that.
“Did your parents—the Grays, I mean. Did they go to Kingmakers?”
“Yes, but decades ago. They’re old. They spent a long time trying to have their own children.”
I’m wondering if the envelope could have been from one of their acceptance letters. People don’t always clean out their drawers.
Perceiving this, Hedeon says, defensively, “The envelope didn’t look that old.”
I’m not sure how accurately one can discern the age of paper, but I don’t want to argue with Hedeon. So I only say, “Maybe they know someone who works at the school. Maybe a teacher wrote to them . . .”
“You don’t think a student could have gotten pregnant?” Hedeon demands, in an undertone so no one around us can possibly overhear. “People sneak off to fuck all the time around here . . .”
That hits a little too close to home. I have to pretend to be very interested in the blueberries on my oatmeal.
“Hard to hide something like that,” I say, quietly. “Besides, you know what mafia families are like. They might be mad about an accidental pregnancy, but at the end of the day, if two kids fucked up, the parents would still want the grandchild . . .”
“You don’t know that,” Hedeon hisses back at me.
He’s angry and impatient, not wanting to hear any arguments against his only lead.
I take a breath, mulling it over.
“You’re right,” I say, after a moment. “I don’t know anything for certain. I’m just making guesses. And that’s not really helpful.”
Hedeon’s shoulders drop as he lets go of some of his frustration, but also some of his conviction.
“All I have is guesses,” he says, unhappily. “I want them to have gone here. Because then I’d be where they were. I’d feel like I knew them a little.”
His hands clench on the table. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to the elbow, and I can see a long, twisted scar running up his forearm. Most mafia children have scars. Hedeon’s aren’t normal—they’re too numerous and too strange. There’s nothing accidental about them.
“Does Silas know anything?” I ask.
“No,” Hedeon says. “And he doesn’t care.”
Silas has never struck me as having much curiosity or much feeling.
Hedeon, while equally ill-tempered, does have flashes of kindness and humor.
I don’t blame him for his bitterness. It’s clear that his upbringing among the Grays was far from pleasant.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help,” I say.