All the stiffness sweeps out of me in one breath, as I understand what Cat is actually asking me.
“I respect Anna Wilk,” I say very clearly. “But I don’t love her, Cat. I’m not sure I ever did. What I felt—I think it was just the feeling of admiring someone for the first time. It was new to me.”
“Isn’t that what loving someone is?” Cat says quietly.
“It might be part of it. But it’s not all of it.”
“Do I sound jealous?” she says, looking up at me at last, her face open and vulnerable.
“I’m jealous,” I say, seizing her arm and pulling her close. “Any time anyone looks at you, or speaks to you, I’m jealous. I want all your minutes, and all your words. I want all of you, all the time.”
I see that mischievous delight spread across her face. Cat likes me best when I’m wild for her, when I’ll tear anyone apart to get to her. She doesn’t want me restrained and behaved. And I could never be that way when I’m around her.
She brings out the beast in me. And she likes it.
I kiss her roughly, bruising those soft lips.
“I want to keep seeing you,” I tell her.
“What would you do if I told you no?”
“Tie you up in that tower and punish you,” I growl. “Don’t you ever tell me no.”
“I never have yet,” Cat whispers.
I throw her down beneath a bench loaded with tomato plants, and I rip her blouse open. We’re only half shielded by the trailing vines, but I don’t give a fuck who might come along. I have to have her, and I have to have her now.
I pull her skirt up, unzip my trousers, and yank her underwear to the side. I thrust into her without warning, without foreplay.
I fuck her there on the dirt, with the scent of everything living and growing all around us.
I fuck her hard and wild, as Cat sucks and bites on the side of my neck.
I’ve never felt more alive.
School starts up again on Wednesday, which suits me fine. I don’t like too much time off, and I’m especially itching to be back in the gym honing my skills with Snow.
So I feel as much irritation as confusion when one of the grounds crew interrupts my Extortion class.
“Dean Yenin is needed in the Chancellor’s office,” he tells Professor Owsinki.
“What for?” I demand.
The man looks at me impassively, refusing to answer whether he knows the reason or not.
“Bring your things,” he says.
I stuff my textbooks in my bag while Bram and Valon give me a questioning look.
I shrug impatiently, following the groundskeeper out of the classroom.
“Do you know where the Chancellor’s office is?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll leave you here.”
He abandons me at the staircase, heading back outdoors.
I watch his retreating back, wondering if it’s just my imagination that he doesn’t want to accompany me to the top floor.
Foreboding creeps over me. I wonder if this might possibly have something to do with Cat.
It can’t be—I’m the only person who knows her secret, and I haven’t told a soul. Haven’t written it anywhere. Haven’t even whispered it to myself alone in the dead of night.
I scale five flights of stairs to the topmost floor, my stomach tightening with each step.
I’ve never been inside the Chancellor’s office before. I knock on the doors, hearing the terse response, “Come in,” carry easily across the open space beyond.
I push open the doors, entering an expansive office that, along with the Chancellor’s private quarters, takes up the entire penthouse of the Keep.
Banks of windows on two sides offer views over the cliffs and also across the campus grounds. I’m sure the Chancellor’s intimate knowledge of the goings-on amongst the students comes from his army of staff, but I can’t shake the impression that he’s constantly standing at those windows, watching us from above.
This office is more like an apartment, with a sitting area, a separate writing desk, shelves of books, and a globe big enough to break Atlas’ back. The walls are covered in photographs of the Chancellor with friends and allies from across the globe—some mafia, and others recognizable to any civilian. I’m instantly envious of the shot of Hugo and Mike Tyson on some sunny golf course.
My shoes sink into the thick rug as I make the endless journey toward the Chancellor’s desk.
No room I’ve seen inside the castle matches this one for wealth and luxury. The Hugos are immensely rich, one of the oldest and most successful of the ten founding families who first formed this school. From what I’ve heard, Luther Hugo has only increased his holdings. He’s a brilliant investor. He could teach the finance classes better than Professor Graves, if he cared to do it.
The Chancellor waits for me behind his desk, dressed as usual in a double-breasted suit with a black silk cravat. I always find it difficult to guess his age. His thick mane of hair is still inky black, though threaded with silver. But his face is etched with lines as deep as hatchet marks. His spider-black eyes follow my every movement from the moment I stepped foot through his door.
“Dean Yenin,” he says, in his sonorous voice. “Sit.” He gestures to the ornate chair set opposite his desk.
I take my seat, unnerved and trying not to show it.
I share Cat’s antipathy for Luther Hugo, after what he did to Ozzy’s mother. I know it’s the law at this school. But I don’t care. There’s no justice when the innocent pay for the crimes of the guilty.
“How did you enjoy the Christmas dance?” Hugo asks politely.
“I enjoyed it very much,” I say.
I don’t know why I’m here and I can’t imagine it’s for any positive reason. I don’t want to give anything away.
“I saw you dancing with Catalina Romero,” Hugo says.
My stomach clenches. This is what I was afraid of—that Cat had drawn his attention in some way.
“Yes,” I say stiffly.
“Unfortunate that Zoe Romero and Miles Griffin chose not to complete their education at this school.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” I lie, keeping my expression as bland as possible.
“We hate to lose our students. In any manner or for any reason,” the Chancellor says.
I can’t tell if this is some sort of threat. His expression is impossible to read.
“Which brings me to the unfortunate business at hand,” Hugo says.
I keep my hands flat on my thighs, determined not to move or even flinch, no matter what he might ask me.
“Abram Balakin called me from Moscow this morning, Dean. Your father is dead.”
This is so far removed from what I expected to hear that the words don’t make any sense to me. A long silence follows while I try to rearrange the Chancellor’s sentence into actual English.
“My condolences,” Luther Hugo says. “I know this is hard to hear.”
I can’t hear anything right now, because there’s a loud rushing sound in my ears, like the ocean waves far below us are beating directly against my head.
“He can’t be,” I say slowly. “I just spoke to him.”