Her face looks thin and drawn, her shoulders slumped.
Probably something to do with Dean.
Too bad—I was almost starting to root for him.
He became my unwitting ally this year, without ever knowing it.
“How are you doing?” I ask her.
“I’m fi—” she starts, and then abruptly changes her mind. “Not good,” she admits.
“Anything I can do to help?”
“No,” she sighs. “Thank you, though.”
“Are you sure? I could strangle Dean in his sleep.”
Her lower lip trembles. “I’m afraid I’m a long way past when that would help me.”
“How’s Zoe doing, then?” I say, knowing that will cheer her up.
Sure enough, she gives me a wobbly smile.
“She’s so happy,” Cat says. “She sold another script—can you believe it?”
Nothing pleases Cat more than something good happening for her sister.
“I was talking to Perry Saunders at the library,” I say, casually. “She’s a friend of yours, isn’t she?”
“Mm-hm,” Cat nods, glancing across the open lawn as if distracted. Maybe looking for Dean.
“Have you ever visited her in Kyiv?”
“Oh, she doesn’t live in Kyiv. Her mother doesn’t like it there, so they live in Naples and her father flies back every couple of weeks. Her mother breeds horses . . .”
“I’m surprised he’s willing to live on his own,” I chuckle. “Mafia men aren’t exactly known for their housekeeping skills.”
“He stays at the Four Seasons,” Cat says, now scanning the students exiting the dining hall. Probably looking for Dean.
“Well, I won’t keep you,” I say, ready to part ways. “Have fun in class.”
“You too,” Cat says, vaguely.
It’s to my benefit that she wasn’t entirely paying attention—Cat Romero can be a little too curious for her own good. Miss Robin already warned me about that.
She guessed almost immediately that Cat was the one who killed Rocco Prince. That was an unwelcome complication—Dr. Cross’ lung infection was another.
With all the near-misses we’ve had, I’ve almost become numb to the danger of our position.
There’s only so many times you can face down death without wanting to open your arms to him out of sheer exhaustion.
25
Cat
Dean corners me again outside the dining hall. I tried to come to dinner late to avoid him, but apparently he’s been waiting out here for over an hour.
“Leave me alone,” I say, trying to push past him.
“No,” he says. “Not until you talk to me.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“But I have something to say to you.”
I turn to face him, fully annoyed.
“And it’s what you want that matters, isn’t it, Dean?”
“No,” he says, somewhat abashed. “I mean, maybe . . .”
It’s hard to look at him, because the handsomeness of his face never fails to work its subversive magic on me, even when my stomach is still clenched up in knots and my heart is still aching from a weekend of bawling my eyes out.
Dean is bad for me. I’ve known that from the beginning.
And yet my body craves him like fresh oxygen. I’m already missing the taste of his mouth and the feel of his hands on my flesh.
“You hurt me, Dean,” I tell him quietly. “You really hurt me.”
“I know,” he says. “And . . .” He swallows, as if he’s choking on something. “And I’m sorry,” he says in a strangled tone.
I almost want to laugh.
It sounds like he’s never apologized in his life.
He looks ridiculously relieved, as if he thought saying those words might kill him.
Unfortunately for him, no amount of apologies is going to wipe his insults out of my brain.
“I don’t care,” I say coldly.
“Why not?” he demands.
“Because you told me you loved me, and then you said I meant nothing to you. So your words are meaningless.”
Dean flinches, looking guilty.
“I know, Cat, but I was so angry—”
“You’re always angry,” I interrupt. “Always pouring out your rage on everyone around you. Well, it’s not going to be me anymore.”
“Cat, you can’t be serious—”
He’s trying to take my hand, but I yank it away from him.
“I’m very serious. Don’t make me hurt you again.”
Dean laughs, knowing as well as I do that I only managed to knee him because he wasn’t expecting it. I have no chance of actually injuring Dean. Only he has the power to hurt me.
And he did.
Too much and too well.
I push past him into the dining hall.
He accosts me again the next morning, apparently hoping that a good night’s sleep will have improved my mood.
It hasn’t.
I barely slept at all. I tossed and turned in an agony of indecision, until Rakel snarled at me to hold still or she’d duct-tape me to the bed.
I miss Dean. I miss him badly.
But I can’t stop remembering Lola’s taunts, and Dean’s insults following directly afterward, proving the truth of her words.
Just because he likes fucking you doesn’t mean he gives a shit about you . . .
He’s using you because you’ll do whatever he says . . .
And then, worst of all, echoing over and over in my brain:
You’re nothing to me.
I never really believed that Dean could love me.
What fragile hope I had was shattered as he raged at me in the tower.
Zoe’s right: love doesn’t hurt like this. Love doesn’t bring you to your knees with grief and misery.
“Cat, you’re being ridiculous!” Dean cries, annoyed at my continued resistance. “You can’t throw away everything we have over one fight.”
“I didn’t throw it away,” I say coldly. “You did.”
I can already see his temper rising, right now, when he’s supposed to be begging for forgiveness.
“You’re getting mad all over again, aren’t you!” I cry. “I bet you want to shout at me, don’t you?”
“Only because you’re being—” Dean raises his hands like he’s going to strangle me, and then abruptly cuts himself off.
I laugh in his face.
“Being what?” I demand. “Tell me again how awful I am.”
Dean takes several deep breaths, his lips pressed tightly together in a thin line.
It would be funny watching him try to control his temper, if it didn’t make me so sad at the same time.
“I’m sorry I insulted you, Cat,” he says. “I didn’t mean it. I was out of my mind.”
“So was I,” I say quietly. “But I’m sane again now.”
I walk to my first class, having missed breakfast by talking to him.
26
Dean