I plunge both hands into her thick curls. They’re coarse and soft, warm as fur wrapped around my fingers. I slip my tongue into her mouth, tasting her for the first time, finding her breath as sweet and smoky as the scent of her skin.
It doesn’t matter if I remember kissing, because I’ve never kissed like this: without rhythm or plan, my heart speeding faster and faster like I’m sprinting downhill.
I rub my thumbs across her cheekbones, feeling the velvet texture of her skin. I push my tongue deeper into her mouth, breathing her in and swallowing her down.
She’s gripping the back of my neck, her blunt nails digging into my flesh, pulling me in just as tightly as I’m pulling her.
When we finally break apart, it’s only for breath, because we might pass out otherwise.
We’re silent and panting, with no idea how much time has passed.
Nix breaks the quiet, laughing softly.
“Alright,” she says. “Now I know you like me.”
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
There’s no lie in that.
19
Nix
November passes in a whirl of classes and increased studying for end-of-term exams.
My fellow Freshmen are finally starting to warm up to me in the afterglow of the Quartum Bellum win, and Sabrina Gallo’s unfailing support of me.
I don’t know what I did to deserve a friend like her. I think we recognized each other as kindred spirits on that first day of school: two women who aren’t afraid of anything, including getting into a little trouble together.
It’s Sabrina’s nature to be loyal to her friends—I see that same fierce fidelity in all her family who attend Kingmakers. Leo Gallo will decimate anyone who shows the least bit of snobbery to Ares. Anna Wilk is intensely protective of her little sister Cara, always saving her a seat at mealtimes and checking in with her daily on how her classes are going. And Caleb Griffin has fallen in with fellow Enforcers Tristan Turgenev, Rene Turgenev, and Kade Petrov, the four friends forming a clique that has apparently counteracted some of the rampant bullying in the Gatehouse.
Sabrina’s attitude toward her many suitors is a different story. She’s been relentlessly pursued by every male with a pulse since she stepped foot on campus. None of them have kept her attention for more than a week or two, leaving a trail of bitter exes and broken hearts in her wake.
She’s already burned her way through half the eligible bachelors at school, including a square-jawed boxer called Corbin Castro, the Norwegian Heir Erik Edman, a devastatingly witty Junior named Jesse Turner, and, for a single day, the beautiful but conceited Thomas York.
She caused a near double-homicide by dating roommates Cameron Wright and Joshua Pierce. Then put the final nail in the coffin of any chance of being friends with Alyssa Chan when she dumped Alyssa’s cousin Archie.
Kenzo Tanaka lasted the longest—Sabrina seemed intrigued by his rockabilly pompadour, artfully-distressed leather jackets, and encyclopedic knowledge of vintage Harleys. Unfortunately, Kenzo couldn’t maintain his bad-boy cool for more than a week, completely losing his head and pinning so many romantic haikus to our door that our garbage can was soon overflowing with unwanted poetry.
“Why do they all turn out to be so boring?” Sabrina moans, as she finds herself single yet again at the end of November.
“Maybe you need to get to know them better,” I tell her. “Ares isn’t at all like I thought he was when we first met.”
“Most guys are about as deep as an oil slick on pavement,” Sabrina scowls. “Ares is the exception.”
“He might be too deep,” I sigh. “Sometimes I think I don’t know him very well, even after spending all this time together.”
Ares and I have been roaming all over the island together. The colder weather hasn’t stopped us for a second—we bundle up and tramp anywhere we want to go.
But I feel like he pulled back from me after we kissed that night down on the Moon Beach.
“Have you fucked him yet?” Sabrina asks, noisily biting into a carrot stick.
We’re sitting on our respective beds, ostensibly studying, but actually just shooting the shit.
My books are spread out all around me. Sabrina hasn’t bothered to open hers. She’s eating a selection of snacks smuggled up from the dining hall, heedless of the impressive mess she’s making.
“No,” I say, flushing. “And not by choice. He’s driving me insane . . .”
“Yeah, he’s hot as hell,” Sabrina agrees, nodding approvingly. “I’m not usually into the strong, silent type, but you can tell he’s kinky as fuck under that buttoned-up exterior.”
“You think so?” I say hopefully. “I don’t know why he’s holding out on me . . .”
Sometimes Ares looks at me like he wants to rip my clothes to shreds and eat me alive. But . . . he never actually does it. He’s barely kissed me since that first time on the beach.
“Since when are you the type to sit around waiting?” Sabrina says, giving me a sly raise of one inky eyebrow.
“Since fucking never,” I say, shoving my books aside.
“That’s my girl.” Sabrina grins.
I head to the library, following the advice of Lucy Turgenev, who told me that she saw Ares walking in that direction an hour earlier.
Once inside the still, dry space, I walk all the way up the ramp looking for him. The library is one continuous spiral, with curved shelves set against the wall, so it’s not difficult to see who’s inside.
I don’t find Ares anywhere.
I’m about to leave, assuming I missed him, when he emerges from the pointed archway directly behind Miss Robin’s desk.
“Ares!” I call, making him jump.
“Hello,” he says, in his deep, smooth voice.
I don’t know how one single word can have such an effect on me. The greeting vibrates my whole body like a gong, seeming to hang in the air between us for far too long.
“What were you doing?” I ask curiously.
“The archives are down there,” he says, nodding toward the archway with its heavy wooden door still ajar. “I was looking for an organizational chart for the ‘Ndrangheta.”
“You didn’t find it?” I say, noting his empty hands.
“No.” Ares pushes back a dusty shock of hair with his forearm. “Just a lot of loose papers and mildewed books.”
Miss Robin sweeps out of the archives, pulling the door shut behind her. Unlike Ares, she apparently did find what she was searching for—she clutches several crumbling scrolls against her chest, her thick glasses slipping down her nose, her red hair speckled with dust and fragments of ancient paper.
“Someday I’ll finish organizing that mess,” she sighs. Then, to me, “Can I help you with something, Nix?”
“No, thank you,” I say hastily. “I was just . . . here.”
I feel silly telling her that I was looking for Ares.
It doesn’t help that Miss Robin has a remarkably sharp and inquisitive stare behind those granny glasses. I thought her eyes were brown at first, but now I see they’re more of a dark hazel, with a burst of bronze radiating from the iris, inside a ring of olive green.