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CAT
Ican’t believe Dean hasn’t snapped yet.
I only started this whole thing because I thought it would be the easiest way to get him to leave me alone. I thought I’d give him one order and his pride would intervene. I expected him to tell me to fuck off, and everything would go back to the way it used to be.
That’s not what I wanted—but it seemed inevitable.
Instead, he keeps coming back for more.
Day after day he lets me order him around. He listens to the jeers and catcalls from Vanya and Bodashka. I can see his hands shaking, his fists clenching. I know how badly he wants to rain down retribution on their heads.
But I told him not to do it. And he’s actually obeying.
I’m not getting any pleasure out of this. I’m not dominant by nature—I don’t enjoy being cruel.
Still, I feel driven to push him and push him.
Only then can I believe that he truly loves me.
I want to give in. It’s torture sitting next to him, worse even than when I was his slave. He smells so fucking good, and he’s so goddamned handsome. He’s even developed enough of a sense of humor that he can laugh at himself when Leo throws some gentle teasing his way. A year ago, he would have flipped the lunch table over.
Maybe I should end this and tell him he’s forgiven.
It’s what I want to do.
But there’s one, cold kernel of fear inside of me still.
I don’t know what it will take to wash it away.
As a complicating issue, Lola is up to new tricks. Someone broke into my room, and I know it was her. She rifled through all my belongings—just mine, not Rakel’s.
When I found the room in upheaval, I ran to my dresser, terrified that she’d stolen the ruby necklace. I almost cried with relief when I found it still tucked safely inside a clean pair of socks, in the back of my drawer. Though I told Dean I was going to throw it away, I never could.
Only after I put everything back in its proper place did I discover my missing sketchbook.
The sketchbook contains nothing but drawings. I have no diary, no personal letters kept in my room.
Still, it felt like the worst kind of violation.
My drawings are highly personal. They’re my outlet, my most private thoughts and feelings.
I only hope that stealing that book and burning it is the worst that Lola plans to do. It hurts to lose it, but I dread what other plans she might be concocting.
The next morningDean is waiting outside the Undercroft to walk me to class.
He’s not supposed to talk to me, but as soon as he sees my face he asks, “What’s wrong?”
His voice is so gentle and genuinely concerned, that before I can think better of it I tell him, “Lola broke into my room. She went through all my stuff and stole my sketchbook.”
Dean frowns, considering.
“What do you think she’s doing?”
I instantly feel a wash of relief that he doesn’t dismiss the action as more of her harassment. He knows what Lola is like, and he knows she’s building to something nasty.
“I really don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know why she’s so determined to turn this into a vendetta.”
“Some people hate to see other people change,” Dean says quietly. “It threatens them. They can only feel in control when their environment stays static.”
