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I want to scream with frustration at this fucking maniac and his ridiculous demands. But I can’t do it. I can’t say one damn word to him, and he knows it. All I can do is spin on my heel and march off toward the bathrooms in the Keep, where I wash all Rakel’s expertly applied makeup off my face.
What the fuck is his problem?
Since when does he hate makeup?
Anna Wilk wears a shit-ton of product on her face, and it never seemed to bother him any.
I don’t think he hates makeup at all. He just relishes my misery.
With my face freshly pink and shiny, I walk back to the dining hall, dragging my feet the whole way.
I don’t want to go in there.
I don’t want to experience whatever new humiliation Dean has been dreaming up.
But I’m hungry. So I join the line of students waiting for their portion of pesto chicken pasta, then I carry my tray toward the tables.
I see Leo, Anna, Chay, and Ares already eating, laughing together at some joke. They look so lighthearted and comfortable. God, I wish I could join them.
I can feel Dean’s cold stare fixed on me. When I turn to meet his eyes, he jerks his head toward the empty seat he’s saved right next to his own.
Please God, let the ground swallow me whole.
I feel like the entire hall of students is staring at me as I turn toward Dean’s table.
Anna has spotted me. She calls out, “Cat!” thinking I didn’t see her. I have to give her an awkward shrug before resuming my hateful journey over to Dean.
Bram Van Der Berg, Valon Hoxha, Pasha Tsaplin, and Motya Chornovil watch me approach, silent and unsmiling. I dislike every one of them. They’re a bunch of spiteful bullies who delight in tormenting weaker students. I feel like I’m voluntarily lowering myself into a den of vipers as I drop down into the only empty seat at their table.
If they’re vipers, then Dean is the king cobra. He strikes with lightning speed the moment my ass touches the seat.
“Where’s my milk?” he demands.
“I didn’t know you wanted milk,” I mutter.
“Go get it. Now.”
Biting back the retort I’d like to give him, I stand once more.
Valon Hoxha sniggers.
“Get me a milk, too,” he says.
“You don’t give the orders,” Dean rebukes him, his tone as sharp as a slap. It smacks the smile right off Valon’s face, and he sulks instead.
“She’s getting up anyway,” he grouses.
Dean ignores him. He wants to enjoy watching me cross the dining hall once more so I can retrieve his fucking milk.
I walk as quickly as I can to get this over with, grabbing the first frosty glass bottle of milk I see and carrying it back to him, slamming it down just a little too hard in front of him.
“There you go, your majesty,” I say.
My face is flaming as I sit down once more.
“I want grapes, too,” Dean says.
I turn to stare at him, thoroughly incensed.
