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Her beauty isn’t as obvious as her sister’s.
But the more I see of Cat, the more I begin to fixate on the details of her person. Her smooth, tan skin and her perfectly-shaped hands, like a suit of armor made in miniature to show the craftsmanship. Her pale pink lips, as heart-shaped as her face. Her sharp white teeth that flash into view when she dares to snarl at me.
I wondered if I would get tired of this game, but the more I play with her, the more I want.
My classes seem interminable, because I’d much rather be greeting her outside the door, her face flushed and sweating because she had to run across campus from her class to mine.
It amuses me to see her struggle to carry my books. She’s so small that she can hardly bear a burden that I could lift with two fingers. I could hoist up all of Cat with one hand. My arm itches to do it. I remember the times I’ve picked her up right off her feet, the sense of complete control it gave me to lift her and hold her like she really were just a tiny kitten dangling from my jaws.
I’ve been making her write my papers for me. I could easily do it myself, but it’s tedious to write out the paragraphs by hand. I get a perverse pleasure watching her pause between sentences, shaking out her cramped fingers. I’ve spent hours watching her work, tilted back in my chair while she sits on the other side of the library table, her delicate neck bent over the page, her dark curls covering her angry expression.
I want to push her further. I’m craving it.
I’m consumed with dark fantasies of what I could make Cat do . . .
Meanwhile, I’ve returned to Snow’s boxing class.
That Wednesday after I tried to fight him with humiliating results, I entered the Armory gym with shoulders back, head held high. I was daring the other students to say one fucking word about that fight. I planned to put them in their place before the sentence left their lips.
But Snow was already standing in place on the mats, silencing even Vanya Antonov with his formidable bulk.
He gave us a lesson on footwork, then split us up once more to practice.
This time, he paired me with Kade Petrov.
I had to swallow my irritation, knowing that he was testing me to see if I would use excessive force against a Freshman again.
I certainly was tempted. Kade was only a little better than Tristan Turgenev—quick and eager, but sloppy, undisciplined. He’d keep his head for a couple of rounds, then get over-confident, leaving himself wide open.
I popped him a few times as a reminder, but under the watchful eye of Snow, I was careful not to exceed the bounds of the exercise.
“Zaebis,you’re good,” Kade said admiringly.
“You could be, too, if you kept your focus,” I muttered.
“How long have you been boxing?” he asked me.
I shrugged. “All my life.”
I learned how to fight as soon as the boys at school got a look at my father. They already mocked me for my accent—I spoke English too much at home with my mother. They called my father a monster, and my mother an American whore. I fought three, four, five of them at once, coming home every day with bloody noses and blackened eyes, until I learned to do enough damage to shut their fucking mouths. Some of those boys became my friends. Some fought me in the underground matches years later.
One is at Kingmakers with me now—Pasha Tsaplin. He’s Bratva too, though his father is a drunken disgrace. He only got into school on the strength of Danyl’s recommendation, same as me. He owes Danyl four years’ service for that favor. I suppose I got off lucky with only two.
“My brother taught me to box,” Kade said.
“Adrik is famous at Kingmakers,” I said.
“I know,” Kade sighed.
I supposed it was a lot to live up to. But that’s the nature of our world—you must surpass the achievements of your father, your grandfather, and your great-grandfather. That is empire building.
After class, Snow clapped me on the shoulder.
“You did well today,” he told me.
“You mean I was a better babysitter,” I snorted.
“If you can’t teach something, then you don’t know it very well yourself,” Snow said.
