Kingmakers, Year One

6. Anna

6

ANNA

I can’t believe I’ve been at this school one day and I’ve already rubbed my naked body all over some stranger.

My face is still burning an hour after my shower.

I hope that fuckhead doesn’t go and tell all his friends—but I’m sure he will. He probably did the whole thing on purpose. I know he was watching me, and it was the girls’ room. That asshole.

It’s not how I wanted to start my first day of classes. I’m already running late. Though honestly, that’s mostly because I lost track of time dancing. They don’t offer dance classes at Kingmakers, and there’s no way I’m going to spend the next four years only dancing over the summers. I’ll practice on my own.

I don’t even see it as practice. I see it as a necessary part of my day, like eating, sleeping, and walking around. If I miss a few days, I feel stiff and anxious. My body and my brain feel neglected. I need dance to level out my emotions.

Maybe I’d better find a less public place to practice. I didn’t think anyone would be around that early in the morning. But I guess in a school this big, there’s always going to be someone around.

After changing into a fresh uniform, I head to the dining hall. I know Leo was just giving me shit, but the truth is that I do feel distinctly uncomfortable in the assigned clothes. What I wear is important to me. Not for other people, but for myself.

I like dark colors. I find them calming. I’m sensitive to busy patterns, loud noises, uncomfortable textures. And I hate wearing anything that clashes with my mood. Sometimes I want to feel like I’m in a dark fantasy dream. Sometimes I want to look like I’m a ghost from a graveyard, or a Victorian beggar. Sometimes I want to feel like a rockstar.

Never would I ever wear something fuzzy and pink. No shade on the girls that like it—it just isn’t me.

At least the uniforms are relatively subdued. Mostly shades of black, gray, and dark green, with a little silver or white. It could be a lot worse—imagine if the school colors were fluorescent orange and blue.

We can wear whatever shoes we like, so I didn’t have to give up my favorite boots. I paired them with the same green skirt from yesterday, a black pullover, and black tights. Not too bad—something I might possibly have worn in the normal world.

There’s nothing normal about Kingmakers, and I love that. I never pictured myself on a bright, sunny college campus, joining clubs and making friends, going to frat parties on the weekend. I always wanted to come here.

My father told me all about it when I was small—or told me everything he knew, at least. He had a deep reverence for mafia traditions, since he wasn’t raised in that world, but instead was initiated as a teenager by his adoptive father.

He told me, “I had nothing, Anna. Nothing at all. I was poor, miserable, desperate. Trying to scratch a life for myself in Warsaw but knowing that I would likely live and die as poor as I started, just like my parents. The only person who brought me happiness was my sister—she was brilliant you know, like you. She wanted to become a doctor. I planned to work and pay her way through school. We dreamed of someday buying a house in a nicer neighborhood . . . Well, you know what happened instead.”

I had nodded, sitting next to my father on the rim of an empty stone fountain in the walled garden behind our house. Even though I was only six or seven at the time, he had already told me exactly what happened to the Other Anna.

She was attacked and raped by three Braterstwo while walking home from school one day. She was only sixteen at the time. She killed herself that same night.

“I had no weapons, no training. But I was bent on revenge. I stalked those men. I tracked them. I killed the easiest one first. It was the first time I had ever raised a hand to someone, and I slit his throat without hesitation. You have never killed anyone, Anna. But someday, if you intend to take my place, you will have to make that choice. It may fill you with horror or shame. Or perhaps, if you are like me, you’ll find that you feel no remorse, as long as you are justified.”

I nodded again, slowly, looking up into my father’s face.

I have always loved my mother with a love that’s almost like worship. She’s pure kindness and light. She’s a divine goddess on earth, casting joy on everyone around her.

But I was made from my father’s bones. Not divine—fully mortal. My father is the one I take after. When I look into his face, I see myself.

So I already knew, even at six years old, that I wanted to be a boss someday, like him. And that when the time came to kill, I could do it without hesitation. Feeling that I was justified.

“I killed the second man, too,” my father said. “But when I went to kill the third . . . I failed. I was captured by the Braterstwo. I was brought before their boss, Tymon Zajac.

“I thought he would torture and murder me. It’s what I expected. Instead, when he heard what his men had done, he shot his own lieutenant in the head, completing my revenge.”

My father swallowed hard, a muscle jumping in the corner of his jaw. Even all those years later, I saw what that meant to him—that the Other Anna had been fully avenged. I knew he believed her soul could never be at peace otherwise.

I thought that perhaps her soul wasn’t at peace, though. I thought she might be haunting me. She died before I was born—maybe her soul had even been reincarnated in me.

The thought didn’t frighten me. In a strange way, it seemed comforting. If the Other Anna had become a vengeful spirit, it would only make me stronger.

My father continued. “What I learned in that moment is that the Braterstwo had honor. They had a moral code. They were not simply criminals, as I’d believed. Tymon Zajac looked at me. He didn’t see a poor, skinny child. He saw that I was like him. Or that I could be like him someday.

“He offered me a position at his side. He taught and trained me. And he told me the history of the Braterstwo, the Bratva, the Italian Mafia, the Penose, the Yakuza. Each has its own genesis and development. But like any ecosystem, we have grown, collaborated, battled, and aligned over time. And like many ancient families, we have ancestors in common.

“Many of the criminal families today can trace their ancestry to the Thieves’ Guilds of the Medieval Era. That guild had its headquarters at Kingmakers.”

I had finally interrupted him then, too interested to listen quietly any longer.

“What does it look like?” I demanded, even though he’d told me before.

My father gave me a description of the island and the castle fortress, which he had described for me many times, but I always wanted to hear it again. If he left anything out, I reminded him.

“Then there’s the towers—” he said.

“ Six towers!” I cried, not wanting any detail omitted.

“A library?—”

“In the tallest tower!”

“That’s right,” he smiled.

My father’s smile is not like my mother’s. Her smile is so warm that it lights up the room. Her eyes crinkle up, her cheeks flush pink, and you feel like she’s laughing, and you have to laugh, too.

My father’s smile is thin and subtle. It doesn’t show his teeth. But it runs over you like an electric shock. He is just as mesmerizing as my mother, in his own way. They are Hades and Persephone: the King of the Underworld, and the Queen of Summer.

I always knew I would come to Kingmakers. And now that I’m here, it doesn’t disappoint. Every stone, every doorway seems stuffed with antiquity and intrigue. I want to get to know every inch of this place. I want to imprint my own history on its walls so that a piece of me will remain here long after I’m gone.

As I walk into the dining hall, I see Leo already sitting with Ares, each attacking a massive platter of bacon and eggs. I dish up my own plate from the silver chafing dishes set out for us, and I grab a pot of mint tea as well.

So far I’ve found that the food here is simple but extremely good. Fresh-baked bread, meat and produce from the farmland directly around Kingmakers.

“There you are!” Leo says as I sit down. “You almost missed breakfast.”

“Morning,” Ares says, pushing a stone tureen of cream in my direction for my tea.

Ares is dressed neatly in a crisp white button-up, tucked into ironed trousers. His shoes don’t look new, but he’s polished them carefully. I wonder if he likes the uniforms because it makes it less obvious that he’s not as wealthy as the rest of the students.

Leo, by contrast, has not ironed any of his clothes and his shirt is only half tucked in. His dark curls look like he just rolled out of bed, and he’s shoved up his sleeves so he can attack his food more easily, showing his bare brown forearms with veins running up both sides, and his large, long-fingered hands.

As he spears a sausage with his fork, his forearm flexes and I feel strangely warm. Leo is sprawled out in his seat like always, too big to fit comfortably in normal furniture. His long legs are perpetually stretched out under tables and across aisleways, his broad shoulders always taking up more than their fair share of space.

Leo’s loud, too. He talks and laughs with so much animation that every eye in the room is drawn to him. Leo is the sun, and everyone wants the sun shining on their face. Girls flutter around him like moths. Even boys can’t deny his charm. Everyone wants to be friends with him. Everyone wants to be near him.

I have to admit, it’s flattering to be the best friend of a man like that. Everybody wants to spend time with Leo, and he gives that time and attention to me more than anyone.

But lately I can’t enjoy our friendship like I used to. It used to be so pure and simple. Leo was my brother, my confidante, and my partner in crime all rolled into one.

We sailed through every phase of life without anything coming between us. When we went through puberty, I laughed at Leo’s voice cracking and deepening, and he teased me mercilessly about my awful braces and how quickly I shot up in height so that he was the only boy in our class still taller than me.

He started dating girls from our school, and then girls from other schools, and I was never jealous because while they might be his girlfriends, I was his best friend.

I went on a few dates myself, but I never felt that thing you’re supposed to feel, that spark of infatuation. The boys were sometimes nice and sometimes obnoxious, but either way I didn’t appreciate them putting their clumsy hands on me. I never wanted to take things further than an awkward kiss at the end of the night.

I never knew if Leo was taking things further. I assumed he was, because he’s a boy, and wildly popular—he could fuck a different girl every day of the week. But that was the one thing we didn’t talk about. Leo seemed strangely reticent, and since I had no sex stories of my own, it seemed pointless to bring it up.

Our families saw us as cousins, as brother and sister even. I thought I felt the same.

Then, last year, something changed.

All of a sudden I felt a tension that was never there before. I started noticing things about Leo that I don’t want to notice.

When he throws his arm around my shoulders, I breathe in his scent and my heart starts to race. I notice how warm his skin is, and how surprisingly soft. I see how he bites the corner of his lip when he grins, and I get this uncomfortable squeezing in my guts that was never there before.

I tell myself it will stop.

My emotions have never been as stable as Leo’s—it’s something I admire about him. His confidence and optimism are boundless. Whereas I’m often sad or anxious, sometimes for no reason at all.

This just enough swell of emotion, rolling over me like a wave. A bizarre impulse that will fade and die, just like how it rose up out of nothing.

I have to ignore it, even smother it.

Because whatever happens, I can’t risk my friendship with Leo. Nothing is more important to me.

“What’s up with you?” Leo says. “You look grumpier than usual.”

“I’m not,” I say, chewing a piece of bacon.

But I can’t fool Leo.

“What’s wrong?” he persists. “You have a bad dream or something?”

He knows I have nightmares. He knows everything about me. Well . . . almost everything.

“No.” I gulp down the hot mint tea. “I just had a weird thing this morning?—”

I don’t want to tell Leo what happened, because I know he’ll laugh his ass off at the image of me running into some dude buck-naked. He’ll never let me hear the end of it. But he’s sure to hear about it anyway, if Kingmakers is anything like high school. A story like that doesn’t stay quiet for long.

Before I can say a word, Leo’s face darkens, and he glares across the dining hall.

“There he is, that fucker…”

“Who?” I turn to look.

“Dean Yenin.”

Leo is staring across the hall not at a stranger, but at the very boy I ran into this morning. I recognize him at once, even though he’s now fully dressed in a green sweater vest and trousers.

I whip my head back around, cheeks flaming.

“That’s Dean?”

I never asked Leo what Dean Yenin looks like. The silver-blond hair, the fair skin, the violet eyes—I’m a fucking idiot. It’s Aunt Yelena’s nephew, clear as day.

Had I not been so embarrassed and annoyed, I would have realized. Now that I’m paying attention, I can even see a faint bruise under his eye—a remnant of his fight with Leo on the deck of the ship.

“That’s him,” Leo says grimly. “Wonder if we’ll have classes with him today.”

“Probably. The Heirs will mostly be together, won’t we?”

“What do you have first?” Ares asks us.

I take my schedule out of my bag. We didn’t select the classes ourselves—it was all determined ahead of time, mailed to us in one of those thick slate gray envelopes that can only mean a missive from Kingmakers.

The Kingmakers letters are hand-written every time. I wonder if that’s because nothing is stored on a computer at this place. They must have a dozen employees with perfect penmanship, because my schedule looks like something torn out of an illuminated manuscript.

It’s not exactly easy to read—Leo squints at the ornate cursive, trying to figure out what the hell his first class even is.

“I think I’ve got . . . History,” he says at last.

“Me too,” I say.

“Me three.” Ares grins.

“Well you better hurry up, then,” Leo says. “We only have five minutes, and I have no clue where the Keep is.”

I fold up one more slice of bacon and stuff it in my mouth, washing it down with a gulp of tea.

“Do you think we’re supposed to clear the dishes?” Ares asks.

“Nope.” Leo nods toward a man in a crisp white apron who’s cleaning off the neighboring table. “Looks like that guy’s doing it.”

Ares hesitates, seeming like he’d rather help, but Leo and I are already slinging our bags over our shoulders.

“Come on,” Leo says. “I don’t know what they do if you’re late—string you up on a rack, probably.”

The draconian punishments of the school were spelled out in our rules and regulations list. But so far, it’s all theoretical, so it’s easy for Leo to joke about it.

I don’t feel quite as sanguine. I’ve never known anything to be a joke in the mafia world.

Our acceptance letters clearly spelled out the Rule of Recompense.

Students from all over the world come to attend Kingmakers. There’s a heavier concentration of Italian, Irish, and Russian students, because those are the territories closest to the school. But with children from all countries and families, and plenty more grudges than the one between Leo and Dean, they have to be strict about violence.

They know that fights will break out—it’s inevitable with so many young hotheads used to solving every problem with their fists.

The one thing we have in the back of our minds at all times, reminding us never to go too far over the line, is the Rule of Recompense.

If any student injures, disfigures, or maims another student, the same injury will be applied to them.

There’s no arguing. No appeal. To prevent an endless cycle of retaliations between families, the punishment is applied immediately and swiftly.

If you break someone’s arm, your arm will be broken too. If you put out their eye, they’ll pluck yours right out of the socket. And if you kill someone . . . well, that’s the last thing you’ll do.

That’s why my father was worried about Leo coming here with me. He knows Leo has a temper. And it wouldn’t be the first time Leo has pulled me into trouble right along with him.

“Come on!” Leo grabs my arm and tugs me along, since I’m too slow gathering up my bookbag. “Where do you think the classroom is?” he asks Ares.

“I think most of the classes are in the Keep,” Ares says.

The Keep is the largest building at Kingmakers. It’s five stories high, with staircases built into the thickness of the stone walls. This would be the last stronghold of the castle, if all the other outer walls fell to invaders.

I don’t think anyone has ever actually attacked Kingmakers—it’s too far out in the middle of nowhere. But if someone were to try, before the era of drone strikes and bombers, it would have been almost impossible to scale the cliffs or breach its fortress walls.

We find our classroom just in time, located on the second floor of the Keep. It’s a large, airy room, the walls covered with antique maps and the blackboard already crowded with chalk diagrams of family trees and endless notations in a fine, spidery script.

Leo, Ares, and I slip into three of the remaining desks in the front row. The professor closes the door only a moment after, striding to the front of the class.

She’s a tall, dark-haired woman, about forty, wearing a perfectly-fitted suit and a pair of elegant horn-rimmed glasses. Her husky voice instantly claims the attention of the room.

“ If you don’t know history, then you don’t know anything ,” she says. “ You are a leaf that doesn’t know it is part of a tree . Who said that?”

She looks around at us, her demand echoing in a room that has fallen so silent that you can almost hear our individual heartbeats.

“Was it . . . Churchill?” an Irish boy with untidy brown hair asks, hesitantly.

“No,” Professor Thorn says. Her lips curve up in a small smile. “It was Michael Crichton. Authors tend to note the repetitive cycles of events. They look for patterns in behavior, cause and effect. What about this one: A man who has no sense of history is like a man who has no ears or eyes ?”

She waits for us to respond. This time, no one has the temerity to guess.

“That was Hitler,” she says with a wicked smile. “I don’t think he took his own advice.”

She turns and writes on the blackboard in that fine, flowing script.

“La Cosa Nostra,” she says, speaking aloud the words as they unfurl from the tip of her dusty chalk. “Giuseppe Esposito was the first Sicilian Mafia member to emigrate to America. He fled there, along with six of his men, after killing the Chancellor and Vice-Chancellor of his province, along with eleven oligarchs.

“The Italian Mafia spread from New York to New Orleans, and then to Chicago. Several families rose and fell from power—first the Black Hand, then the Five Points Gang, then Al Capone’s Syndicate.

“This semester we will study the history of the Italian Mafia in Italy and America. Then we will move on through the various families represented at Kingmakers, until we have covered each and every one by the end of your fourth year.”

She frowns at us, perceiving the thrill of excitement in the students of Italian descent.

“Don’t be too happy,” she says sternly. “Every semester, the students that fail are the ones who think that they already know everything that I’m about to teach them. Trust me, you don’t. Every year you Freshmen prove yourselves shockingly ignorant of your own history, the history of your country, and the history of your friends and enemies. You’ve probably been told more legends than truths by your relatives. Memory is fallible. And no one is more prone to self-serving reconstructions than those who believe they can write their destiny at will.”

I can feel Leo getting restless next to me. I don’t even have to look at him to know that he’s probably gazing around the room to see what the other students think of this speech or trying to peer out the windows which run down only one side of the classroom.

Whereas I feel electric excitement at Professor Thorn’s words. I’ve always loved history. You live a thousand lives when you learn about the people who came before you, and you can take their lessons as your own.

I spend the next ninety minutes scribbling furiously in my notebook as Professor Thorn recounts the origins of the Cosa Nostra in Sicily.

Leo doesn’t bother taking any notes, safe in the assurance that he can copy mine later.

That doesn’t bother me. I’m more annoyed by the fact that Leo is so clever that he can get away with barely paying attention to the professors’ lectures, scoring almost as high as me on exams without even trying.

Ares writes slowly and steadily in his notebook. His stubby pencil disappears inside of his large hand, bent so far over his notebook that his nose almost touches the page. I can’t tell if he’s as fascinated by the lecture as I am, or simply very focused.

Behind Ares, Hedeon Gray stares at the professor with an irritated expression. I don’t think I’ve seen him make any other face yet—he’s good-looking, but perpetually sulky.

Professor Thorn has a fascinating narrative style. Her history lesson is not at all dry. How could it be, when the history of the mafia is studded with conniving deals, double-crosses, and, of course, murder?

I barely look up from my notebook the entire ninety minutes. In fact, I’m surprised when the professor breaks off mid-sentence, saying, “That’s all the time for today. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

With that, she turns and strides out of the room, without bothering to bid us goodbye.

Leo practically rockets up out of his seat. “God, I thought that would never end.”

“I liked it,” I say.

“Of course you did.” Leo rolls his eyes. “You like learning.”

I laugh. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“What about you?” Leo demands of Ares. “Were you actually enjoying that?”

Ares shrugs. “I didn’t know barely any of it. I’ll probably have to study a lot.”

Leo snorts. “Nobody cares about grades here. It’s all about who wins the challenges.”

We have to change clothes before our next class. It’s a combat class, which means gym uniforms and sneakers.

I make sure to turn into the correct changing room, deliberately averting my eyes from the spot where I collided with Dean next to the showers.

The gymnasium is located in what used to be the Armory.

It’s a dim, cool space. The floors are soft with thick mats. Ancient medieval weapons hang from hooks on the walls: battle axes, swords, and morning stars, and then over on the far side of the room a selection of Asian katanas, bo staffs, and throwing stars. I assume these are for decoration and not something we’ll actually learn to use. But I can’t be certain of anything at Kingmakers.

There’s only four girls in the combat class, including me. The boys gaze hungrily at us in our shorts. We’ve only been out of civilization a couple of days, and already they’ve got the look of starving dogs.

I walk past Dean and Bram lounging on a pile of mats. Bram lets out a low wolf-whistle and Dean smirks. I’m sure he told Bram what happened.

Well, fuck them both .

Professor Howell joins us on the mats. He’s medium height, trim and fit, dressed in an olive-green t-shirt and cargo pants. He faces us, hands clasped behind his back, smiling pleasantly.

“Good morning, students,” he says. “In our combat class, you will be learning a variety of martial arts, self-defense, and weapons techniques. You’ll have separate classes to learn artillery and explosives. This semester, we will be focusing on Krav Maga. As you may already know, it’s a military self-defense and fighting system used by the Israel Defense Forces. It includes a combination of techniques drawn from aikido, boxing, wrestling, karate, and judo.”

His keen dark eyes scan our group, looking over each student in turn.

“You.” He points to the largest boy, a bull-like behemoth with straw-colored hair and trunk-like thighs stretching the limits of his gym shorts. “Come up here.”

The boy obliges, the gym mats indenting deeply under each of his steps.

“What’s your name?” the professor asks him.

“Bodashka Kushnir.” The boys smiles with an uneasy mixture of bravado and nerves.

“The primary tenet of Krav Maga is acting instinctively under high-stress and unpredictable circumstances…” The professor regards the blond boy with a teasing glint in his eye. “How would you describe your current level of combat skill, my friend?”

Bodashka considers. Goaded on by his friends watching, he grins and says, “High.”

“Excellent.” The professor nods. “I thought so just by looking at you. Why don’t we give a simple demonstration then? Attack me, and if I’m able, I’ll formulate a defense.”

Bodashka seems to be gaining confidence by the moment. He lifts his fists, facing the much smaller professor. The sense of anticipation in the room is high. His Bratva pals cheer him on, while the rest of us suspect what’s about to happen.

The boy rushes the professor, throwing two jabs, a hard right cross, and then a surprisingly nimble kick to the face.

The professor barely has to shift his stance to block each one. Even though the blows are thrown with full strength, it’s Bodashka who winces as the professor uses his elbows, forearms, and shoulder to deflect the strikes.

As Bodashka throws his last desperate roundhouse kick at the professor’s head, Professor Howell ducks and neatly sweeps the boy’s leg out from under him, sending him crashing down on the mats.

The gym echoes with the force of the boy hitting the ground, the air knocked out of him despite the cushioning mats.

“I’m sure you’ve all heard the expression, ‘the bigger they are, the harder they fall,’ ” the professor says dryly. “Beware a smaller opponent with a lower center of mass.”

He helps the chastened Bodashka up from the ground, then uses him to demonstrate several basic blocks.

Once we all seem to understand the lesson, he splits up into pairs to practice.

“You wanna have a go?” Leo asks.

It’s not the first time we’ve fought. I’ve been wrestling and boxing Leo since we were old enough to stand.

I grin at him. “Why not?”

We face off, waiting for the professor’s signal to begin.

I wait for Leo to make the first move.

He takes a playful jab at me, and I slip it easily, knowing that’s not even close to his top speed. He’s got those damn long arms, so I have to either dance way outside his reach, or rush inside to hit him before he can get me.

Leo takes another playful swing, and as I try to duck it, he goes for my leg exactly like the professor did. Even though I see it coming, he’s so damn fast that he still manages to knock my right leg out from under me. I recover by rolling between his legs, jumping up and popping him in the kidney from behind.

“You little asshole,” Leo says, seizing me by the wrist and twisting my arm up behind my back.

I try to wrench my wrist out of his grasp before he can get me in a hold, but it’s impossible. Faster than I can think, he’s got my arm pinned behind my back, and his other arm wrapped around my waist, the weight of his whole body bearing down.

“Submit,” he growls in my ear.

“Fucking never,” I hiss back at him.

“Don’t make me break your arm on the first day of school…” I can hear him grinning without seeing his face.

I stomp hard on his foot, forcing him to release me right as the professor calls time.

Leo backs off, chuckling. But someone is watching us.

Dean stares, his glinting eyes the only sign of life in his stiff, pale face.

Leo follows my gaze.

“See something you like?” he says, aggressively.

“I already saw it this morning,” Dean replies in his low, cold voice.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, she didn’t tell you?” Dean smirks. “Your girlfriend and I had an intimate encounter this morning.”

“Oh yeah?” Leo laughs. “How early? Sounds like you were still asleep and dreaming in your bed.”

But when he glances back at me, he can see my cheeks burning.

“What’s he talking about?” Leo mutters, brows drawing together.

“Nothing.” I shake my head.

“What did?—”

We’re interrupted by the professor asking for another volunteer. Scared off by the fate of the last volunteer, nobody raises their hand. Only Dean steps forward.

“I’ll do it.”

“Step on up.” Professor Howell gestures to the empty space in front of him as if he were inviting Dean to take a comfortable seat on a sofa.

Dean approaches, his eyes fixed on the professor. He has neither the bravado nor the nervousness of the first volunteer. He radiates a cool confidence that has all of us watching intently, none more than Leo.

“A simultaneous block and strike can be highly effective,” the professor says, demonstrating an outside block with his right arm and a counter strike with the heel of his palm in the direction of Dean’s face. “I’ll attack. Let’s see if our friend here can both defend and counter strike.”

Professor Howell comes at Dean without warning, firing two quick punches and an elbow to his face. Dean narrowly avoids all three, ducking and weaving in neat, tight movements.

As the professor aims a fourth punch at Dean’s face, Dean knocks it aside and manages to tap the professor in the chest with a short, tight punch. As quick as the blow was, we all hear the impact. The professor is pushed back on his heels.

Dean’s speed and precision are flawless. I can tell by Leo’s silence that even he can’t deny that Dean knows how to fight.

“Well done,” Professor Howell says approvingly.

Dean nods, accepting the praise without comment. But I see a muscle jump in the corner of his jaw. He’s pleased.

“Pair up to practice,” the professor says.

This time Leo isn’t nearly as playful. We spar with each other, practicing counterstrikes. He’s not really watching me—he keeps glancing across the room at Dean.

Because he’s not paying attention, I hit him hard on the right cheekbone.

“Ow.” He rubs the side of his face.

“Get it together,” I say without sympathy.

He looks at me, his eyes searching my face. I’ve seen Leo’s eyes up close enough times to have memorized their exact color. They’re not brown, not really: instead, there’s a dark, smoky outer ring, almost as black as the pupil itself. Then a bright amber iris that makes me think of an animal in the jungle—a tiger or a panther. A predator that can see in the dark.

Those eyes can be warm and laughing. Or they can be ferocious and feral, as they are right now. Studying me. Examining my every move.

“What was he talking about?” Leo demands.

“Who?”

“Dean,” he says impatiently.

“Oh. It’s nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing. I saw your face. What was it?”

I sigh, rolling my eyes to buy time because I really don’t want to have to explain this.

“We bumped into each other this morning in the changing room. He’s just trying to give me shit ‘cause he saw me naked.”

“He saw you naked?” Leo hisses.

“Yeah,” I shrug, “but who cares?” It doesn’t?—”

Leo isn’t listening. He’s glaring over at Dean again, fists clenched and jaw rigid. He’s tense and coiled, like he wants to sprint over there and jump on Dean and beat the ever-loving shit out of him.

“Hey!” I say. “We’re supposed to be?—”

Leo rounds on me.

“Why didn’t you tell me that this morning?”

“What are you talking about?”

“At breakfast. Why didn’t you tell me that happened?”

He’s glaring at me, cheeks flushed. He looks angry, but I know Leo well enough to see something else in his face. Something more like hurt, or suspicion.

“I don’t know,” I stammer. “The whole thing was stupid . . .”

“If he touches you again—” Leo growls.

“He’s not going to touch me. Leo, you need to chill the fuck out?—”

Before I can say anything else, the professor is calling the class to order again.

Leo is still simmering, his eyes returning to Dean on the other side of the room again and again.

And Dean looks back at us—not as often, but with a cold fury that easily matches Leo’s heat.

My stomach is churning. Classes have barely begun and already Leo’s getting into some kind of vendetta with Dean.

This isn’t at all how I wanted to start at Kingmakers.