Kingmakers, Year One

18. Anna

18

ANNA

C hristmas at Kingmakers is depressing. We aren’t allowed to go home to see our families. We can’t send them gifts, either, though they’re permitted to send one package to us.

I receive mine the week before the holidays. It contains four new novels that I’m sure my mother picked out, because they all have beautiful hardcovers with gold leaf and illustrations.

My father sent me a new charm for the bracelet he gave me six years ago. It’s a tiny golden compass, that actually opens and shuts on its minuscule hinge. I wonder if it’s meant to symbolize me finding my way home again eventually, or if it’s supposed to point me in the direction I should go next.

Cara sent me a packet of pretty stationery so I can keep writing to her, and Whelan drew me a picture of him riding on the back of a dragon, gleefully torching a village below. I hang it up over my bed.

Classes go on as usual, but in an effort to make the holiday festive, the teachers are throwing a party on Christmas Eve—the first official party of the school year.

We’re supposed to dress up. I tell Dean that I don’t want to go together, not as a couple, but I do agree dance with him.

Zoe Romero promises to attend with us as well. She doesn’t come to the off-the-books student parties, for fear that someone will rat her out to her heavy-handed parents.

Zoe is the third Freshman Heir in our dorm. I’ve been spending more time with her since Leo and I haven’t been on the best terms.

Zoe, Chay, and I have formed an unlikely trio. Chay didn’t like Zoe at first because she thought she was too serious and stuck-up, and Zoe I’m sure was annoyed by the constant parade of friends Chay invites to come hang out in the common room right outside Zoe’s door.

Zoe spends most of her time studying because her parents are strict and demanding, expecting a constant accounting of her grades and requesting that her cousins at the school keep a close eye on her in case she dares to transgress the bounds of the restrictive marriage pact they signed when Zoe was only twelve years old.

Zoe is engaged to one of the Juniors, a German Heir named Rocco Prince. Chay already knew him, because they attended boarding school together. That’s how she and Zoe finally bonded—over their mutual hatred of Rocco.

“He cut off a little kid’s ear in the village outside our school for no fucking reason at all,” Chay says. “Even the teachers were scared of him.”

“I loathe him,” Zoe says quietly.

Her family didn’t want her to attend Kingmakers at all. They only agreed to it because Zoe said she wouldn’t go through with the marriage otherwise. The wedding date is already set for a week after graduation.

Chay and I learn all this when Miles gives me a bottle of Ballantine’s smuggled in from the mainland, and I invite Zoe to drink it with us. She’s safe taking a drink in our room where no one can see her, and she obviously needs it—she’s been looking pale and somber all week.

“Is Rocco ever halfway decent?” I ask Zoe.

“Never,” Zoe says with a shudder. “He’s too smart to do anything out in the open—at least anything that our families would view as crossing the line. But the things I’ve heard . . . the rumors . . . he makes me sick. He’s been staring at me like he wants to peel my skin off since I was a little girl. And he has no sense of humor whatsoever. I’ve never heard him laugh.”

Since Zoe is one of the most serious people I’ve ever met, I can hardly picture someone even more humorless.

“Why are you going through with it, then?” Chay asks. “You’re the Heir, aren’t you? You’ve got other options.”

Zoe says,“My father would kill me if I didn’t. He already hates me for being born a girl. Every time he sets some impossible standard for me, I meet it, thinking I’ll win him over eventually. He only despises me more. Well, he finally thought of a way to make me what he wants—powerless and miserable.”

I ask, “What if you ran away?”

It’s not a brilliant plan, just the first that occurs to my tipsy brain. It’s hard to hide in the underworld. Mafia families are much too practiced in tracking down traitors, thieves, and witnesses.

Zoe shakes her head for a different reason. “I have a sister. Catalina is only a year younger than me. Even if I could do it, my parents might scratch my name off the marriage contract and write hers instead. I’d only be dropping my burden onto her shoulders.”

She’s quite drunk by this point, though you wouldn’t guess it. She’s still sitting upright in her chair, her voice measured and clipped, with no hint of slurring. I only know she must be intoxicated because I watched her down ten shots with my own eyes. That, and the fact that I’m learning more about Zoe in one hour than I’ve discovered all semester.

“That’s crazy!” Chay cries. She’s much more obviously drunk, her cheeks flushed, and a button torn off the front of her school blouse from when she gestured a little too wildly telling us a story about her very first motorcycle. “What are you gonna do? You can’t just marry this guy and be fucking miserable . . .”

“I don’t know,” Zoe says quietly. “Maybe I’ll turn into a bird and fly away . . .”

A tear slips down her cheek, unnoticed by Zoe as she looks out the window to the stormy sea beyond. Maybe she’s picturing soaring away across the water. Or maybe she’s imagining leaping from those cliffs, whether she can fly or not.

I put my hand over hers, unable to think of anything useful to say.

The next morning we all wake up with raging headaches, after falling asleep in highly uncomfortable positions. I slept in the middle of the floor with a shoe for a pillow.

I think Zoe hopes we were drunk enough to forget what she said.

But I watch how she cringes every time Rocco corners her in the hallways, leaning close to whisper god knows what in her ear.

I see how she stands still as stone while he trails his finger down her cheek, seeming to enjoy his fiancée’s obvious distaste for him.

Soon, I begin to despise Rocco just as much as Zoe and Shay.

The night of the Christmas dance, Chay, Zoe, and I all get dressed together in Chay’s and my shared room.

Our dorm is the smallest but arguably the prettiest on campus. It used to be the Solar, which was the private quarters of the lord and his family. For that reason, Chay’s and my room is much larger than normal, with an actual working fireplace and a large picture window that looks out over the cliffs.

Pippa Portnoy’s room probably belonged to the lord himself—it’s the largest and grandest of all, though I prefer ours since she only faces the Armory. Pippa doesn’t share with anyone, having successfully bullied the other female Heir in her year into taking a far inferior room. Claire Turgenev and Neve Markov, the Sophomore Heirs, room together on the next floor down.

Our room is looking a lot more homey than when we first arrived. Chay and I have hung up dozens of our sketches on the walls. Mine are mostly botanicals and landscapes—bits of the island I’ve seen while exploring. Chay’s are almost all tattoo designs that she intends to put on herself, though I’m not quite sure where she’s going to find the space.

Chay’s mother sent her a hand-knitted blanket as her Christmas package, so her bed is covered in sea-green and blue instead of the usual plain gray. Even my ballet shoes hanging by their ribbons from the armoire add a certain personal touch to the space.

Chay is rooting through her clothes, trying to decide what to wear.

She throws a dark ombré dress down on my bed.

“That would suit you.”

I didn’t think to bring any formal gowns in my suitcase, and I wouldn’t have had room anyway. I like the one Chay is offering—it looks black up on the shoulders and bust, shading down to emerald by the hem.

“Will you do my makeup, too?” I ask her.

“Of course!” She loves when Zoe and I consent to be her Barbie dolls.

Chay gives me a kind of glittery, smoky mermaid eye, and I wear my hair down, tied back at the temples with a black velvet ribbon.

She goes lighter on Zoe because she knows Zoe doesn’t like wearing too much makeup. She doesn’t need it anyway—her skin is clear and glowing, and her thick black lashes and brows look painted on in ink.

Chay is stunning in a flame-red dress with a dramatic slit up the side. She has on a pair of bracelets that looked like steel manacles, and heels that could kill a man. She isn’t dating that idiot Sam anymore, and it’s clear she’s on the hunt for a new paramour.

Zoe looks the loveliest of all in a stark navy dress that covers her from throat to wrist to ankle but can’t conceal the stunning figure underneath. With her long, dark hair pinned up on her head like a crown, she looks like a queen. If she were allowed to dance with anyone she liked at the party, she’d have an endless supply of eager boys lining up.

The Grand Hall on the ground floor of the Keep has been decorated for the party. Strings of golden lights run across the room, forming a kind of canopy overhead like a luminescent tent. A huge table along the wall groans with food, and champagne and wine are on offer, since apparently Kingmakers is honoring the European standards for drinking and not giving a damn that most of us are underage in American terms.

Bram intercepts us as soon as we walk through the door. He gives me a nod that is, for him, friendly. He’s been much more polite since I started dating Dean, which I’m not sure is an improvement.

I have to admit, Bram looks almost handsome in his black tux, with his long hair combed back and his face properly shaved.

He wastes no time in spoiling the effect by slinging his arm over Chay’s shoulder, leaning on her heavily and trying to peer down the front of her dress while he drawls, “Save your first dance for me, princess.”

“You surprise me, Bram,” Chay says cheerfully. “I’ve never seen a pig that could dance!”

Bram’s burly arm tightens painfully around her shoulders, but Chay refuses to flinch. He pinches her chin in the claw of his hand and forces her to look up into his face until their noses are almost touching.

“That big mouth is going to get you into trouble someday,” he snarls at her. “Unless you learn how to use it for its intended purpose . . .”

“Are you talking about sucking cock?” Chay says calmly. “I’m sure you could give me some tips. Seeing as you’ve always got your mouth latched firmly around Dean’s?—”

Before she can finish that sentence and send Bram into a complete rage, Dean says, “Who’s talking about me?”

He came up behind me, silently laying his palm on my lower back so a shiver runs down the length of my spine.

“Nobody,” I say. “Bram was just leaving.”

Bram turns his scowl on me but doesn’t dare say anything with Dean standing right there. He lets go of Chay’s face and stomps off, leaving a wake of fury behind him.

“What’s his problem?” Dean says.

“Nursed too long or not long enough,” Zoe says drily.

Dean gives a little snort. “Is that what causes it?”

He’s in an abnormally good mood, and he looks abnormally handsome, too. He’s wearing a white dinner jacket with a single, pale purple bloom in the lapel. I wondered where he got it—probably out of one of the castle greenhouses.

Seeing my eye land on the flower, he says, “Don’t worry, I got you one too,” and he tucks a matching bloom into the velvet band holding back my hair.

As he does so, I glance across the room and see Leo watching us.

If Dean looks better groomed and better rested than ever, Leo is the opposite. I’ve never seen him such a mess. He hasn’t cut his hair in weeks, and the dark curls look wild. He likewise hasn’t shaved or dressed properly for the dance. He’s just wearing his normal school trousers and a button-up shirt, neither properly pressed.

But it’s his face that haunts me. He’s lost weight, enough that his cheeks look hollow and his whole frame is slightly diminished. Maybe it’s just the slump in his shoulders. Leo had always been illuminated by a light so bright it could blind you. Now it’s gone. He looked miserable, exhausted, and just . . . so fucking sad.

It’s killing me seeing him like that.

It must be the stress of the Quartum Bellum . We made it through the first challenge, but only just barely. I know that won’t be good enough for Leo. It’s all or nothing for him. Win, or kill yourself trying.

Leo and I have barely spoken since then. I know he hates that I’m dating Dean.

Maybe he misses me. I know I miss him—horribly and constantly. But I don’t kid myself that’s the reason he looks so distraught. Dean was right about one thing: Leo had his whole life to make a move on me, if that’s what he wanted. He never did. And when I tried to make something happen, he took the first opportunity to blow it up in my face.

That’s what I decided since that night—whether Leo consciously meant to hurt me or not, he had sabotaged any chance of us being together. He wasn’t ready, or he didn’t want it.

Either way, I’m not going to chase after him. I already opened myself up, made myself vulnerable, and look what it got me: the worst night of my life. I never want to feel pain like that again.

So I look at Leo from across the room, and I raise my hand in a silent wave. Letting him know that there are no hard feelings. That we can still be friends. But it’s better to be friends from a distance, for now. Until I can kill the part of me that still longs to run over there and feel his arms wrapped around me.

When I turn my head straight again, Dean is silently watching me. I know he saw me wave to Leo.

“Do you want to go over there?” Dean’s face is stiff and pale, like it always is when Leo comes up between us.

“No.” I shake my head.

Part of me desperately wants to go over to Leo, to try to heal this rift torn between us. To do whatever it takes to make things right, so we can talk and laugh and be comfortable together like we used to.

The other part of me knows that’s impossible.

Things could never go back to the way they were, so it’s pointless to try.

This is the new reality. Leo over there. Me over here. The Grand Canyon between us.

I grab a glass of champagne off the closest table and gulp it down, trying to convince myself that I’m having fun. I agree to dance with Dean, and I let him waltz me around the floor, forcing myself not to look to see whether Leo is still watching.

Dean smells clean and fresh like always, and he moves with smooth confidence. His hand is strong on the small of my back.

I drink more champagne, then a glass of wine. Dean offers to get me a plate from the buffet, but I shake my head. My stomach is churning too much to eat.

Chay is dancing with Thomas York. He looks dumbfounded, like he can’t believe his luck. She’s danced with half the boys at the party and shows no signs of slowing down.

Zoe hasn’t danced with anyone.

“I’ll probably head back soon,” she says, stifling a yawn behind her hand.

She stiffens as Rocco Prince approaches, his slicked-back hair giving his face a hollow, cadaverous look. His lips are liverish in the dim light.

Zoe stands up to meet him—not out of excitement, I don’t think. More likely because she doesn’t want to be in a vulnerable seated position.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” she says nervously.

“Didn’t know, or hoped I wasn’t?” Rocco says in his low, soft voice. There’s an uncomfortable hissing sound in the way he forms his “s.”

Zoe stays silent, too honest to lie.

“Come.” Rocco takes Zoe’s arm. It isn’t a request—he steers her onto the dance floor, his hand tightly pinching her bicep. Then he forces her through the steps like he’s a puppeteer and she’s the marionette.

“He disgusts me,” I say to Dean, watching them.

“You shouldn’t say that so loud,” Dean replies. “The Princes are powerful. It’s a good match for her.”

“You can practically see her skin crawling.”

Dean shrugs. “Not every alliance is a love match.”

I narrow my eyes at him, annoyed by his complacency. “Your mom was a nurse, not a mafiosi. Your dad married her because he loved her.”

“That’s right,” Dean says coldly. “And look where that got them.”

I take another glass of champagne and swallow it down.

As the night wears on, the music becomes less formal. The playlist shifts from classical to pop, and students crowd onto the makeshift dance floor as waltzing turns into grinding.

Even some of the professors are dancing. I see Professor Thorn looking much less buttoned-up than usual, dressed in a glittering black gown with her dark hair down from its tight bun. She’s being spun around by Professor Howell—no mean feat considering she’s a head taller than him.

Professor Bruce looks like he wants to dance, but Professor Graves is talking away in his ear, his face flushed from what must be his third or fourth glass of wine. I check the breast pocket of Graves’s jacket and can’t help giggling to myself when I see only a sad-looking Bic poking out.

Even Chancellor Luther Hugo makes a brief appearance, sitting down briefly with the ghoulish Professor Penmark, who teaches Torture Techniques, drinking a single glass of port in the overstuffed chairs set in front of the roaring fire, before sweeping out of the room again as quickly as he came.

I rarely see the Chancellor on campus. I don’t even know if he stays at Kingmakers full-time. It’s possible he avoids us students to maintain his aura of authority and danger. Or, alternatively, he might simply be busy with administrative tasks.

The only staff member I don’t see is Miss Robin. That doesn’t surprise me—she’s painfully shy, and a party is the last place I’d expect her to be. She rarely even eats in the dining hall, though plenty of the other professors take their meals along with the students.

I wish she had come. Even though she’s not actually a teacher, she’s my favorite staff member. I bet she’d look pretty all dressed up.

The music switches to a remix of “Candy Shop,” an old favorite that Miles, Leo, and I used to play.

Unable to help myself, I look for Leo again, thinking he won’t miss a chance to dance.

Everyone in our family loves dancing. Miles is right in the thick of it, with a small halo of space around him because he’s really fucking talented and plenty of people just want to watch him.

Leo isn’t next to Miles, however. I spot him sitting at a side table, surrounded by Ares, Matteo, Hedeon, and a few other friends, but not talking to any of them.

Trying to cheer myself up, I join Miles and start doing this silly routine we created when we were about ten years old. It’s old-school hip hop—a whole lot of bust-downs and body rolls and figure-eight sways. Miles jumps right in on it, and for a second I’m happy again and almost laughing, because Miles is smooth as fuck, he’s got swagger and style, and there’s nobody more fun to dance with.

Ozzy is whooping and laughing, trying to copy us, and soon we have a dozen kids trying to learn the routine.

I’m getting pleasantly sweaty, finally feeling that sense of buoyancy again, like everything might work out someway or somehow.

I look up, thinking maybe Leo will join us. He knows the dance as well as I do. But he isn’t sitting at the table anymore. I look around, trying to peer through the press of bodies. I can’t see him anywhere—he’s completely disappeared.

I’m disappointed, and almost angry. I don’t know why I’m angry. Maybe because that bubble of happiness popped as quickly as it came.

I stop dancing after that, but I don’t stop drinking. I lose count of the flutes of champagne I down in a gulp. Dean practically has to carry me back to my dorm an hour later.

He pins me against my door, attacking me with his lips, thrusting his tongue in my mouth, biting and sucking on my neck.

My head is spinning, and I can barely stand up. I don’t know why I feel so miserable and so confused. Nothing went wrong at the dance. It should have been a festive night.

I’m trying to tell Dean to stop, to let me go to bed. I drank too much, and I’m afraid I might throw up from the aggressive kissing.

Before I can get the words out, he shoves my legs apart with his thigh and shoves his hand up under my skirt. He pushes his fingers under the elastic of my underwear and starts rubbing my pussy.

I’m leaning hard on his shoulder, unable to hold myself up. If he wasn’t pinning me to the wall with his weight, I’d fall over. I feel limp and out of control, unable to close my legs with his knee pressing my thigh against the wall and my arms trapped between us.

“Dean, don’t—” I try to say, but he silences me with his mouth on mine. Meanwhile his fingers are stroking up and down my pussy lips, his middle finger grazing over my clit with each pass.

His fingers are getting wetter and wetter, and I know he can feel that as easily as I can. With each stroke of his hand, my clit becomes more sensitive and the warm throbbing spreads down my thighs and up into my belly.

Now his fingers are parting my pussy lips and I knew he’s feeling for my entrance, wanting to slip his fingers all the way inside.

I try to turn my head to the side, but he keeps his lips locked on mine, his tongue shoved into my mouth so I can’t speak.

He pushes one finger inside of me, then two. Meanwhile, his thumb rubs back and forth across my clit, and my pussy clenches helplessly around his fingers.

I can feel his erection through his pants, grinding hard against my hip. I can feel his hunger too—his hot breath and his rabid desire for me. I’m aroused whether I want to be or not. It’s an uneasy mixture of guilt, fear, and desire.

Dean releases my mouth at last and starts sucking hard on the side of my neck while he fingers me roughly.

I can’t stop it, I can’t hold back. I start to come around his fingers. As I shiver and clench, Dean whispers in my ear, “You’re going to give me what I want, Anna. Sooner or later . . .”

January arrives cold and gray. For the first time, I’m truly feeling how lonely and isolated Kingmakers is out in the middle of the ocean. The wind howls at night like it’s trying to tear the castle right off the cliff, and the sea spray freezes into thick, black ice along the balustrades.

Now we’re all making use of the blazers and pullovers that came with our uniforms. The girls are complaining about their skirts, and it’s become a trend to borrow an oversized sweater from the boy you like, because their pullovers are thicker, and if the boy in question is big enough, the sweater will cover your hands and come almost down to your knees.

Dean freely offers his sweater to me, but I don’t take it. I’m annoyed with him. He asked me to eat lunch with him, only to have Bram Van Der Berg and several others of their gang sit down all around us five minutes later.

I don’t like Bram, and I don’t particularly like how Dean behaves when Bram’s around. It brings out the side of Dean that’s callous and even a little cruel.

Bram apparently isn’t enjoying his ham and peas. He’s flicking the unwanted peas in the direction of Matteo Ragusa and Paulie White. Paulie is pretending not to notice the peas hitting his arm, but I can see his thin freckled cheeks turning pink.

I know Dean can see what’s happening just as clearly as I can, but he’s ignoring it entirely, talking to me about our Contracts and Negotiations class that morning. He doesn’t give a fuck about Matteo, who’s a known friend of Leo’s, or Paulie, who’s nerdy and awkward and only an Accountant from a minor mafia family.

Bram launches his next pea particularly hard, hitting Paulie in the ear.

“Could you stop it?” I snap at Bram, interrupting Dean mid-sentence.

“Why should I?” Bram says lazily, setting another pea in his spoon and preparing to launch it over to the next table.

“Because you’re acting like a fucking child.”

“Control your girlfriend,” Bram says to Dean.

Before Dean can say anything to either of us, I whip out my hand and overturn Bram’s plate, sending the remains of his ham, gravy, and peas flopping directly onto his lap.

Bram leaps up from the table, the crotch of his trousers stained with grease and his fists balled at his sides.

Dean and I jump up, too, Dean wedging himself in the middle, facing Bram and simultaneously pushing me back behind him.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dean says to Bram.

“She’s making you soft,” Bram hisses back. “Be careful, or you’ll end up like your father.”

Dean seizes Bram by the front of his shirt and for a second I think they were going to start swinging at each other. But one of the Penose gives a soft whistle, jerking his head toward the doorway where several of the burly kitchen staff are standing watching. The dining hall is not a good place for a fight.

Reluctantly, Dean lets go of Bram. They’re both breathing hard and glaring at each other. Bram steps back slowly, then nods to his Penose. They stride out of the dining hall, leaving only Dean’s Bratva sitting at our table still.

Dean expects me to sit down again too, but I’ve lost my appetite.

“Where are you going?” he demands.

“To my next class.”

He follows right after me and tries to take my arm in the hall. I pull it away from him.

“I don’t need you to escort me.”

“I’m just walking with you,” Dean says, grabbing my arm harder and forcing me to stop. “What’s your problem? I stood up for you with Bram.”

“You didn’t say anything about him being a fucking asshole to Matteo and Paulie, though.”

“Why should I care what he does to them?” Dean scans my face with his purplish eyes, genuinely confused.

“Because he’s a bully.”

“So what? This isn’t an ice cream social, it’s Kingmakers. Bram’s an Heir. They’re nobodies.”

“That doesn’t mean he has to be a dick for no reason.”

I try to keep walking, and again Dean stops me, backing me up against the wall. Now he’s really starting to piss me off.

“You’re an Heir, too,” Dean says, his eyes fixed on mine. “You’re going to have to command men like Bram. You won’t win their respect being sweet and sentimental.”

“I’m not fucking sweet ,” I snarl at Dean. “And I don’t need you to tell me how to be a leader. I’ll control my Braterstwo because they will respect me. Because I’ll have honor and discipline, and I’ll demand the same from them. I’ll cut a man’s throat if I have to. But I won’t torment him for fun.”

With that, I push past him and stomp off to my next class.

I’m angry with Dean for being patronizing. But also because I’m afraid that he might be right. My men will always be looking for signs of weakness in me. I’ll have to be more ruthless than any of them to show that I’m strong, that I have what it takes to be a boss.