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.
“Why didn’t you tell me when I—”
It only takes one look in those crazed eyes to shut my mouth. Dean is fully invested in this game, and that means he’s only too happy to deal out consequences if I disobey. Silently, I stand once more to walk back over to the food.
Dean’s friends watch this parade with avid interest. I’m quite sure that none of them know how Dean acquired his own personal servant, and their curiosity is mixed with envy. For a bunch of power-hungry douchebags, nothing could be more appealing than a girl forced to jump to attention every time they snap their fingers.
I seize a bundle of purple grapes, grown in the vineyards outside the castle grounds, and I ferry them back to Dean like an obedient little waitress. I plop them down next to the milk and resume my seat, praying he doesn’t have any other cravings.
“Feed them to me,” Dean orders.
“. . . You want me to feed you grapes?”
“That’s right,” he smirks.
I hope he chokes on these fucking grapes. I’d like to ram them right down his throat.
Instead, I pluck off one dusky purple orb and hold it out to him. Dean’s full lips part as he opens his mouth.
I place the grape on his tongue. As I pull my hand back, my fingers graze his lower lip. A shiver runs down my spine.
I’m certain Dean sees me twitch. He doesn’t miss a thing.
He bites down hard on the grape, crushing it in his mouth.
“Very good,” he says, in that deathly low voice.
Every boy at the table is staring like they’re watching a peep show.
“What else can you make her do?” Pasha whispers.
I’m sure Dean’s friends aren’t the only ones watching this mortifying display. I don’t dare look over at Anna’s table. She must think I’ve morphed into a masochist in the few short weeks since Chicago.
The problem is that if I can’t look at Anna, and I can’t look at Dean’s leering friends, the only place left to fix my eyes is on Dean himself.
Strangely, his injuries, the marks of his mortality, only make Dean seem all the more inhuman because he refuses to acknowledge them. Refuses to be cowed or humbled.
I watched Dean win that boxing tournament almost unscathed. I’d hate to meet the man who actually landed a blow on him.
“Another,” he says, his eyes drilling into mine.
I pluck another grape off the stem, lifting it to his lips.
This time, his tongue slides against the ball of my thumb as he takes it from my fingers. That instant of wet, hot friction sends a flushing warmth through my whole body. I know my face is bright red, I know I’m squirming in my seat. I don’t understand how my body can