The Spy by Sophie Lark

18

Ares

Because it’s been such a warm autumn, there’s no need for the shelter of the old stables on campus. Tonight’s party is taking place down on the Moon Beach.

You can’t actually swim on the beach—the riptides are too strong. But the crescent of white sand, and the black star-speckled sky overhead, and the crashing waves close at hand, all add to the wild air of two hundred students ready to cut loose.

Dean Yenin and Bram Van Der Berg have organized tonight’s festivities. In Dean’s usual overachieving way, he’s built not one, but four separate bonfires that blaze away like vast torches, calling everyone down from the school.

The air glows smoky red, the popping sparks and the scent of burning pine singing my nose.

I followed Hedeon down here, sticking close by his side as my mother advised.

Music blares from several speakers hung from the trees. Students are already peeling off their shirts in the combined heat of the bonfires. It only makes us look more savage as we dance on the uneven sand.

Uprising — Muse

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I’m surprised to see Hedeon also strip off his shirt, baring the awful scars on his back and arms. Usually he keeps his torso covered at all times. He throws the t-shirt aside with a defiant snarl, looking around like he’s daring anyone to comment.

Even his chest is burned and slashed, though not as badly as his back. One of his nipples is missing.

I catch several students peeking at him with shocked expressions. But the more bootleg liquor is passed around, not to mention handfuls of party drugs sold at outrageous prices by a Senior Spy called Louis Faucheux, the less anyone seems to notice.

Hedeon isn’t the first scarred mafioso. Bram has plenty of scars from his habit of getting in fistfights with anyone who annoys him, and Dean has a freshly fucked-up back that almost rivals Hedeon’s.

It’s always been Hedeon’s anger that repelled people, not his appearance.

I see that anger burning in his eyes more furiously than ever tonight.

He’s watching Ilsa Markov as she dances on the opposite side of the nearest bonfire.

Considering that she lives and studies with almost exclusively male students, Ilsa has a surprising amount of female friends. She’s funny, boisterous, and popular, in a way that makes me think half those girls have a crush on her. They’re certainly trying to dance as close to Ilsa as possible, with admiring looks at her athletic physique.

Ilsa is a blue-eyed Wonder Woman with a glossy dark ponytail, Amazonian thighs, and extreme confidence. A second circle of boys surrounds her group, led by Bodashka Kushnir and Pasha Tsaplin, who both hail from Moscow and have lusted after Ilsa since long before any of them came to Kingmakers.

Bodashka and Pasha are two of the conspirators who think my family’s territory is ripe for takeover since my father’s “absence” and my uncle’s “betrayal” have left us vulnerable to attack.

I’d like to walk over there right now and smash their heads together. They’re drunk enough that I could do it.

But I have to focus on Hedeon instead.

He approaches Ilsa directly, cutting through the group of giggly girls, drawing the angry scowls of Bodashka and Pasha, who had hoped to swoop in any moment.

Ilsa gives Hedeon an appraising look, her eyes roaming over his bare torso. Hedeon stands firm under her scrutiny, arms folded over his chest.

“I didn’t think you danced,” she says.

“I didn’t come over here to dance,” Hedeon replies.

“Come to offer me a drink, then?”

“No.”

Now a gleam of curiosity flares in those indigo eyes.

“What, then? Arm wrestle? Footrace? Ares knows there’s no better foreplay,” Ilsa says, shooting me a sly look.

I keep my expression neutral, though I can feel my neck getting hot, and not from the fire.

It’s impossible to do anything at Kingmakers without someone seeing and guessing exactly what’s in your head.

Ilsa knows the thrill of physical competition. She knows damn well that chasing after Nix gets my blood pumping in more ways than one.

Luckily, Hedeon isn’t going to be distracted.

“I want to talk to you,” he says to Ilsa doggedly.

“Alright.” She shrugs, abandoning her clique of blushing girls.

Ilsa and Hedeon stalk off across the sand to a slightly quieter patch of beach. Neither of them questions why I’m following along after them. Hopefully Hedeon thinks I’m offering moral support.

“What is it?” Ilsa says, standing with legs apart and arms crossed over her chest just as boldly as Hedeon himself.

Ilsa’s older sister Neve is Heir. She’s made no secret that Ilsa will be her lieutenant. Both girls surely know that in our world, the slightest sign of feminine weakness would be deadly to them. They have to be more decisive, more intimidating, and more ruthless than any man, or the Bratva jackals will come for them, just as they’re trying to come for my family.

Hedeon can feel the challenge radiating out of Ilsa just as I can. He’s choosing his words carefully. He won’t get anything out of Ilsa if he offends her.

“I saw a picture of one of your relatives in the annex,” he says. “Evalina Markov—she was a Captain in the Quartum Bellum.”

“That’s right,” Ilsa says proudly. “She won twice.”

“I saw that . . .” Hedeon says. “But then, she didn’t compete in her Senior year. And I thought that was odd.”

“She wasn’t at school her Senior year,” Ilsa replies promptly.

Hedeon licks his lips, trying to hide his eagerness.

“Why?” he says. “Where did she go?”

“She married my uncle Donovan.”

I see Hedeon’s chest rising and falling rapidly. He’s wondering if Uncle Donovan might be his father. Evalina Markov and Donovan Dryagin might have given their baby away to hide the accidental pregnancy, then married afterward.

“Was your uncle at Kingmakers, too?” Hedeon asks, his voice shaking slightly.

Ilsa shakes her head.

“No. Donovan is ten years older,” she says. “They were betrothed when she was, I dunno, fourteen or something. He had to wait for her to grow up a little. You know how it was then.” She rolls her eyes. “How it still is now, for some families.”

Hedeon locks eyes with me.

We both know that means Dryagin can’t possibly be Hedeon’s father. Dryagin was ten years older, established in his career, and had the blessing of the Markovs. If he had impregnated Evalina over the summer holiday, she would simply have dropped out of school and married him, as she apparently did in her Senior year.

The hasty adoption surely shows that Evalina fell pregnant from someone other than her fiancé.

Now Ilsa is frowning, watching the silent communication pass between Hedeon and me.

“Why are you two so curious about my aunt?” she demands.

“I’m not,” Hedeon grunts, with a passable imitation of his usual surliness. “It’s Leo who wanted to know. You know he’s trying to break the record of all the previous Captains.”

“He better hope Adrik Petrov doesn’t kill him if he does.” Ilsa grins. “I met him once in St. Petersburg—he’s pure animal, that one.”

It’s the first time I’ve seen Ilsa admit admiration of anyone. I have to hide my smile, knowing how much Adrik would love to hear it.

“So . . . do you want that drink, then?” Hedeon says to Ilsa.

I don’t know if he’s covering his tracks, pretending to hit on her after all, or if he’s as sucked in by her beauty and boldness as Bodashka and Pasha.

“No thanks,” Ilsa says, tossing her head. “But . . . you can come dance if you want.”

She strides back across the sand, walking as easily as if it were firm ground.

“You gonna go dance with her?” I ask Hedeon.

“No,” he says, looking at me like I’m insane. “I’m not gonna grind on somebody who might be my cousin.”

“Oh, right,” I say, trying to hold back the slightly-hysterical laugh that wants to bubble up inside me.

It’s impossible. I let out a snort, and then a full laugh.

To my surprise, Hedeon chuckles too. His laugh is strangely soft compared to his rough features.

“She’d only be like . . . your second cousin,” I say, trying to compose myself.

“You’ve been hanging around Anna and Leo too long,” he says, shaking his head at me.

That only makes me laugh harder.

“Anyway, she’s not my type,” Hedeon says.

“Oh yeah? What’s your type?”

Hedeon doesn’t answer me. But a few minutes later when we join Dean, Cat, and Bram by the fire, I see him scanning the jostling crowd of students. Looking for someone.

I can’t keep an eye on him any longer. Sabrina and Nix have just made their appearance on the edge of the sand.

A dozen heads turn in their direction—in Sabrina’s direction, most likely. I’ll admit, she’s looking particularly stunning in a silver dress that shimmers like scales.

But it’s Nix who captures my attention, immediately and irrevocably.

I’ve never seen her dressed up before.

She still looks like herself. Everything is just . . . more.

She’s got her hair braided on the sides, running back along the crown before loosening into curls again. The smoky shadow around her eyes makes her green irises look pale and serpentine. Her cheekbones are sharper, her mouth wide and firm.

She looks like a Viking princess, here to celebrate her victory.

She’s dressed all in black—trousers as usual, but this time in a silky material that gleams in the firelight. Her cropped tank top shows a slice of flat, hard abdomen above the waistband of her pants.

I’m drawn to her like a fish on a line, reeled in.

“There you are,” I say. “What took you so long?”

“I put on makeup and better clothes,” Nix says, with that raw honesty that grabs hold of me every time, like a fist in my guts. “I wanted to impress you.”

“It worked,” I say. “You’re stunning.”

“Do you like me better this way?” she asks, looking up into my face to see the truth of my answer, whatever I might say.

“I like you best outdoors,” I tell her. “On the beach, in the woods . . . anywhere outside. It’s where you belong.”

She smiles, letting out the breath she was holding.

“I agree,” she says.

“Do you dance?”

“I like dancing. Whether I’m good at it is a different question . . .”

Desire — Meg Myers

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I don’t know if I’m a great dancer either.

Nix and I seem to move well together, and that’s all that matters. Song after song flows by, faster than I can count them. I’m transfixed by the way Nix’s hair flares gold, copper, and scarlet in the firelight, and how the smoke mixes with the scent of her skin.

Sabrina has already been snatched up by Kenzo Tanaka, who looks overjoyed at his good luck—until Bram cuts in and steals her away.

Anna and Leo are dancing the way they always do, extremely close together, looking into each other’s faces, talking and laughing the whole time.

Caleb Griffin asks Chay Wagner to join him on the sand and she agrees, unembarrassed to be seen with a Freshman since everyone knows she’s in a long-distance love affair with Ozzy.

I spot Kade Petrov dancing with Lucy Turgenev. Kade throws several cautious looks back at Tristan Turgenev to be sure Tristan doesn’t mind his friend grinding with his little sister in a (mostly) respectful manner.

Tristan is paying zero attention, distracted by Cat’s friend Perry Saunders who’s hanging off his arm, babbling away at him with an expression of intense admiration plastered across her face. When he tries to escape, several more Sophomore and Junior girls surround him, drowning him in the celebrity adoration that comes from winning a challenge, even in third place.

Hedeon hasn’t asked anyone to dance. He’s standing at the edge of the sand, sipping a drink, watching everyone else. His face is deeply shadowed, the marks on his body dark as tattoos, almost seeming to writhe in the shifting firelight.

Then Cara Wilk steps into view, waving shyly to her sister. She’s dressed simply in a pale blue dress, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She dips her bare toes into the sand, her shoes abandoned in the grass.

Before she can join Anna and Leo, Hedeon cuts across the crowd of students, roughly shouldering aside anyone who stands in his way. He blocks Cara’s path, glowering down at her.

Cara looks up at him, wide-eyed and startled, lips parted.

“Do you want to dance with me?” he grunts.

Cara’s reply is so soft that I can’t make it out over the music. She must have agreed because Hedeon pulls her onto the sand.

Anna is the ballerina, Cara the writer. Yet Cara has enough of her sister’s grace that she slips into a smooth and even sensual rhythm within the rough circle of Hedeon’s arms.

Dancing seems to relax her. Within a few minutes, she’s able to look Hedeon in the face and answer his questions without blushing too much.

Hedeon doesn’t take his eyes off hers, not for a second. His hand rests possessively on the small of her back.

Nix observes their interactions with the same interest as me.

“Opposites attract,” she says, smiling slightly.

“Do you think that’s true?” I ask her.

“Sure,” she says, her eyes locking on mine once more, Hedeon and Cara forgotten. “I’d never want to be with someone with my same flaws.”

“What flaws?” I laugh.

“Horrible temper, obviously. Always blurting out stupid things . . .”

“Not stupid,” I correct her. “Just honest.”

“I’m a grudge holder, too,” she admits. “My father never forgives. And I think . . . I’m too much like him.”

My stomach clenches. “What would you hold a grudge about?” I ask her.

“I hate being lied to,” she says, her green eyes looking into mine, unbearably clear and direct. “It’s why I’ve been so angry with my father since I came here. I thought he was honest with me. And now I realize there’s things he didn’t tell me. Lies of omission are still lies.”

I have the horrible, panicked feeling that she knows. That she’s talking about me, not her father.

“Honesty can be difficult,” I say, through stiff lips. “Not everyone knows themselves as well as you.”

“He knows his reputation, whether he agrees with it or not,” Nix says, angrily, bright spots of color in her cheeks. “He could have warned me.”

I let out a breath.

She really does mean her dad.

“Well, he let you come here at least.”

“I’d like to see him stop me,” Nix says, her color only rising.

If anyone could fight Marko Moroz tooth and claw, I think it’s his daughter.

“God,” Nix groans, as her leg twitches beneath her. “Aren’t you sore? I’m fucking dying from that challenge.”

“Come on,” I say, leading her off the sand, toward the stand of trees surrounding the beach.

“Where are you taking me?” Nix asks, noting the pairs and trios of students who have already crept off this way to find a secluded spot for their intimate activities.

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to seduce you,” I say.

Possibly another lie.

I can’t take my eyes off her. My cock has been hard all night from every brush of her thigh against mine.

It doesn’t help when Nix says in her low, throaty voice, “I’m not worried.”

Our eyes meet and slide apart.

“Sit here,” I say, indicating the base of an almond tree.

Nix lowers herself down gingerly, her legs unwilling to bend in the normal way.

I take her thighs across my lap. Gently, carefully, I begin to massage her quads. I start down by the knees, rubbing my thumbs in small circles where the muscle fibers meet the kneecap.

“Ohhh, Jesus,” Nix groans, her head titled back and her long, creamy throat exposed to the moonlight. “Why does that feel so good?”

“It’s one of the biggest muscle groups. Lactic acid builds up . . . feels good to release it.”

I work my way upward, using the heels of my palms to run up and down the long strings of muscle.

Nix’s legs are firm, but not like a man’s. However androgynous she might dress, Nix remains feminine. She’s not boyish—just a powerful and beautiful woman.

I haven’t touched anyone in a long time.

Nix’s warm legs laying across mine give me comfort she can’t possibly know.

“Are you a professional masseuse?” Nix laughs. “Your touch is just . . . fucking magical.”

I think of my family, where affection was as common as words, in a way that might surprise an outsider.

My father taught me to fight. My mother taught me to shoot. Both were harsh taskmasters, expecting a level of tactical precision that I’ve often had to hide at school so I don’t draw attention to myself.

Yet, they were never violent with me outside of training. My father would rub my shoulders when he knew my traps were seizing up. And my mother would run her fingers through my hair as we watched a movie, like I was still a small child.

We hugged each other. We laughed together.

Our world is cold, but it was never a cold house.

“What’s wrong?” Nix asks me, feeling my hands clench on her thighs.

When I don’t answer, Nix says, “Are you trying to date me Ares, or are we just friends? I can’t read you as well as some people.”

Because I confuse her on purpose.

Because I’m not Ares at all.

“We can’t date,” I say.

“Why not?”

My jaw twitches. “I don’t think your father would like that.”

“Do you care what he wants? Or what I want?”

Through the thin silk of her trousers, I can feel her blood rushing, right under my palms. I know her heart is beating as hard as mine.

“What do you want, Nix?” I ask her.

“I want you to kiss me.”

I look into her eyes.

Do I even remember how to do this?

I see her lips part, ever so slightly.

I lean forward, closing the space between us.

Right before our lips touch, a spark jumps between us, stinging my mouth. Then I kiss her, and the jolt is drowned in the shocking warmth and softness of her mouth. Every nerve comes alive. The sensation is so much stronger than I remember, overwhelming me.

I plunge both hands into her thick curls. They’re coarse and soft, warm as fur wrapped around my fingers. I slip my tongue into her mouth, tasting her for the first time, finding her breath as sweet and smoky as the scent of her skin.

It doesn’t matter if I remember kissing, because I’ve never kissed like this: without rhythm or plan, my heart speeding faster and faster like I’m sprinting downhill.

I rub my thumbs across her cheekbones, feeling the velvet texture of her skin. I push my tongue deeper into her mouth, breathing her in and swallowing her down.

She’s gripping the back of my neck, her blunt nails digging into my flesh, pulling me in just as tightly as I’m pulling her.

When we finally break apart, it’s only for breath, because we might pass out otherwise.

We’re silent and panting, with no idea how much time has passed.

Nix breaks the quiet, laughing softly.

“Alright,” she says. “Now I know you like me.”

“Yes,” I say. “I do.”

There’s no lie in that.

* * *