Zachary
tense amongst the Young Kings when we all gather in the common room the day before classes resume. Luca Fletcher-Lowe, clearly recovered from his poisoning and with all the grace of a crashing meteor, passes around a bottle of ludicrously old whisky and brings up his favourite subject.
The bet.
“Fuck the bet,” Evan says. His normally sunny countenance is all but gone. There are shadows under his eyes, and his face is one big frown. “It was stupid to begin with.”
“Nobody’s put your Sophie on the list yet if that’s what’s getting your knickers in a twist,” Luca sneers.
“Sophie’s too good for your shit list.”
“You mean she’s too good to sleep with you.”
“Fuck off, Luca.”
Luca laughs; Evan’s misery clearly brings him nothing but joy. The bastard is practically glowing when he turns to Sev. “And you, Sev? Any holiday conquests while you’ve been living it up in the south of France?”
“I’m engaged,” Sev says with great dignity.
Unlike Evan, he seems in a great mood, but that doesn’t seem to be making him any more responsive to Luca’s blatant attempts at creating chaos and drama.
“Anyway, get off my fucking case,” he adds after taking a sip of whisky. “I’ve put the work in over the years. Half the names on this list are there because of me. I’m allowed to take a break.”
“Why would you need a break, though?” Luca asks, tilting a pale eyebrow. “Your fiancée got you by the leash?”
“I fucking wish,” Sev says.
I laugh out loud in pure admiration of his no-fucks-given honesty.
“Pathetic,” Luca scoffs, shaking his head.
“And what contributions have you made to the bet lately, Luca?” I ask with a smirk. “What about your conquests?”
It’s a well-known fact that he gets girls into bed because he’s a Young King, but he’s incapable of keeping them there more than a night. Whatever he’s doing to them has them running for the hills.
He doesn’t seem bothered by this. He turns to me, settling himself back into his armchair, the dark leather behind him contrasting with the dull pallor of his white-blond hair.
“At least I have contributed to the bet, Bishop Blackwood.” He answers my smirk with one of his—and Luca’s smirks are like the cold glint of steel. “You still a virgin?”
“You still a cold-blooded snake?”
He gives a laugh that’s more of a harsh cackle. “Last time I checked.”
I roll my eyes and sip my whisky. My leg bounces up and down impatiently, and I realise how much I’m missing Theodora.
Living with her is something I could easily have gotten used to. Feeding her banana pancakes for breakfast, kissing her neck while she bent over to write into her notebooks, even just reclining near her in the Blue Parlour, listening to her read that stupid pirate book while Zahara threaded the gold of her hair into plaits.
I grew used to that life much too fast—and now that it’s over, I miss it like one might miss a limb, its absence a constant reminder of what I no longer have.
My eyes meet Iakov’s. He’s sitting in an armchair with his legs draped over the armrest, looking at his phone. He looks up when my eyes fall on him, and our gazes meet briefly.
He sits up, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Going for a cig,” he grunts as he sits up. He twists his big body, cracking the bones in his spine. “Sev, wanna come with?”
Sev shakes his head and bats a hand, his rings catching the light. “No, man, I’m trying to quit. It’s a filthy habit.”
“Says who?” Iakov asks.
“My wife,” Sev says.
“Romantic fucker,” Iakov says affectionately.
Iakov displays about as much emotion as a brick wall, but he’s always had a soft spot when it comes to Sev. My theory is that Iakov is chivalrous at heart, and Sev’s long eyelashes and jewellery have somehow tricked Iakov’s brain into treating him like a damsel of sorts.
“I’ll go with you,” I say.
“You don’t even smoke,” Luca points out.
I ignore him and follow Iakov to the door.
“Theodora!” Luca calls after me, and I pause in the doorway. “Am I adding her to the list, then?”
“Why would you?”
“I’m just asking.”
“Her name doesn’t belong on your stupid, pointless list,” I snap. “And nobody cares except you. Stop embarrassing yourself.”
“I’ll add her just in case,” Luca says with a slicing smile. “Since you two are bound to fuck at some point.”
It’s obvious he wants a reaction from me, just like he wanted one from Evan. But I won’t give him the satisfaction. He doesn’t deserve it.
I flip him off and leave the room, wondering whether I should pay the oleander tree in the greenhouse another visit.
with Luca again?” I ask.
Iakov is leaning against the trunk of a willow, and I’m standing on the edge of one of the old abandoned fountains, the marble half-hidden underneath a tangle of moss and brambles.
We didn’t need to go this far into the grounds for Iakov to find a place to smoke; he generally smokes wherever he feels like anyway.
Still, the fresh air and greenness of our surroundings are refreshing after the week of snow we’ve just had.
“Dunno.” Iakov shoves a cigarette between his lips and lights it. “He’s rich as fuck?”
“We’re all rich as fuck.”
“You’re all rich as fuck.” Iakov gives a growling laugh. “My home is a shitty flat in Chertanovo—you live in a fucking palace.”
I pause in the middle of the circuit I’ve been carefully walking around the fountain rim and glance at Iakov. He meets my gaze with a level look.
I hold it.
“What did Zahara tell you?” I ask.
He exhales a wreath of smoke. “Told me she told you shit she shouldn’t have.”
“She didn’t mean to.”
He gives a half-grin that makes him look like a grimacing wolf. “It wasn’t a secret. You two. So fucking British. Who cares where I live?”
“Why did you never say anything, then?”
He shrugs. “You never asked.”
“And Zaro did?”
“Hah. No. Borrowed my phone and snooped. Little fucking spy. Would make a good FSB agent, though.”
Although I’m appalled at Zaro’s actions, I’m not surprised either. It’s a wonder Iakov hasn’t killed her yet. I might have if I were him, but maybe he’s more patient when it comes to dealing with the antics of spoilt rich girls.
“How was Paris?” I ask.
He waves a hand. “Noisy. Hotel was nice, though. Food was fucking great.”
I laugh. “You’re a lover of French cuisine, Iakov? I never knew.”
“Yea.” He gives a dry, rough laugh. “I fucking love a petit four.”
“A petit what?”
He holds out his hand with his thumb and index finger a few centimetres apart to indicate something small. “You know. Tiny cakes.”
I stare at him, completely taken aback. “Really?”
“Mm.”
I try to picture all six foot five of Iakov, with his tattoos and bruises and stapled cuts and big black boots, holding a tiny, delicate strawberry tartlet, and I shake my head at the ridiculous image.
“Thanks for looking after Zaro,” I say instead. “I worry about her.”
“No big deal,” Iakov says. He jabs his chin at me. “How did it go with your woman?”
Oh, how I wish she was.
“She’s not my woman,” I say without resentment. Since I can’t help the smile forming on my lips, I resume tracing a circle around the fountain rim, stepping carefully over strings of thorns and patches of wet lichen. “It went well.” I point at him. “She said everyone in Spearcrest fancies you.”
Iakov barks out a laugh. “Hah.” He throws his head back and fixes me with his eyes narrowed into black slits. “But not her, though.” He sucks on his cigarette and exhales around it. “The way you two were looking at each other, doubt I’m competition.”
His implication is clear—but so is the promise I made Theodora.
“I think her family’s religious,” I say, straying on the side of cautious truth. “No matter how much I love her—no matter how much she loves me—I don’t know if we’ll ever be together.”
It’s a lie disguised behind a bitter truth.
Theodora and I never spoke about what our relationship would be like now we’re back in Spearcrest. No matter what, I know I’ll never be more than a secret. And I can accept that. I can accept it, trusting that the future will be different, that fate won’t always keep us apart—that Theodora, one day, might be free to choose for herself.
“Yea.” Iakov nods grimly. “Her father’s a cunt.” He finishes his cigarette and stomps on the butt. “Shame, man. You two have a cute thing going on.”
“Cute?” I raise my eyebrows, taken aback by hearing that soft word in his wolfish mouth.
He frowns at me.
“Do you mean cute like your little French cakes?” I ask, stepping off the fountain edge.
“Miserable fucker.” He grins and throws his arm around my shoulder. “Let’s drink our sorrows away together.”
“We have class tomorrow,” I point out.
“So?” He shrugs, dragging me away. “Tomorrow’s problems for tomorrow.”
