As we each unpack our single suitcase, my mind is drawn back irresistibly to the specter of Cat Romero obeying my orders on the deck of the ship. Though Cat is weak and timid, and hardly worth bossing around, the sheer weight of my leverage over her fills me with a blissful sense of power. She has to do whatever I say, she has no other choice. The extent of that control is intoxicating.
Forcing her to obey me in front of Anna, Leo, and Ares was particularly enjoyable. They have no idea why she answers to me. Their bewilderment adds spice to the proceedings.
Instead of looking forward to the commencement of my classes, I’m planning what I’ll make her do next. I’m remembering her flushed pink cheeks and how she squirmed under my gaze. I’m thinking about how I can humiliate her further. The farther I push her, the more I prove my power over her. It might be fun to see how far I can stretch her before she finally snaps.
I wish we were in the same year, so we had classes together. Unfortunately she’s only a Sophomore.
That’s fine—I can stalk her easily enough between classes and in the dining hall.
“What was the deal with the little chickadee on the ship?” Bram inquires, running a hand through his shaggy dark hair.
“What about her?” I say, hiding my smile.
“Why are you fucking with her?”
“Why not?”
Bram looks at me, narrowing his wolfish eyes. He knows I’m up to something, but he couldn’t guess the truth in a hundred years. He has no vision.
He could have watched Cat climb back in that infirmary window and never guessed a thing. Only I’m smart enough to put the pieces together. Nobody else on this campus would ever guess that shy, awkward little Cat is a full-blown murderer.
I’ll admit, I don’t know how she had the balls to tangle with Rocco Prince.
It intrigues me. There must be more to that timid little kitten than I guessed. I want to peel back her layers one by one and see what’s inside.
“She’s not your usual type,” Bram says, smirking. He wants to rub it in my face that I chased after tall, glamorous, gorgeous Anna Wilk in our Freshman year. The gothic ballerina and fellow Heir, lethal and brilliant—opposite in every way to Cat Romero.
But for once, the mention of Anna doesn’t sting me.
I’m not thinking about Anna, I’m fixated on my new plaything.
Cat Romero is a useful distraction, in more ways than one.
Bram is looking over his handwritten schedule. Everything at Kingmakers is handwritten by the administrative staff in ornate, old-fashioned script, which makes it damned hard to decipher, especially if you’re only semi-literate to begin with like Bram. He squints at the page until the scar across his left eye forms one continuous line.
“How come I’ve got boxing and combat now?” he demands.
“Let me see,” I say, snatching the schedule out of his hands.
Sure enough, I see a boxing class scheduled three times a week, in addition to his regular Combat classes.
I check my own schedule, finding the same thing.
“Who’s Professor Snow?” Bram says.
“You don’t think . . .”
“What?”
“Filip Rybakov fought under the name Snow.”
Bram stares at me, uncomprehending.
“He was the heavyweight champion. He held all four titles at once.”
“When?” Bram says.
“Twenty years ago.”
“You think he’s here? To teach us?”
I shrug. “Could be. He got his start in St. Petersburg in the underground matches. He could be Bratva.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Bram says. “First class is tomorrow morning.”
The next morning, Bram and I cross the commons to the Armory with a pleasant sense of anticipation. Rumors have been flying around the school that we are indeed to be receiving instruction from one of the most famous boxers of the modern era.
The other students are jealous as fuck, because only a select group of us have been enrolled in boxing. Everybody else has to be content with their normal Combat classes with the decidedly less-glamorous Professor Howell.
It’s a mark of honor to have been placed in Snow’s class. I’m not surprised to see Silas Gray, Bodashka Kushnir, Kenzo Tanaka, Leo Gallo, Ares Cirillo, and Hedeon Gray already waiting inside the gymnasium. I’m less pleased to note Vanya Antonov in attendance, straining the bounds of a white t-shirt deliberately bought two sizes too small.
Bodashka Kushnir is trying to chat up Ilsa Markov, one of the only female Enforcers at our school. Her father Nikolai was at the meeting I attended in Moscow. Ilsa is tall and well-built, with her long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her Wonder Woman thighs filling out her gray gym shorts. I can only imagine the continual harassment she must get from idiots like Bodashka in the male-stuffed Gatehouse. But Ilsa has no problem taking care of herself.
Bodashka seems to be bragging about his summer exploits, which apparently involves him flexing his substantial biceps for Ilsa. Pretending to be impressed, Ilsa challenges him to try to hold his arm at a ninety-degree angle while she pulls down on his elbow. Bodashka agrees, planting his sturdy legs while Ilsa pulls on his arm with all her might, even hanging off of it so that Bodashka is holding up her entire weight with one arm.
Bodashka grins, sure that he’s impressing her. Until Ilsa abruptly lets go of his elbow, making Bodashka punch himself in the face.
Bodashka stumbles and almost falls, while Ilsa throws her head back and roars with laughter. Vanya, Leo, Ares, and Hedeon all join in. Even Silas Gray chuckles, and he wouldn’t know a joke if it danced naked in front of him.
Bodashka shakes his head, stupefied by the force of his own ham fist. He knows he’s a fucking fool, but Ilsa’s laughter is so infectious that even he has to shrug and admit that the prank was well-played.
Usually our classes only include students from our same year, but the Senior Spy Jasper Webb is leaning up against a heavy bag, methodically cracking the flexible knuckles of his skeleton-tattooed hands. His dark red hair hangs over his face, and he looks moody and standoffish. Still, he gives me a nod as I pass, which I suppose means that he doesn’t hold a grudge over the fact that I beat him in the final round of the tournament last year.
I see Kasper Markaj, likewise a Senior, and August Prieto, a Sophomore, which must mean the boxing class will be attended by anybody good enough to fight.
With only one minute left before class time, Kade Petrov comes sprinting through the door, along with a baby-faced blond boy who must be a Freshman, though he’s as big as any of the Seniors. His face looks familiar to me. When he says to Kade, in a French accent, “We barely made it!” I realize he must be one of the Paris Bratva.
The blond boy is right. The moment the clock hits 10:00, Snow comes striding across the mats.
There’s no fighter like an old fighter, with shoulders and traps harder than petrified oak, and fists of pure calcified bone. His face bears the marks of a thousand punches, delivered by men who train on heavy bags, tires, and even fence posts.
His nose is broad and broken, his brows scowling, his mouth sternly set above a jaw as hard as steel. His graying hair lays closely buzzed against the skull, and his ice-blue eyes pierce each one of us in turn as he surveys the students lined up before him.