Page 25 of Wicked Vile King
His mother left when he was young and, naturally, his father beat the shit out of him every chance he could get, even locking him in the cellar a few times when he was particularly naughty. I'm pretty sure it's worse than that, but Kill doesn't complain, not really. He's always thinking, always in his head. When his opponent is trying to figure out their next move, he's already plotting a checkmate, the damn savant.
And it's a good thing we're out of our cages now or else he'd be a dead savant.
We've all been medicated and sent off to class, and so far, it looks like everyone is following their designated schedules and behaving like good boys and girls after being jailed for the past two days. Normally, I wouldn't care if someone lost their shit and started a bloodbath, but I care today. I have plans that don't involve another lockdown and murdering my roommate, plans that involveher.
I straighten my uniform jacket emblazoned with the Academy logo and hike my backpack up my shoulder. We used to have to wear ties, but two months into freshman year, they ditched them for good after Gabe and I about killed each other in the hall. I can't even remember what he said, but I remember I didn't find it to be funny. If the lighting's right and you look close enough, you can still see the ligature marks I left on his throat. Turns out one death or so a semester is tolerable, but two deaths on the same day at the hands of two students fighting is where they draw the line.
Like that fucking makes sense.
I walk to class. It's been three weeks since the semester started, and I have the new schedule memorized at this point. I could do it blindfolded, though I intentionally miss the room for my first class and keep walking down the hall.
It's been too long since I've seen her, and out in the open with all of these people that aren't my pet, the compulsion slinks behind me like a shadow.
I skim the faces of fellow students, many missing and no doubt still with Butcher after the last incident. Raven Blackwelle winks at me as I pass the girl's bathroom. Her skirt's rolled up a solid six inches past socially acceptable and her shirt's unbuttoned so low, I can see the lace of her push-up bra. She must be relapsing, not that the guards give a shit. I never had to read her chart to know she's got compulsive sexual behavior and a number of fetishes that make her devout parents deeply uncomfortable in theirwalk with God. Now, those fetishes probably stem from her daddy thinking she's awfully pretty when he's had a bit too much of the good stuff on a Saturday night, but who am I to judge? She spends her days inflating her self-worth by testing how much cum she can swallow, and I spend mine battling boredom by playing a game of chicken with myself on the fucking roof.
Like I said, no judgment from me.
Winking at her targets is Raven's well-known way of offering services in the handicapped stall, but she should know better than to offer them to me. Her mouth hasn't come near my dick in years. I ignore her and continue forward, past two ugly guards who couldn't be bothered to piss on us if we were on fire. Harsh words, sure, but they're true. When one of Gabe's groupies decided to try to become a human-flavored fireball last summer, these two—Guard Ugly and Guard Uglier—proved my point. It took themnineminutes to find a fire extinguisher. The campus smelled like burnt fuckery for weeks, and Little Miss Phoenix disappeared—probably fuckingdied—to never return.
The two twats give me the side-eye, and I keep on walking. I'm about to double-back and check the classrooms when finally, I spot my target at the end of the hall. She's got her back to me, and her chestnut-brown hair is headed in the wrong direction.
Time to catch a little lost lamb.
I pick up the pace.
"Pet," I say as I reach her, flattening my palm against the small of her back. To her credit, she doesn't shriek or jump or try to slap me, but she does flinch.
"Stop calling me that," she says, peering down at the schedule in her hand, no doubt trying to decipher the alphanumeric room numbers that make zero sense to anyone with a working brain. I peer over her shoulder at it.
Room 23AC2—Advanced American English.
"Good," I remark, like I don't already know what it says, like I didn't make sure our schedules would match when I stole her file, learned everything I could about her, and then kept wanting more.
"What?" she asks. Her eyebrows knit together at me and her lips purse in a pout so cute I want to bite them.
I offer her a smile that most people buy, but she doesn't even begin to tolerate.
"We're in the same classes, pet," I say after a moment, dropping the smile. "Come. I'll take you."
I slip my arm around her shoulders, and it earns me a look from one of our glorified hall monitors, but he doesn't say anything. Why would he? At least I'm not chopping her up and trying to eat her kidneys like Bael Barrow did to a transfer student last year, the fucking cannibal.
"No thanks," she quips, slipping away from my grip and walking faster, still in the wrong direction. "Headmistress said I'd have a student guide. I don't need you."
Her chest puffs, and by the shadow of a self-assured grin that graces her lips, she appears to take a lot of satisfaction in saying the words. It's adorable how she actually believes she's won that easily. Too bad for her, I pop her fantasy bubble a moment later.
"Aw, pet," I shake my head and do my best impression of someone who feels sorry for others, "she's not showing up."
She stops walking, and I stop beside her. "What did you do to her?"
I scoff.Why does she care?She rolls her eyes, apparently disgusted, and starts away from me. I catch her, and this time, when my arm slips around her, I hold her tight, my fingers digging into her shoulder hard enough to bruise.
"Let go of me," she hisses, trying to pull away and failing spectacularly.
I dip my head and look at her as I say the words.
"I didn't do anything she didn't want me to, pet." When she continues to glare at me, I add, "For fuck's sake, I gave her a hundred bucks. Lilith's parents cut her off for deviant homosexuality and sent her here to rot. She can use the money for the commissary."
This fact shocks her. It's written all over her face like she's an open book. And holy fuck, how did I not see this before? The girlisan open book of emotions, which is—you know—bad for her, but great for me. That means I'll always know what my pet is thinking. For instance, right now, she's thinking I'm not that bad, that maybe I'm redeemable even. I'll take it if it gets me closer to the question that's wriggling like a snake at the back of my brain.
