I wave and leave, weaving through the crowded tables. The noise of the lunch rush washes over me; laughter, shouting, clattering trays.
I'm almost to the exit when a hand catches my elbow. It's Jionni. He's not smirking now.
"Hey," he says, letting go of my arm.
"Hey. Did you come to scare me some more about Sterling?"
"No." Jionni shoves his hands into the pockets of his ripped jeans. "Look, Sam. I like you. You're... you're real. You don't pretend to be perfect like everyone else at this prep school factory."
"Thanks? I think?"
He steps closer, lowering his voice. "This bond thing... it's heavy. The hormones, the instincts... it's like being drugged. It makes you want to give them everything."
I nod. He's right. It does.
"But listen to me," Jionni says. "What I said in there about Sterling? I meant it. People like him, they'll put you in a room and force you to choose. Him or the job. Your future or his. They'll make it feel like there's no other option."
"So what do I do?"
Jionni shrugs. "Remember that it's a trap. Whatever impossible choice they throw at you? It's designed to break you. Don't let it."
He pokes me in the chest.
"And if Morse is the guy you say he is? Make sure you two face that trap together. Don't let them turn you into enemies. Because that's what they want."
Don't let them turn you into enemies.
That's it. My fear, put into words.
Not that Devan will fail me. But that someone else will find a way to make us fail each other.
"We won't," I say. "Let them."
"Good," Jionni says. The smirk flickers back onto his face. He punches me lightly on the shoulder. "Go get 'em, tiger. And fix your hoodie. Your neck is showing."
He turns and saunters back toward the table, moving with that loose-limbed, careless grace that screamsI don't care, even though I know he cares more than anyone.
I stand there for a second, watching him go.
Friday. I have to walk into that room and prove we're both worth betting on.
I push open the doors and step out into the afternoon sun.
Devan
This tie is trying to kill me.
I've adjusted it four times. It's still too tight. Or maybe my throat is just swelling shut from anxiety. That's a thing, right? Stress-induced throat closure? I should Google it. After I survive this interview.IfI survive this interview.
The air in this room is recycled and stale, smelling of floor wax and old coffee and desperation. Underneath it all, I can smell Sam.
He's sitting six inches to my right, close enough that I could reach over and touch his knee. But I can't. Because right now, in this room, he's not my mate.
He's my competition.
Sam is wearing his "serious suit"—navy blue, fits him perfectly, makes him look like a young professional instead of the chaos gremlin who probably ate peanut butter cups for dinner last night. He's vibrating slightly, that constant energy barely contained. His hands are folded in his lap, knuckles pale.
Marcus Sterling and the entire Johnston committee are watching us. I'm not stupid enough to show weakness in front of a shark.
