14
LUTHER
I’m surrounded by idiots.
Like that kid—he’s gonna break his wrist if he keeps throwing punches like that. Maybe I should just break it for him so the lesson actually sticks.
Carrick doesn’t give a shit what I do so long as I show up on time and fuck people up when he tells me to. He’s gotten lazy in the years since my older brother was his star pupil. Now, all he needs to do is tell me to deal with something and everyone’s assholes clench so fast I can practically hear them pucker shut.
It’s fucking boring, though not as boring as watching these dumbass freshmen embarrass themselves. It was either TA Physical Training, or sit in a classroom listening to another decrepit professor drone on about wielding theory when the four of us figured that shit out on our own ages ago.
At least this way I don’t get in trouble for sending anyone to the Medical Center.
My mood continues to worsen as I look at my phone again, waiting for a text I know will never come. I asked them last week if they’d lower the wards around our estate so I can visit the mausoleum. I thought—at least I’d hoped—they’d letme visit his crypt. Quentin would have been twenty this year, on the precipice of his own epiphaneia. He’d ask me a million questions about mine, about how my demon ripped through my skin, wings shredding the skin of my back as horns tore through my skull, bones breaking and reforming as the gargoyle finally woke.
He’d beg for me to take him flying to feel the roaring currents as they fought against our ascent, determined to keep us chained to the ground. Feel how gargoyles are meant to live free between earth and sky, immune from the natural laws of the world. I’d probably drop him a few times just to scare the shit out of him, but I’d always catch him.
That’s what big brothers are for, not that Cyrus ever thought so.
Even when we were younger, he’d follow me around while Cyrus was learning how to be the Heir. We’d roam freely across the estate, him dogging my heels. I used to bitch and moan about it, but now I’d give anything to hear his footsteps trailing behind me again, to hear the endless stream of his unfiltered thoughts as they occurred in real time.
I know they fucking hate me, but I thought my family would at least let me honor his memory, if not for my sake then at least for his. I wouldn’t even try to go home. Just sit in that barren crypt where they’ve hidden him away and share a beer with the memory of his ghost. Tell him how I flew under the northern lights a couple weeks ago, and watched as they danced with the stars. He’d be so fucking jealous that I didn’t take him with me.
I know Roth will open a portal to the mausoleum if I ask—not even my family would deny the son of Renard Kovacs—but I hate asking for favors, even knowing he wouldn’t mind.
A loud grunt as fists hit flesh draws my attention across the gym. This idiot has marginally better form than the last one. Gradually, the familiar sounds of training bring me back to thepresent. Staffs clatter, bodies thud against the mats, grunts of pain as hits land in the ring. But through them all, I hear the groaning and gasping from the new girl as she struggles through basic warmups. Nyx Byrke.
I want to roll my eyes. Killian hacked his father’s email and found out the Council ordered her retrieval, but her dossier is blank other than the basic info: age twenty, grew up human, dormant witch. Nothing about why she was even on their radar in the first place, nothing about why she’s here. Regardless, whoever brought her here is on my shit list.
She was pathetic last week when Carrick had me assess her instead of doing it himself. I’ve seen rubber chickens that were more coordinated. It baffles me why Killian’s sniffing after her when there’s plenty of pussy on tap already—it’s not like he’s hurting for options. But maybe that’s the appeal: he’s never had to chase before. And now she’s playing some fucked up game of hard to get—turning Killian down one day then stalking Thane while he swims the next. She’ll show her hand eventually though, I have no doubt. These girls always do.
She’s… pretty enough, I guess. I’ll give Killian that at least. But I’ve always preferred girls that don’t look like they’re starving. I like seeing their tits bounce as they ride me, grab their hips and bury myself so deep they scream when I bottom out. It’s fucking music to my ears, and a reminder that it’s been way too fucking long since I’ve heard it.
She’s splayed out on the ground when I approach, chest heaving after completing the warm up circuit Carrick had me put together. Her arm covers her eyes, blocking the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. Suddenly, the prospect of ruining her day even further slightly improves my shit mood. For the next hour, at least. I loom over her, blocking the overhead lights, and she lifts her arm up just enough to make eye contact.
“Get up.”
She covers her eyes again and mumbles, “Five more minutes.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or lash out at her casual dismissal. “Move or I’ll drag you.”
She seems to weigh the pros and cons of obeying before groaning and rolling to her stomach, then her hands and knees like a fucking turtle, back arched and ass out.
“Follow me.” Without waiting, I start walking towards the same corner of the gym we used last week, usually used to store extra equipment, and start dragging out one of the thick, musty foam mats. When I turn around she’s suddenly there, staring up at me with her hands on her hips, eyes wary. Good. She should be. Maybe she’s not a complete idiot after all.
“So how badly are you going to kick my ass today?”
Considering I could break her in half without breaking a sweat, I’d say she’s getting off easy with what I have planned. “Depends,” I say, crossing my arms.
“On?”
“If you’re still shit.”
Her lips part but she stops herself before she says what she wants to say, muttering “rude” as she thinks better of it and walks onto the mat. My lips twitch and I smother the hint of a smile beneath my signature scowl. Killian calls it my resting bitch face even though he knows I’ll hit him for saying it.
Even standing on the mat, she’s still a head and a half shorter than me, arms crossed to mirror my own with an expectant, defiant expression. Which… I don’t… hate. Everyone on campus maintains a healthy sense of fear for who and what we are, if they’ve got half a brain cell, at least. Much like Killian’s never had to chase pussy before, no one’s ever looked at me like this.
In challenge.
