- I’m sorry, Cas. Is there anything else I can do?
He sighed, then scoffed.
- Find Sidarphion. Then tell him to answer to me.
BEG
Being aware of all fate and wary of any disruptions, Sidarphion seldom intervenes. He will answer only those desperate enough to beg.
Redacted fromPraying for Favor: On Gods and Supplication
Before going to Cassius’s room to trade books, Claudia met up with Alistair to smoke. It was glorious, but now she feels like her insides are soup. She keeps doing this thing where she locks eyes with herself in any reflective surface and makes weird faces just to make sure her mouth still works. So far, so good. Maybe she should’ve smoked a little less, but she’s about to use luxos. For the first time. On Cassius MacLeod. Even more terrifying—she’s about to break her promise to Dorian.
She cannot be sober for that.
Though, this isn’t the kind of high that makes her act outof character—on the contrary, it enables unflinching honesty. It loosens anxiety’s grip on her personality and lets her act how she would if she was not afraid of being seen as imperfect. With her four books pressed between her hip and her arm, she walks down the corridor toward his room.
She pauses before his door and smooths her hair. Then, she undoes her robe, revealing her green lace nightdress that matches her eyes. The bodice is not entirely opaque—that’s why she picked it. Well, that’s not true; Alistair picked it. He knows best.
With a deep breath, she gently knocks on Cassius’s door. He opens almost immediately, and while he’s wearing his signature smirk as their eyes meet, his face immediately darkens as his gaze moves down the split of her robe, the lace on her skin.
He doesn’t speak. It’s almost as if he can’t.
Unfortunately, Claudia is just as struck, for Cassius also has his robes undone, and his white shirt underneath is completely unbuttoned.
She forces herself to look into his eyes, away from his body. “May I come in?”
He nods and steps out of her way, never taking his eyes off hers until she turns her back to him. Cassius’s room is dimly lit with tapered candles on bronze sconces, flashing red and gold against deep blue walls. It smells like him, like autumn and money. There are books everywhere. Five tall shelves line one wall, and papers bury his desk. A half-finished piece collects ink from a leaking pen—he must’ve been in the middle of writing when she knocked. Claudia hears the door close behind her.
Glancing over her shoulder, she says, “Ready to give me what I need?”
“What?” He sounds confused, amorous, and maybe a bit drunk. Or maybe Claudia can’t hear correctly from the drugs. The air in the room is heavy with tension. She can feel his eyes scraping down her back while she walks toward his bed.
She turns, facing him. “The books.”
He blinks. His lips part and he inhales through his nose. “Right.” He crosses the room so he’s pressed in the corner diagonally from her. They couldn’t be farther apart as Cassius relaxes against the edge of his desk. He grabs four books from underneath the spill of papers and sets them in a pile at his side. “Here they are.”
They stand in silence, just staring at each other, both waiting to see what the other does next. This is the time she should be seducing—no,luxosing—him (which is different and entirely academic and, in fact, scholarly), but she’s choking on the moment. In the glow of the golden candlelight, he’s too infuriatingly beautiful. How did she ever think she could have the confidence to entice him? He’s the legacy student, the theoretical descendant of an omnipotent being, and she’s the girl who got rejected. He’s her rival. He hates her.
And yet, he’s looking at her like she’s the one cut from the skin of a god.
Deep breath. She rehearsed this. First, an appeal to the masculine instinct to problem-solve rather than listen. “Cassius, I have a big problem,” she says.
His body becomes tense, rigid. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re going to beat me in this debate. I don’t have a chance.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Pity? Amusement? He releases a breath. “Claudia, I—”
“Unless you help me.” She sets her books down on his bed and straightens her spine.
His brow furrows. “Why would I do that?”
This is a good sign—he didn’t immediately say no.
“You said you wanted to win this debate fairly, so I have to ask: Would you be willing to share any additional materials that might help me form my argument? Something that isn’t in the history books. Something only you know because of your connection to this school. Maybe even… something about your ancestor.”
He smirks, leaning back against his desk so that his shirt opens further. “You really want to know about that, don’t you?”
