My better judgment tells me I should keep walking.
But I haven’t listened to my better judgment all night. No sense in starting now.
“What’s this?” I ask. “Some shitty little after party?”
Deacon does his best to hide the twinge in his jaw, but it’s a losing battle when you’re so easily goaded.
“Some of us weren’t ready to turn in after the Inquisition cut things short,” he says. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that since you weren’t here.”
I make a dramatic frowny face.
“Aw, did I miss all the fun?”
Covington, the white-furred second-year, butts in.
“Yeah, you’re lucky. I wouldn’t call it fun.”
“That ain’t luck,” Deacon corrects. “He slipped out and left us high and dry. But who’s surprised? A Cross knows no loyalty but their own.”
A smile spreads on my face as I realize we’re doing things the hard way tonight.
Deacon, like many young wolves who pass through this house, has delusions of grandeur, and he’s been pushing back since first term, which isn’t unusual for first-years. There are always a few who like to test their limits. We typically work it out of them by the second term. But he’s still clinging to his hopes of something greater.
Unfortunately for him, I can tell just from how he’s sitting that he’ll never be anything more than a pack mutt.
His short legs are spread wide open, and his arms are splayed out on the armrests as if he’s trying to cover every inch of them.
Too much of his attention is going toward making himself look big, and not enough toward the people around him.
He’s too busy posturing to realize the girl in his lap is uncomfortable, and his “friends” are bored with his voice.
The entire image smacks of a child playing in their father’s chair, and I start to laugh. But he’s too stupid to realize it’s him I’m laughing at,so he laughs too.
That is, until I cross the room and my hand wraps around his throat. Then, the sound stops, replaced by a choking noise as I lift him from the chair.
“You’re not very bright, are you, Deacon?”
His fingers claw at me as he looks around for someone to help him.
The girl has enough sense to make herself scarce, but otherwise, nobody moves.
“Do you know what those words mean?” I ask, unable to stop myself from grinning as I watch his veins start to swell.
He doesn’t answer my question.
I expect it has something to do with the fact that I’m now crushing his windpipe. The best he can do is shake his head while his lips turn a strange shade of blue.
“It means that while the rest of these idiots only think about ripping your throat out every time you speak, I actually will.” I squeeze a little tighter, and he kicks his feet through the air. “I could snap your neck right now, and I wouldn’t feel a thing. Wanna see?”
I wedge a finger under my dampener as it starts to press in on my throat. Not for the first time tonight, I think about taking it off. But why waste such precious energy on a welp like Deacon?
He shakes his head, eyes watery, lips swollen.
“Good.” I loosen my grip. “And you will apologize to Iris Ashbourne.”
“For what?” he asks, provoking an anger in me that feels too good to let go of.
I should have let her rip his tongue out like she wanted.
