Page 28 of The Bargain

“You’ve made a mess of me,” I tell her. “Is it my turn to make a mess out of you, then?”

She laughs, cold and hollow. “You couldn’t if you tried.”

I step into her, taking her waist in my hand. It’s narrow, with a pleasant curve, perfectly cinched by her dress.

“Rule number three,” she says, and now it’s her turn to grab my wrist. “No touching in private, remember?”

But her body is warm to the touch, more responsive than maybe she herself realises. This could be fun, this thing between us. Needling her. But it’s counterproductive. You’re not here to have fun, remember? I tell myself. You’re here to climb.

She’s just the rope.

The Cyprian doesn’t smell like sticky stale alcohol and body spray, but like wealth: expensive perfume and fizzing champagne. The decor is standard fare: chandeliers and velvet banquettes; dim lights, casting everything in the kind of flattering shadow that’s designed to make beautiful people appear dangerous and dangerous people appear beautiful.

There’s no queue at the bar, though, no neon signs. No one here is desperate for attention—they’ve already got it. The music isn’t deafening, it’s vibrant and deep, like an external heartbeat, seeping through skin and into bones.

Desdemona cuts through the crowd with that high-born glide, crowds parting for her as if moved by some greater force, some invisible, obedient hand. I follow her, noting the way heads turn—noticing her, placing her, appraising her.

Heiress, ice queen, kingmaker.

With her famous parents and all her shiny trophies, Desdemona is a darling of gossip rags: she can’t do anything without being splashed across a magazine spread.

I wonder if they’re all waiting for her to fall.

The six-thousand-pound booth is a sunken alcove behind dark velvet drapes, with a lacquered table where champagne bottles already await in a huge ice-filled silver bucket. I glance around, a faint smirking pulling at my lips.

This is how rich people spend their money?

Six thousand pounds for fake privacy, for the illusion that the rest of the world has been shut out, for the false superiority of overlooking the busy dance floor.

“You’re late, cuz,” an indulgent voice drawls in greeting.

Blaise Blackwood. I observe him closely, this time: he’s heir to two dynasties, and he’s one of the founding members of the Brotherhood. Exactly the kind of person I need to get on side.

He’s easy to like: light-hearted and relaxed, his shirts are usually unbuttoned, his black curls cut a little long. When he sees me, his eyes alight on me with a sparkle of delighted curiosity, completely devoid of dislike or disdain.

“Noxie!” he says, like I’m an old friend, an acquaintance fondly remembered. “Really, not your usual type at all, D,” he adds impishly, eyes flashing from me back to Desdemona, who’s sliding into the booth with the rigidity of an ice statue. “Trying something new?”

A burst of low, feral laughter. I finally look up towards the hulking shadow next to Blaise.

Dimitri Kavinski is the largest person in every room he’s in; everything shrinks in comparison to him. He’s big and thick with muscles, with light brown skin and short black hair. He looks old enough to be everyone’s oldest brother by a generation, even though he’s the same age as us.

You wouldn’t guess it by looking at them but he and Blaise are cousins. Together, they are the heart of the Blood Brotherhood, its foundation and its entry point. Aside from that, they’re opposites in every way. Where Blaise is easy-going and charismatic and light-hearted, Dimitri is heavy and unsmiling and dark, a permanent black cloud hanging over his head.

And right now, he’s looking straight at me with pitch-black eyes, and his laughter doesn’t sound like amusement—it sounds like a threat.

“You really think you got what it takes to be hers?” he says. “None of the others lasted a year.”

What’s the worst thing Dimitri Kavinski could do to me?

Mock me, make me cry, beat me half to death.

All fine by me, so long as it ends in him making me sign his stupid blood pact and becoming part of the Brotherhood.

“None of the others are made like me.”

It’s not my normal brand of arrogance, but it doesn’t have to be. Dimitri is going to be my way into the Brotherhood, and he’s not going to let me in because he likes me. He’ll want me to push and push hard, because that’ll be the most amusing thing to him.

Maybe my bluff works: Dimitri scoffs and rubs his jaw with a big thumb. There’s a wolf’s head tattooed on his hand—tattoos are strictly prohibited for Spearcrest students, but being a Russian oligarch’s grandson really makes you a law of your own.