Page 47 of The Bargain

Maybe, her voice echoes huskily in my memory, I’ll be the one to corrupt you.

Yes.

My cock is so hard the want is an ache, deep in my belly. My muscles strain like I’m fighting something. Yes, Desdemona. Corrupt me. Smear all that golden light all over me. Corrupt me, love, until I don’t even recognise myself.

I come hard, suddenly, surprising myself, my entire body jolting.

Desdemona.

I can’t quite tell whether I say her name or think it or hear it. Pleasure slams into me in hard bright waves, powerful enough to make my forearms shake.

When the orgasm finally recedes, I drag my head slowly back up, creasing my eyes open to find myself a mess: fallen cigarette ashes on my chest, sticky cum on my fist.

What a fucking mess, I think, closing my eyes.

What a fucking mess.

“Noxie!” A huge arm falls around my neck when I walk out of philosophy class, dragging me into the gravitational field of a big body. “Where you headed?”

If he wasn’t filthy fucking rich, Dimitri Kavinski would be the kind of person respectable people cross the street to avoid. He’s tall, broad, and he has a big fuck-off scorpion tattoo on his neck that’s definitely not school regulation.

“Physics,” I tell him.

The muscles in his arms are so thick that he’s cutting off circulation in my neck without him even having to squeeze. The hug is a threat, really, but Dimitri is one big scary gateway into the Brotherhood, and I want in. So I stand very still, like all animals do when they’re caught in the jaws of a bigger animal and they’re figuring out an escape plan.

“You smart, huh?” Dimitri says.

He smells like alcohol—I raise an eyebrow. It’s eleven on a Thursday, not even lunch time. I’ve known kids like him, kids that drink hard and early and in public places, and that only ever means one thing.

It means: I’m drowning. Watch me but don’t help me.

“I have good teachers,” I tell him.

“So do I,” he says.

“Yeah, but I actually go to their classes.”

He barks out a rough laugh. Around us, neatly dressed rich kids hurry to and from class, eager to avoid him. Outside the tall, narrow windows that line one side of the corridor, the sky is full of clouds dark as bruises. The air is still and electric, but it’s still not as tense as the space between me and Dimitri.

“You’re a funny kid,” Dimitri says. “Give you that.”

“We’re the same age.”

“Dess doesn’t do funny, ya know.” He says it conversationally, dragging me with him down the corridor like we’re two good mates heading to class together.

“You here to warn me away from her?”

“Course not.” He suddenly swings me leftways and up into the north tower, where a broad spiral staircase leads up to the old art studios. A cold wind hushes past us from the top of the tower as we climb up the steps, Dimitri’s weight sagging against me. “I’m gonna help ya.”

He leads me to the building’s second floor, where the windows offer a view of the grounds below, the heavy oaks, the Gothic Spearcrest skyline. The clouds gather thick and sooty, low in the sky, threatening imminent rain.

“Why would you want to help me?” I ask Dimitri.

The corridor is deserted: the studios on this floor are empty this time of year, and won’t get busy until the end of term, when photography students need to develop their photographs or fine art students need somewhere to hide while they paint. Dimitri releases me into the stifling silence, and even though he’s no longer got me by the neck, I’m very aware that I’m still trapped.

“You of all people should know,” he answers with a smirk. “Because I want something in return.”

“You gonna sell her out for a favour?” My tone is light, but I meet and hold his gaze.