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But Cyderial was not going to hang me.
Not today.
Punishment would come in another form.
I’m not sure how I knew it was true, but I did.
The walk ended, his door opening to swallow me up. Into its yawning maw I strode, desperately numb yet somehow vibrating with anticipation.
Functioning from rote muscle memory and not from sense. Doomed.
But hopeful.
The door closed.
“Come,” he said, bidding me forward out of the vestibule and into the office proper. Where he gestured that I should take a seat on the white couch of death.
My hands began to shake, so I turned them into fists. Managing to bend my stiff frame, I took a seat on the end of the soft perch, wary that something terrible was to come.
General Cyderial took the seat across from me, settling back as if this were a casual encounter. And stared.
Not once in all my years at the academy had I seen him casual. His ankle hooked on his knee as he settled into the oversized chair and said nothing.
Simply observed me.
This made me far more nervous than any dressing-down might.
Silence grew and grew, each heartbeat far more uncomfortable than the last, until I let out the breath I had been holding.
Once my lungs were empty, he said, “You had questions about sex.”
I had questions about my sanity to realize I broached the subject, with him of all people.
It was also highly unsettling that he was not behind his huge, tidy desk. There was no buffer, nothing but air between us.
Why was I not standing at attention? I had done wrong. But if he were going to hang me, why indulge my questions? Why invite me to sit?
Moving at a glacial and highly suspicious pace, I mirrored his body language, settling into the couch. Yet I kept both feet on the floor, an advantage should I need to run.
“What is your concern?” It seemed a genuine question; even his expression was searching.
Narrowing my eyes, I said, “Punishment is imminent. I’d like to get it over with.”
He said nothing.
Nervously, I tapped my claws against my trousers and waited.
Still, nothing from the man.
Huffing out a breath, I asked, “You are not going to punish me for threatening an instructor?”
“Should you not be calling mesir?”
No. It felt as if this was not the time for that language. In informal seating, sharing nearly the same eye level. “Not when we talk about sex.”
“I agree.” And he seemed very pleased by what I had muttered. “Ask me your questions.”
The whole thing felt like a trap, but it would be foolish to waste the opportunity.
