Page 93 of Kingmakers, Year Three

His black eyes gleam as he chats to Professor Lyons, the Arsenic Witch, dressed fittingly in a gown of poison green. Behind her, my Combat teacher Professor Howell is sharing war stories with the expert in Environmental Adaptation, Professor Bruce. Literal war stories, I’m sure, as Professor Howell fought with the Israel Defense Forces and Professor Bruce was a SEAL.

“I don’t see Miss Robin,” I say to Dean.

“No surprise there.” He shrugs. “I almost never see her outside the library.”

“She usually comes to the dance, though,” I say, disappointed. For all Miss Robin puzzles me, I like her very much. And a tiny part of me wanted to see if I could catch her admiring Ares in his suit. Or vice versa.

“Snow came,” Dean says, sounding pleased. He points out the new boxing teacher, with Dr. Rybakov on his arm.

I’ve heard plenty about Snow from Dean, who intensely admires him, and a little more from Sasha, who tended to me so kindly after I fell on my head at theQuartum Bellum.But I’ve never actually seen him in person.

He is, quite frankly, terrifying. Tall and brutal-looking, with several scars on his face and a nose that likely retains little resemblance to its original shape. Add to that a granite jaw, closely-buzzed graying hair, and frost-colored eyes.

Even his suit can’t conceal his rough and brutish physique. The set of his shoulders, the way he walks—everything about him says “street.”

By contrast, Sasha Rybakov looks like she just put her name on a wing in the Guggenheim. She’s elegant and refined, her blonde hair sleek and shining, her pale blue gown in faultless good taste.

“Cat!” she says, waving and coming over at once. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than ever.” I grin.

Snow claps Dean on the shoulder. “Glad to see you taking a night off.” Then to me, “And this must be Cat. How come it’s taken me this long to meet you?”

“I’m not a good enough fighter to be in your class,” I say.

“I don’t know about that.” Snow smiles, closing his massive hand gently around mine. “Dean looks beaten into submission. The man’s wearing a bow-tie.”

“So would you be, if I could find any that fit that neck,” Sasha laughs.

Dean doesn’t seem to mind Snow’s teasing. In fact, he puts his arm around me and says, “Cat’s a brilliant programmer. And an artist.”

I struggle not to let my jaw fall to the floor.

Is Dean . . . bragging about me?

“I dunno about brilliant—” I stammer.

Snow says, “You must be. Dean’s nothing if not honest.”

A smile passes between Dean and Snow, of understanding, and perhaps a little embarrassment on Dean’s side.

Then Sasha says, “I hope you two have a wonderful night.”

She gives my arm a friendly squeeze, and she and Snow carry on, to be waylaid a moment later by the Chancellor.

Awkward silence falls between Dean and me. I don’t want to presume anything, but that felt a lot like Dean introducing me as his girlfriend.

Grabbing my hand, Dean says, quickly, “Should we dance?”

“I’d love to.”

He pulls me into the space already crowded with swaying students, Joan Jett’sCrimson and Cloverblaring from the speakers.

I look into Dean’s face and I can’t believe how open and relaxed he looks, his arms around me, his body swaying us both with that effortless grace he possesses.

He’s smiling.

Dean doesn’t smile very often. When he does, it makes him handsome on a level that should probably be illegal. So good-looking that it honestly scares me. It makes me wonder how I can be dancing in the arms of this boy who’s always seemed more god than man to me.

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