Page 51 of Kingmakers, Year One

“I’ll do it.”

“Step on up.” Professor Howell gestures to the empty space in front of him as if he were inviting Dean to take a comfortable seat on a sofa.

Dean approaches, his eyes fixed on the professor. He has neither the bravado nor the nervousness of the first volunteer. He radiates a cool confidence that has all of us watching intently, none more than Leo.

“A simultaneous block and strike can be highly effective,” the professor says, demonstrating an outside block with his right arm and a counter strike with the heel of his palm in the direction of Dean’s face. “I’ll attack. Let’s see if our friend here can both defend and counter strike.”

Professor Howell comes at Dean without warning, firing two quick punches and an elbow to his face. Dean narrowly avoids all three, ducking and weaving in neat, tight movements.

As the professor aims a fourth punch at Dean’s face, Dean knocks it aside and manages to tap the professor in the chest with a short, tight punch. As quick as the blow was, we all hear the impact. The professor is pushed back on his heels.

Dean’s speed and precision are flawless. I can tell by Leo’s silence that even he can’t deny that Dean knows how to fight.

“Well done,” Professor Howell says approvingly.

Dean nods, accepting the praise without comment. But I see a muscle jump in the corner of his jaw. He’s pleased.

“Pair up to practice,” the professor says.

This time Leo isn’t nearly as playful. We spar with each other, practicing counterstrikes. He’s not really watching me—he keeps glancing across the room at Dean.

Because he’s not paying attention, I hit him hard on the right cheekbone.

“Ow.” He rubs the side of his face.

“Get it together,” I say without sympathy.

He looks at me, his eyes searching my face. I’ve seen Leo’s eyes up close enough times to have memorized their exact color. They’re not brown, not really: instead, there’s a dark, smoky outer ring, almost as black as the pupil itself. Then a bright amber iris that makes me think of an animal in the jungle—a tiger or a panther. A predator that can see in the dark.

Those eyes can be warm and laughing. Or they can be ferocious and feral, as they are right now. Studying me. Examining my every move.

“What was he talking about?” Leo demands.

“Who?”

“Dean,” he says impatiently.

“Oh. It’s nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing. I saw your face. What was it?”

I sigh, rolling my eyes to buy time because I really don’t want to have to explain this.

“We bumped into each other this morning in the changing room. He’s just trying to give me shit ‘cause he saw me naked.”

“He saw you naked?” Leo hisses.

“Yeah,” I shrug, “but who cares?” It doesn’t?—”

Leo isn’t listening. He’s glaring over at Dean again, fists clenched and jaw rigid. He’s tense and coiled, like he wants to sprint over there and jump on Dean and beat the ever-loving shit out of him.

“Hey!” I say. “We’re supposed to be?—”

Leo rounds on me.

“Why didn’t you tell me that this morning?”

“What are you talking about?”

---