Page 30 of Kingmakers, Year Four

“Thank you,” she replies. “You’re not bad yourself.”

“Well, I grew up on an island.”

Now she smiles, relaxing slightly and wrapping the towel around her body. “I was born on one. Born in the ocean.”

“Really?”

I didn’t know that. And this is why I’m here, after all—to learn about this girl. Every last detail.

“Yeah.” She grins, her teeth glinting like pearls. “My mom didn’t realize she was pregnant. I was the mother of all surprises.”

“You mean the daughter of all surprises,” I say.

She gives a throaty laugh. “That’s exactly right.”

I already know about Nix’s mother. I know who she was and what happened to her. I know a lot of things about Nix, while she knows nothing about me. It might seem unfair . . . if the scales weren’t already stacked three years and $240 million against me.

“You come down here often?” I ask her.

“Yeah.” She nods. “It helps me relax. Away from . . . everybody.”

She’s the most despised person at this school. Sabrina had to threaten and cajole everyone in our group just to get them to consent to Nix sitting at our table. Bram’s still pissed about it.

“It’s peaceful down here,” I say.

“Like the library,” Nix replies.

That startles me. I feel my eyes narrowing.

Nix colors. “Sabrina said you spend a lot of time studying,” she says.

I can’t tell if she’s as naive as she seems, or if this girl is conniving. I find it hard to believe that it was really such a shock to her finding out that her dad is a vicious, backstabbing monster.

Marko Moroz is a master at hiding who he really is until it’s too late.

His daughter must be the same.

In Russia, we say,Kakov pop takov i prihod: What the priest is like, so is the church.

Whatever Nix pretends to be, deep down, she’s as rotten as her father.

I give her the standard Ares story:

“I’m not as well-connected as the rest of the students here,” I say. “There’s no empire waiting for me. So I guess grades matter more for me than for some people.”

“Does that bother you?” Nix asks me, her sea-green eyes fixed on mine. “Do the rest of us seem spoiled, like we don’t have to work as hard?”

There’s no challenge in the question. She seems genuinely curious. Sympathetic, even.

Even though I’m determined not to trust this girl, not to give her even a shred of honesty, something twitches in my brain.

I can’t help thinking how easy it is for everyone else to call their parents on the weekend, to go to parties, practice, and study, with no stakes to anything. No weight on their shoulders. No real consequences to their actions.

And even though I detest this girl, even though I have half a mind to wrap my wet hands around her pale throat and throttle her on these steps, I find myself doing something unexpected.

I tell the truth.

“Yes,” I say. “I resent it. I hate being here with everyone else . . . but notlikeeveryone else.”

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