Page 8 of Kingmakers, Year Four

Pushing hard one last time, I say, “The whole damn island is only eight miles across. You’ll know exactly where I am the whole time. You might as well have me in a snow globe in your pocket. It’s the safest place on earth, isn’t it?”

“Rocco Prince was killed there only a year ago!” my father barks.

“Dieter Prince isn’t you. Nobody would lay a finger onyourdaughter.” I grin. “Even when I want them to.”

My father snorts. He’s well aware that my dating opportunities have been as dismal as the rest of my social life, and it’s his fault.

Making him laugh is the second-best way to get what I want.

The best way is straight up begging.

“Please, Dad,” I say. “I want to go to school. I want to be normal, for once in my life. Or normal-adjacent, at least.”

He sighs, his massive shoulders dropping an inch. “I’ll think about it,” he says.

I heroically resist the urge to jump up and down.

“Thank you, Dad!”

“I said I’llthinkabout it!” he reminds me.

“I know,” I say, righting the kitchen chair and stepping up on the seat so I can kiss him on the cheek.

We both know that means I’m going.

3

Nix

Freshman students board the ship to Kingmakers from the port in Dubrovnik, the first week of September.

I hadn’t realized we were supposed to put on our uniforms already, so I come down to the dock dressed in my usual tank top, cargo pants, and combat boots. My father’s men outfit themselves from the same military warehouse that supplies the Spetsnaz, and I’ll admit, that’s where I do most of my shopping. It’s all top-quality tactical materials, in consistent sizes. I like to be comfortable.

I’m not looking forward to wearing the uniforms, and I sure as fuck have no intention of putting on one of those plaid skirts. I bought the boy’s trousers instead.

I’m not trying tobea boy. Not trying to “be the son my father never had” or whatever the fuck. I just want to be able to run around and sit any way I like without worrying about my underwear showing.

I’ll admit, I feel a little scrubby compared to all the other students who dressed up for the first day of school—fresh haircuts and shiny shoes and all the works.

I thought I was really doing something just washing my hair last night. But it’s a lot more humid here than in Kyiv, and my curls are forming rebellious twists that are halfway between a dreadlock and something Medusa would have growing all over her head.

Meanwhile, the rest of the students are sleek and polished, and a lot of them seem to know each other already. They’re forming excited little bunches, eagerly chatting about the upcoming school year.

I throw my duffle bag down in the pile of luggage waiting to be loaded on the ship. Then I square my shoulders, looking around for one of those groups to sidle up and join. After all, the whole point of coming here was to try to make friends.

I’ve been isolated, growing up on my father’s private compound with nobody around except his army of men. Don’t get me wrong,it’s great having thirty rowdy uncles at your beck and call, but it’s not the same as your own peers.

I’m feeling pretty confident, though. I’m smart and funny, and always down to try something new—what’s not to like?

So I stroll up to the first person I see: a tall Asian girl with retro-framed glasses and hot-pink lipstick. She’s got a group of friends around her and she looks cool.

“Hi!” I say. “I’m Nix. Where are you guys from?”

“I’m from Hong Kong,” the girl says, holding out a slim hand to shake. “Alyssa Chan.”

Before I can take her hand, her friend mutters something in her ear in rapid Cantonese.

Alyssa drops her hand and tucks it into the pocket of her skirt, as if she never meant to shake. At the same time, she takes an unconscious step back from me.

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