Page 9 of Kingmakers, Year Four

“Nix . . . what was it?” she says.

“Nix Moroz,” I say, trying to pretend I didn’t notice the cock-block from her friend.

Alyssa nods, her face smooth and impassive. “Nice to meet you,” she says, coolly. Then she turns back to her friends, in a silent but perfectly articulate rebuff to any further conversation.

Well, fuck.

Either I’m sweatier than I thought in the Croatian sunshine, or maybe these girls feel like they have enough friends already.

Trying not to feel self-conscious, I look around for somebody else who might be more welcoming.

Maybe it’s my imagination, but I feel like a couple of kids are whispering to each other now, casting looks back in my direction. A ripple runs through the crowd of students, a message passed from ear to ear while I stand here, alone and stupidly gaping.

When I take a step toward a group of Irish students, they immediately split apart and head in opposite directions, some boarding the ship and others feeling a pressing impulse to check on their luggage.

What the fuck is going on?

Well, it doesn’t matter—the ship’s crew are hollering for everybody to board. I join the stream of students ascending the gangplank to the deck.

The barquentine is beautiful, with crisp white, navy, and gold paint, and taut sails snapping in the breeze. I watch the sailors with interest, seeing how they work together to manipulate the ropes and rigging, which are too heavy for one man to handle, no matter his experience or brawn.

Once every last student is onboard, the sailors cast off. The ship begins to move, with aching slowness at first, and then surprising speed as the sails fill with wind and the ship turns into the optimum angle for tacking.

The students settle in across the deck—some playing cards or dice games, a few reading, and others turning their faces to the blazing sun to catch a tan.

Everybody seems to have at least one person to talk to.

Except one girl.

She’s sitting on the railing of the ship, heedless of the fact that one rough buck of the waves could chuck her backward into the water. Her dark hair streams over her shoulder in the wind. Every male within a twenty-foot radius is staring transfixed at the long expanse of tanned thighs bared beneath the short hem of her skirt.

She looks boldly back at them, daring them to approach. None has gathered up the balls to do it yet, probably because she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Her skin is deeply tanned, her figure outrageously sensual, her lips full and pouting, and her eyes an unusual shade of foggy gray. Her eyebrows are dark slashes, slightly tilted up at the outer edges, giving her a fierce expression, though she’s actually smiling slightly.

It’s no wonder that none of the girls have gone near her, either. I see a few casting her envious or wistful looks. I don’t believe that girls hate pretty girls—they’re drawn to them, more often. But this kind of beauty is terrifying and fundamentally unfair to most people’s eyes.

I’m fascinated by her. Maybe it’s because I do so much hunting with my father—I can’t help but view this girl as a rare specimen.

Besides, I never expected to be the prettiest girl around. I’m a little odd-looking, quite frankly. Almost as tall as my mother was, with this wild hair and skin that will never take the slightest bit of sunshine, always remaining as cadaverous as if I lived full-time in a cave. I’ve got a raspy voice, and I laugh too loud. I turn heads for the wrong reasons.

So I stride right up to this girl and I say, “Is everybody too scared to talk to you because you’re gorgeous, or are you a secret serial killer?”

The girl gives me a wicked grin, saying, “I’m not asecretanything.”

“Nix Moroz,” I say, holding out my hand.

She slides off the railing so she can shake. Once she lands on her feet and realizes she’s a good four inches shorter than me, she says, “Goddamnit! I hate looking up at people.”

But she gives my hand a good squeeze anyway. Hers is surprisingly strong, and I notice that her fingers are stained with something dark. Her perfume is tinged with a heady chemical scent—oil or gasoline. It makes my head spin.

“Sabrina Gallo,” she says.

“Where are you from?” I ask her.

Maybe it’s rude to ask everybody that question, but I’m wildly curious, with students coming to Kingmakers from every corner of the globe.

“Born and raised in Chicago,” she says. “You?”

“Kyiv.”

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