Page 44 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

“Everything is under control,” the provost says.

Bitter words line up on my tongue, but I can’t say anything with these hitching lungs of mine.

“Please, child.” Gabriel’s voice is tight, but calm. “Just take the dishes and leave. This does not concern you.”

There’s a clatter of crockery and cutlery as Reuben cleans the apartment.

Gabriel and I are still on the floor, and the fact has a wave of shame rolling through me. I turn and burrow my head against Gabriel’s chest, and let a month’s worth of anger, and hurt, and fear pour out of me.

So what if Reuben sees?

So what if the whole world knows how weak and pathetic I am?

It doesn’t matter.

BecauseIdon’t matter.

If I did, then I’d still have my parents. I’d still be happy.

But I don’t matter to anyone anymore.

Not even God.

Chapter 15

Zach

I sit up in bed and stare at the shadow of the man who’s just stepped into my room.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

Rube doesn’t reply immediately. Instead, he moves about my room, hunting in the dark. Seconds later, a match flares and he lights the single candle on my desk.

My apartment is one of the smaller ones on the fourth floor of the east wing.

Reuben shouldn’t be in this wing. He has a single student room on the west.

Light takes its time to seep into the shadows. Reuben sits on the corner of my bed, his profile cast in stark relief by the candle.

I don’t need much more than a desk and a bed, so that’s all there is this room. I’m fortunate enough to have an en-suite bathroom, but it’s nothing more than a toilet and a shower.

“She was with him tonight.”

There’s no question who he’s talking about.

Cass calls him Old Scratch, or Lucifer when he’s feeling snarky. Reuben never addresses him by name, except if he’sspeaking to someone outside of our group. Then he uses the provost’s full honorifics.

Apollo’s terms of endearment are multitudinous. I think he commits several hours a week to thinking up new ones, in fact.

We’re all obsessed with the past. We all suffer the same sick compulsion—to exact our revenge. We all pretend we have some form of control over ourselves.

Over each other.

“He fucked her?”

Rube snorts. “Dinner. And then confession.”

“Confession?”

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