Page 32 of Made in Malice

“Because there are only two kinds of people, Charity. The ones under me, and the ones against me, and I haven’t figured out which one you are yet.”

She breaks eye contact with me and scans the Union. I knew we attracted attention as soon as I sat down, but it seems as if she’s just now noticing my audience.

“Maybe that’s because I’m neither. I am not your enemy, and I’m not your subject.”

The only other option is family, and that’s the last thing she is.

She reaches for her laptop, showing signs of leaving. I think about stopping her but decide to let her think she’s getting away from me without my dismissal.

“I need to get to my next class.” There’s a pleading tone in her voice I would bet she’s not even aware of.

“I’m not stopping you.” The second she leans forward to pick her bag up off the floor, I speak loudly enough for everyone watching to hear. “I know you’re used to fucking as a form of payment, but I’m not interested. Don’t touch me again.”

I see the hurt and embarrassment flash in her eyes before she averts her gaze from mine, and I like it, but what I like even more is watching her ass sway from side to side as she walks away with her chin tipped in the air with defiance.

NOVA

Telling myself that putting up with this crap is worth it over and over again isn’t quite cutting it after the debacle in the Union. I try to focus on the professor during class, but I feel like I’m back in eighth grade and everyone just found out that Julie went down on Ricky in the band room closet. Somehow, he was cooler after, but she was called all kinds of names and treated like a pariah. I don’t know which was worse—the girls and their slut shaming, or the boys acting like Julie would be willing to go down on them too.

I hear all the chuckles at my expense, as well as the mock whispers calling me desperate and insinuating that I’m willing to do anything for money, and it sucks, but I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that the taunts will pass, just like they did for Julie…two years later.

I don’t rush out of the room when class is over in hopes of avoiding some of the other students in the hall, but it’s pointless. When I exit the room, there are several stragglers lingering there, and I’m not at all surprised to find they all seem to be waiting for me or to witness something they think is going to happen. I glance around, looking for Morningstar, since he’s not an easy one to miss, but come up empty.

Unfortunately, his existence can be felt even without him actually being present. The king has spoken, and it seems to be open season on the new girl. The hostility I sense from the hateful glances are enough to have me wanting to get the heck out of here and grateful it’s my last class of the day so I can.

I keep my face relaxed as I pretend not to notice the people gathered around, even though it seems orchestrated. If I said I wasn’t a little nervous walking through the gauntlet of students, I’d be lying, but I wonder if that’s not part of the tactic to keep me on edge, wondering what could happen. Morningstar definitely seems manipulative enough for those kinds of mind games, and the girl from my earlier class said they couldn’t touch me. Unfortunately, I don’t know if I can believe her.

Just when I start to consider that maybe I was overthinking the reason for the crowd, I feel someone right behind me almost breathing down my neck. I don’t speed up my steps or move to the side, because that would let them know they are getting to me, but man do I want to.

Three steps later, my foot lifts much higher than it should when the person syncs their steps with mine and shifts their foot under my heel, causing me to stumble forward. Thankfully, I don’t fall, but my bag does slip down my arm and hit the ground with a nasty thwack. Damn it, my new laptop better be okay.

Streams of people move around me when I stop to haul my bag back up my arm, making it impossible to know which of them tried to trip me. I mutter an acerbic, “Grow up,” anyway.

“You okay?” a guy asks from just over my shoulder, so I have to turn to see him properly. He has several inches on me and gorgeous, dark auburn hair and a face to match. He looks to be several years older than me and way out of my tax bracket. He is what I expected of Morningstar. He’s dressed in dark slacks and a white button-up that seem simple enough, but his clothes speak of wealth. It could be the fabric, the tailored cut, or just everything about him. Whatever it is, he oozes money.

Even without all that to take into consideration, I’m skeptical of why he would ask me if I’m okay. “Fine,” I answer, trying not to be too rude, but my tone conveys irritation I don’t bother hiding.

His eyes roam over me, and he’s not even trying to be subtle before he says, “Derry Quade,” in what I’m guessing is an introduction.

“Nova Devlin.”

His head tilts to the side as he asks, “You didn’t keep your mom’s name?” proving he already knew who I was.

“No,” I reply slowly. It’s still pretty much the social norm, and it certainly was nineteen years ago, to take your father’s name, so I’m wondering why he’s even asking.

“But you’re an Umbra.”

“So they tell me.” I start to walk away.

“One of the founding families,” he continues as if I need the reminder, then he steps up to keep pace beside me.

I shoot him a quick glance, but it’s pointless. He seems just as baffled as to why I’m not using the family name as I am about why it matters to him that I’m not.

“Morningstar will still fuck with you, but most of the others will back off if you throw your weight around a little.”

I do a double take at the side of his face. Was that an insult about my size, or just a reference to having a founding family name? “And be like him? No thanks.”

Derry’s brows rise in what seems like surprise. “Not a fan?”

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