Unsure of what to make of that cryptic remark, I hazarded a glance at the others at the table. Farther down the table, a dark-haired girl grinned at me with a set of stained, yellow teeth; to her left, a boy with skin as pale as moonlight stared off into space, apparently bored with Devereaux’s theatrics. The silver-haired woman on August’s right, however, leaned over the table to peer at me with interest. Like the others, her clothing looked expensive. But these were not the members of the Gilded Circle I knew by reputation. No, this was the new secret society August had ditched me to join.
“Dev,” clipped silver-haired woman, the hint of a foreign accent on her tongue. “Shall we move this conversation elsewhere? Society matters aren’t for the general public to hear.” Though her tone was light, the taught lines of her face belied her underlying anxiety.
Her mercurial gaze was fixed on Devereaux, and a small kernel of hope rose in my chest.
Devereaux’s eyes widened innocently, his expression half petulant, half playful. As if to underline this, a few locks of white-blonde hair fell forward, framing his alabaster face. “I don’t see the harm in Miss Farrow learning about our little society,” he taunted. “Besides, when will I have another opportunity to get to know Augustus’s girlfriend?”
In response, the silver-haired lady rolled her eyes, but she did not intercede further.
I found my voice long enough to correct his mistake. “August and I are not together, nor did I break his heart. And I’d appreciate it if you’d let go of me,” I added, once again trying and failing to wrestle my hand from his grasp.He must be somekind of mentalist, I concluded. What else could explain the way my body obeyed him?
Devereaux smiled serenely, ignoring my request. Instead, his pale fingers cinched around my flesh hard enough to leave bruises. “She’s even prettier than you described, Sinclair,” he observed, cold eyes glittering with mirth as he leveled his gaze on August. “It’s too bad you two lovebirds couldn’t work it out.”
I tried not to wince. I’d been wrong about Devereaux Graves. He wasn’t just some rich, conceited asshole on a power trip. He was a sadist who got off on tormenting people. The silver-haired woman glowered at Devereaux from beneath hooded eyes for a long moment before she looked away and lifted a glass to her lips. I was surprised to see that the substance she was drinking looked suspiciously like wine. The Tusk had a strict ban on alcoholic beverages, and yet here these people were, drinking openly without a care or fear of being caught.
“I don’t know about pretty,” intoned the bronze man on Devereaux’s right drolly, dragging a careless hand through his auburn hair as he smirked at me. “I think you’re overstating things, as you always do, Dev. She’s average at best.” He sneered as he assessed me with cold, calculating green eyes.
I narrowed my gaze at him. He looked familiar, but perhaps I’d just seen him hanging around Devereaux. I never did pay much attention to Graves’s lackeys.
“Don’t be such a cretin, Evren,” snapped the silver-haired woman.
“Shove it, succubus,” he snapped in response.
August must have been enduring this level of torment for weeks, if not longer. Nearly all of the cliques on campus engaged in some level of hazing, but I didn’t understand how anyone could possibly think it was worth enduring. It was humiliating, and for what? Invitations to parties? An opportunity to haze the next inductees? From this brief interaction with Devereaux, I knew he’d never respect August.
“Watch it, Evren,” the woman growled.
Evren snorted. “I take orders from no one. Least of all from you, Veronika,” he said with a sneer.
Veronika snarled before plucking a half-eaten pomegranate from the table and hurling it directly into his face. Unfazed, Evren caught the fruit just before it made contact with his graceful nose. He smirked at her from across the table.
“Is that the best you can do?” he mocked.
While Evren and Veronika indulged in another round of bickering, I dared a quick glance in August’s direction. A five o’clock shadow was creeping into his sallow complexion, and he looked as though he hadn’t eaten or slept in days. My stomach clenched in dismay. Was this all part of the hazing procedure? August’s tray, I realized, was also empty, except for a glass of the blood-red draught, a twin to the one Veronika was drinking.
Suddenly, August dipped his head to whisper in my ear. “When he lets go, you need to run. Please, Arden,” he urged.
Utterly bewildered, I met August’s dark eyes, taking in his alarming expression. Fear and trepidation gazed back at me, as clear as if he’d screamed the words aloud. I didn’t understand how he’d gotten himself into this situation, but this wasn’t normal hazing. These people—Devereaux especially—they were trouble. And regardless of whatever had happened between August and me, he needed my help.
I whispered urgently, “What the hell is going on?”
August gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, signaling that I was not to speak. “August?”
No response. August trained his gaze forward.
Devereaux spoke suddenly, his fingers tightening on my wrist, demanding my attention. “You should be proud that Augustus has made friends with such powerful connections.” His eyes glinted with amusement. “He says you were always supportive of his political ambitions.”
Several of his companions snickered, enjoying some inside joke.
Powerful connections. The implication guttered low in my stomach. August had always been bent on surrounding himself with money and power, it was true, but he’d never included me in his pursuit of ambition. I was a distraction, not a serious option. Someone to be discarded before they interfered in his grand schemes. With Devereaux’s new society, it seemed as though August had found what he was looking for—though at what cost, I dared not guess.
“August,” I repeated his name, this time like a command. His weary eyes found mine, and I focused all my efforts on keeping the panic from my voice as I leaned close enough to whisper, “Find me later. I’ll be in the library every evening this week if you need someone to talk to.” I knew those seated nearby probably heard every word, but I didn’t care.
“Speaking of power,” Evren drawled, “I believe you still owe me a favor, Zhara.” His eyes glittered dangerously. “And I plan to collect.”
“Fuck off, Evren,” sneered a small woman with dark hair and skin the color of midnight. Her accent so strange that at first, I thought she was speaking in a foreign tongue. Zhara wore a simple black dress that hugged her curves beneath an oversized leather jacket. Her sloping nose and delicate, narrow features reminded me of a wily fox. Her striking almond eyes were bright with fury as she glared at Evren, who I now surmised was the resident bully in this group.
“Careful, Zhara,” crooned Devereaux, “You should know the risks of failing to pay off a debt to a Bludkravk.”