“I want you to understand something. What my family helped organize here has a purpose. Arrangements that keep certain things running smoothly and that does not disappear. You are on the list. And the people who use the list do not need the Order to intervene to keep using it.”
Azriel sometimes does not say things that clearly exist in the space his sentences leave. The Order is the campus institution.
“Where are you going with this? What does all this have to do with me? I’m not the only one on the list,” I point out.
Something shifts in his expression. His eyes travel to the V of my shirt and back.
“I want you, Amy.”
Bile rises in the middle of my chest. “Listen carefully,” I say. “ I’m not interested.”
He looks at me with an expression that tells me he expects me to say everything I plan to, but the expression on his face tells me he’s on a mission to get what he wants, and whatever that is, is not just about me.
“Here is what I want you to understand,” he says, his voice dropping to something more intimate and dangerous. “Whatever you think Saint Vitale is to you, you are not protected. A name, a car, and a house do not change what you are in this world. People who involve themselves with things they do not understand have a way of becoming part of the landscape.” He pauses. “You seem like a smart girl. I’m telling you this as a courtesy.”
A courtesy. Who the fuck does this asshole think he is?
A byproduct of his upbringing. Another entitled idiot who exists to use people like me for leverage, offering a warning dressed as kindness.
I think about the men from my past standing in front of me and telling me what I am, what position I occupy, what the options are for someone in my situation.
My father.
Roman.
Azriel.
Saint.
Every room where someone with power decided to explain my circumstances to me as if they were not things being done to me but simply facts of the world.
I’m so tired of being used.
“Thank you for the courtesy,” I say. Completely even. “Is there anything else?”
He blinks.
“I’m sorry?” he says.
“I asked if there was anything else. If not, I have somewhere I need to be.”
Victor stares at me as I gather my things.
One of the men behind him shifts.
“You should think very carefully,” Victor says, recovering, “about who you trust yourself with and what that costs.”
“I will. Good evening.”
I walk past him down the length of the colonnade and through the gate and across the quad, and I don’t stop until I’m through the dormitory entrance and up the stairs and inside my room with the door closed and locked.
I sit on the bed with my coat still on, and I let the shaking happen because it was always going to happen, and I’m in a place where it is allowed.
I breathe through it.
Five things I can see. Four I can hear. Three I can touch.
When it passes, I open my notebook.