Chapter 43: Answer [3]

"Never claimed otherwise. It’s written right on the packaging." Cane took another swig of his drink. "Now, talk to me about Marcus. How’s our resident warlord taking his defeat?"

Priya’s posture shifted, slipping smoothly back into the role of the observant servant. She glanced back toward the camp, her brows drawing together in a tight, uneasy line.

"The group around him is shrinking," she said, her voice dropping. "Most of the students who cheered for him on day one have drifted over to our side. They just want the food and the quiet. But the ones who stayed with him... they’re different."

"Different how?"

"They’ve gotten tight. Quiet." She rubbed her bare arms, as if a chill had swept over the warm meadow. "There are only four of them left with him, but they don’t speak to anyone else. They huddle by the south rocks at odd hours. Whenever I walk past with water, their voices drop instantly. One of the kitchen girls told me she overheard them whispering near the supply crates last night. She heard the word ’vote’ thrown around, but she said it didn’t sound like an election."

Cane frowned, swirling the melted ice in his cup. "A vote, huh? Sounds like a mutiny."

"It feels like one," she agreed softly.

"Has Yelena confronted him?"

"Once. Yesterday afternoon." Priya grimaced, recalling the memory. "She marched right up to their rock and demanded to know why they hadn’t set the perimeter snares. She was loud, forceful, using that noble tone she uses when the stable hands get lazy."

"And Marcus?"

"He didn’t yell back," Priya said, her eyes darkening with worry. "He didn’t argue at all. He just sat there, looked up at her, and smiled."

Cane tapped his fingers against his wooden cup. "Smug? Arrogant?"

"No," she said slowly, searching for the right word. "It was... sad. Like he looked at her and felt pity. He told her there was nothing to discuss, that everything was going to be settled soon enough. It terrified her, Cane. She won’t admit it, but she barely slept last night. She stayed awake in her tent with a dagger in her hand."

"Does she think he’s going to challenge her before the exam clock runs out?"

"She doesn’t know," Priya admitted helplessly, spreading her hands. "Two days ago, I would have sworn Marcus was all talk. A loud brute who wanted to play commander. But the way those five look at the rest of the camp now... they look at us like we’re already dead."

Cane hummed, letting the information settle into his mental map. A fracture within the bracket was standard fare in these kinds of exercises, but Marcus wasn’t the type to orchestrate an intricate coup. Unless, of course, Marcus had found outside backing. Or worse, unless the pressure of the impending Talon strike was already bleeding into the weaker minds of the student body.

"Yelena should have exiled him when she had the chance," Cane noted casually.

Priya let out a sudden, genuine laugh, the tension breaking from her face like sun through mist.

"She said the exact same thing this morning! She stood over the porridge kettle and said, ’I should have tied Marcus to a tree and banished him the way I threatened to banish that worthless Valerian boy.’ Except when she said it about you, she was half-joking. With Marcus, she was dead serious."

Cane chuckled, tossing the empty cup into the grass. "Good to know I occupy such a prominent place in her morning thoughts."

Before Priya could reply, a rustle of dry leaves and tall grass rippled from the path leading back toward the tents.

Past Priya’s bare shoulder, a figure emerged into the sunlight.

Yelena.

Cane’s breath hitched slightly, his eyes narrowing as he took her in.

She walked with a stride that was pure, unconscious eroticism. Her hips swayed with a fluid, rhythmic snap, the tight fabric of her shortened skirt riding high on her thighs, flashing generous lengths of pale, untouched skin with every step. Her waist was impossibly slender, cinched tight by the hem of a regulation blouse she had hacked off just beneath the swell of her chest, tying the loose ends into a tight knot that sat right between her ribs.

She wasn’t built like Aria or Priya; she lacked their heavy, spilling curves. But what she lacked in raw mass, she more than compensated for in pure, aristocratic perfection. Her breasts were modest, high, and firm, straining proudly against the thin white cotton without the aid of a corset. Her legs were sleek and toned, tapering into slender ankles that moved with arrogant grace.

She was glaring at him, her jaw tight, but there was an unmistakable tremor of hesitation in the set of her shoulders.

Cane lifted his head, his gaze dragging down from the curve of her throat, across the perky swell of her tits, down over her flat belly, and settling squarely on the dangerous sway of her hips.

He licked his lips. Slow. Deliberate. Filthy.

Beside him, Priya caught the gesture and let out a soft, strangled gasp, her blush detonating into a violent crimson that swept from her ears straight down into her cleavage.

Yelena froze for half a fraction of a second, catching Cane’s leering, ravenous stare. A furious bloom of pink exploded across her pale cheekbones, but she clamped her teeth together, forced her chin up, and marched the final ten paces until she was standing directly over him, casting a slender shadow across his bare chest.

Cane lifted a hand, waving two fingers in a lazy, mocking salute.

"Well, well. Look who finally decided to grace the exile camp. Come to pour another bucket of water on me, my lady?"

Yelena cleared her throat, a tight, nervous sound that completely betrayed the icy glare she was attempting to project.

"Priya," she said, her voice stiff and brittle. "Leave us."

Priya scrambled to her feet instantly, dusting the dried grass from her denim shorts. Her massive boobs bounced wildly with the motion, drawing a brief, appreciative flick of Cane’s eyes before she bowed her head toward her mistress.