CHAPTER 28: THE DRAFT - PT. 1 - R

SERICA

This is a fucking disaster.

The queue to the auditorium stretched well past its entrance. I reasoned that they were checking names at the door. I traced the line, looking for Deneel’s distinctive burn-orange side-pony. She would have been impossible to miss if she were here.

I couldn’t find Ainset’s brass either. Cora squeezed my hand, "It’ll be alright, Ser, please calm down."

We both smelled strongly of vanilla. Cora had grabbed a bottle of extract from the kitchen and dabbed our clothes with it to mask any lingering odor. I reasoned I’d rather reek of this than the alternative and let her proceed.

As we entered the building, I caught sight of Illia, standing off to the side beside a flight of stairs. She waved me over, and I stepped out of line, hoping she wouldn’t inquire about events with Deneel.

Approaching, I noticed her eyes lingering on Cora and realized this was the first time the two had seen each other.

"Good evening," I said, trying to mask any concern, shoulders back.

"Slipped your escort already?" she asked, flashing me a sly smile.

Shit.

Of course, she’d note Ainset’s absence. I feigned returned pleasantry, "Not on purpose... She took off, attached to Deneel’s ribbons."

"Tch- Fair enough, and what’s this?" Her hand rose to my side, gingerly gripping the end of my leash, running a finger over Brumer’s half-shattered charm.

"I..." I met her eyes, "I don’t know, it’s been a long day."

She nodded, leaning in closer to it and closing her eyes.

Fuck. Why?

I knew what she was looking at, in the dark behind her eyelids. Brumer’s naked ass and legs hanging limp in space.

"I suppose this deserves half credit; a day one bonding would be impressive if it weren’t partially shattered." That confirmed my suspicion that engaging as the stick in a menage didn’t precisely match the feminine image they wanted me to cultivate. I hardly knew what a shatter entailed, and I’d apparently half-assed one.

Illia went on, brushing her waves over her shoulder, "Where’s her other half?"

The answer to that one carried an implication as well, but I had little hope of concealing my actions for long. I decided it was best to fall on my sword and hope she’d dismiss the line of questioning. "With Cora," I said, "It was hers originally."

"Alright," her hand rose to my shoulder, "We can discuss this later. It’s likely for the best that Ains is with Deneel. I wasn’t too impressed at our meeting." Neither was I, to be honest, at least not regarding my draft prospects. However, there was no point in dwelling on the injustice.

Illia turned and led me down the hall, away from the main entrance, "Given you won’t be on stage with the other Tacticienne, and don’t have another École to sit with, you’ll be joining me until your name is called."

Great. If Deneel held a lick of sense, that would be nearly the entire event. Given that we had a head start with her spot on the team already decided, she would have to use a pick on me at some point. The smart move would be to wait until later on, hopefully the last round, and use that pick on me instead of an undesirable.

I still needed a way to tell Deneel Viv’s name and the fact that I wanted her in the second-to-last round. With Illia at my side, that felt a lot less likely.

She turned at an unassuming door marked "STAFF ONLY" and we proceeded into a dimly lit tunnel with a downward slant.

The two of us were alone again. Recalling the morning’s events in her office, my hair stood on end. She stopped and looked at me. A sputtering lantern to my right cast half her face in light and the other in shadow. Her strigid, yellow eyes rolled down my front then back up. My limbs were deadened, frozen in her gaze like prey. She placed a finely tipped fingernail to my throat, and my heart stammered.

"Tell me, honest," she said, "Does the name Tourdeuil mean anything to you?"

Who?

It didn’t. I shook my head, "No, sorry..."

Her brow furrowed, inching closer. I held my breath, waiting.

"Very well, you’ll tell me if you come across it. Tourdeuil," she reiterated slowly.

"I will."

With that, she turned and continued down the tunnel, "Should anything out of sorts occur this evening, I want you to stick close. Also, please don’t make mention of this conversation."

Of course. I don’t fucking need this; there’s enough on my plate already.

"Professeur," I said, unable to hold myself back, "This is getting to be a bit much..."

"Serica," she rounded back on me, faster than I could register, placing the tip of her pointer finger to my lips, "I know it’s difficult," her other hand brushed down my front. It caressed the bulge of my cock, "and I know this piece has gotten into more trouble than you’re letting on."

I flexed hard against my harness, aching for her grip.

"The university has said its piece, established zero tolerance, and placed you in my care," as she spoke, her palm kneaded my length, "Should things get out of hand, they have all the deniability they need."

My breath came hot, and my eyes rolled as she cupped my tip, "I’m not asking for perfection, Serica... Far from it, but you need to give me something to work with, maintain appearances. Where I can help you, I will. If you’re in need, ask."

Her finger curled and released my lips, then she asked, "Now is there something you need?"

The next part should have been easy. The answer was Viv, getting a message to Deneel, but that meant admitting failure in the library. Her words were reassuring, but her actions were just more pressure, molding me like clay in response to my outburst. I shook my head and said, "No, I’ve got it handled."

She released me and straightened herself, "Naturally." We continued to the end of the tunnel, and the door opened ringside, facing my competition. Forty young women arranged in four rows of ten stood before their assembled classmates. At the stage’s front, a six-foot-tall etched onyx chalice held forty golden orbs that would decide their order in the draft.