She fucks him in the dead of night, at some end of the forest with his broad hands clamped around her waist, hips sliding against her ass with each thrust. She's not naive; she knows why he's doing it, of all people, she knows why he's driving into her like one of those steroid-enhanced third-year Academy brutes, she's not stupid by a long shot. She's perceptive, is why, and that's why she lets him bury his cock deep inside her, because she knows. The other girl, the sharp-faced wolf bitch, she might be good with her knives, but Cato's got a heart as dead as the stone quarries he hails from and there's more ways to get inside the cracks in his armor than with brute force. As Cashmere would tell her, It's good to know how to play games.

When he finally comes, she smiles and pulls out the dagger.