I write back:
CONTROL. IN PROGRESS. WATCHING.
I don’t mention the Feral Boy, or his eyes, or the fact that I am afraid. I don’t mention the way my hands shake when I strip down for bed, or the way I double-check the lock on my door.
Westpoint is a kingdom of predators. But I’m not prey. I’m just a different kind of animal.
One built for blood.
Night is the only time my mind is quiet.
The suite is silent except for the wind banging against my window. My father would hate the excess of this place: he always taught us to live modestly. I hate it too, but I hate it less than the thought of what waits beyond the door.
The rest of the Academy.
Exhaustion creeps in and it’s time for me to do my routine.
Normal girls brush their hair and teeth and apply moisturizer. Not me. I do security checks. Sweep the room. Check each window. Test every lock, then test again, pushing until the wood groans. The glass is thick, and the latches are hand-forged. I twist them hard, knuckles white, until I’m sure there’s no give.
Father trained me in the art of paranoia. Never sleep near a window. Never trust a door with only one lock. Never let them know which side of the bed you favor. In the Bonaccorso house, safety was not a privilege, but a job.
Tonight, the job feels like a joke.
I move to the armoire and peel off the day’s uniform, folding each piece on the padded bench. Underneath, my skin is flushed from heat and adrenaline, the day’s anxiety leaving shallow fingerprints up and down my ribs. I swap to silk pajamas, black and soft, short sleeves and loose so I can feel the room’s chill.
The bathroom mirror is antique, silvered glass that warps my face at the edges. I stare at my reflection and see two versions of myself: the one built for war, and the one built for display. The line between them is thinner every day.
I finally brush my teeth, rinse twice, then return to the bedroom, too tired to shower. It’ll have to wait for tomorrow.
There’s a final window, set above the desk. I pull the curtain back and look down on the quad. Moonlight silvers the lawn and draws out the sharp angles of the buildings. The campus is empty, except for the shadow near the old chapel.
I see him at once. Bam, or someone like him, pacing the perimeter with deliberate slowness. He pauses every few yards, sometimes to glance up at my wing, sometimes to stare off into the tree line. Even in moonlight, his size is impossible to mistake. I wonder if he knows I see him. I wonder if he cares.
The urge to close the curtain is immediate, but I resist. Instead, I lean in, my palm pressed flat to the cold glass. The surface is colder than expected, sending a shiver up my arm. My breath fogs the pane, and in the blur I see my own eyes—wide, gold-brown, pupils wide with animal excitement.
I wait for him to move. He doesn’t.
I wonder if he’s there for me, or for the rumor of me. I wonder if the only thing keeping me safe from him is the certainty that he could break every bone in my body if he felt like it, and that I’d never see it coming.
But I do see it. I see every step, every shadow, every possibility.
My mind runs the numbers: distance from the desk to the door, the time it would take to reach the stairwell, the best object to use as a weapon if he forced entry. The calculations should be comforting, but instead they make my heart race faster, until I feel it in my ears.
I draw the curtain halfway, then pause. My other hand comes up, fingertips brushing the velvet edge. For a moment, I am suspended—half-visible, half-shadowed, caught between the urge to hide and the urge to expose.
I know he is watching. I know he is waiting for me to make the next move.
A thrill rises, sharp and wrong, but I let it live.
When I finally let the curtain fall, it is deliberate, not fearful. I lock the window, then double-check every exit, making sure the routine is intact.
As I slide under the covers, I count my breaths until the pulse slows, until the noise in my head fades. It never really does, but tonight, for once, it is less.
Because I know that in the game between predators, it is never the strongest who wins.
It is the one who stays awake.
Chapter 4: Bam
