“Anything else?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Just don’t get attached. She’s not like us. She’s got a real future and if her father yanks her back then you lose everything, Bam. I don’t want to see you fucked up… or dead.”
I snort. “Yeah, yeah. I’m gunna head home… mind your coffee.”
I leave the office, the air colder now. The smell of burnt sugar is gone, replaced by the stink of war.
Passing by Isolde I pause to give her a hug before kissing her forehead.
“Be careful out there, Bam. I worry about you.”
“I’ll be fine. See you soon, Issy. Take care of Rhett and don’t go too hard on him.”
She scoffs and throws a spoon at my head, which I ducked with a grin. “See ya, smelly.”
I walk out, the night colder than before, the air snapping at my face. The Academy glows in the distance, all lights and shadows. Somewhere out there, she’s waiting.
They sent her here to avoid her inevitable death should she fall into the wrong hands. I won’t let it happen.
Not because I care about the Kings, or the Board, or the future of the stupid Night Hunt.
Because she’s mine, and nobody gets to break what’s mine.
I walk down the path, clenching and unclenching my fist, feeling the animal under my skin.
It’s time we destroyed the rot from the inside out.
Chapter 7: Dahlia
Thewalkbacktothe East Wing is awkward as all hell.
I’m still raw, inside and out, the sweat on my skin dried to a slick film under the winter wind. Bam is gone, vanished into the haze of the quad, but what he did to me is stamped on every nerve. My thighs ache. My mouth still tastes like his, salt and blood and all the rest.
Leone’s presence is more suffocating than the cold. He walks two paces behind, always in my blind spot, but I can hear every breath he takes. I know the signs—his jaw is set so hard you could split logs on it, and the vein above his brow throbs with each step. I don’t look back, but I feel him, every atom of his disappointment, his disgust, his panic.
The campus is dead quiet now. No one lingers after sunset, not in this weather. The walkway is slick with black ice and salted footprints. My boots hit each patch careful so as not to slip; I refuse to stumble in front of him, refuse to look like the child he thinks I am. I dig my hands deep into my coat pockets and count the steps to the entrance.
Leone’s voice is a sandpaper whisper as we approach the doors. “You’re bleeding.” Not a question, a report. He doesn’t reach for me—he’s too well-trained for that—but his hand hovers, ready to catch me if I fall. He’s always waiting for me to fall.
I ignore him, head through the main entrance, and walk down toward my suite. The doors close with a hiss, trapping us in silence and fluorescent light. I see my reflection in the mirror panel, and for a second, it looks like I’ve been dragged through mud and dirt. Hair wild, cheeks flushed, mouth swollen at the edges. There’s a smudge of dirt across my jaw that I don’t remember. I look away.
We keep walking in silence. He follows, shadowing me down the long hall. The lights overhead are motion-activated, flickering to life one after another as we pass. Every detail in this building screams money, but all I notice is how the soft carpet muffles our footsteps, how easy it would be to sneak up behind someone and—
“Give me your keys,” Leone says, anger punctuating the words.
I hand them over. He unlocks my door, pushes inside first, does the perimeter check. My father trusts him more than any of myblood relatives. I used to as well, before I realized trust is just a fancier word for control.
He emerges from the bedroom, face unreadable. “Clear.”
I enter, drop my bag by the closet. For a few seconds, I pretend he’ll just leave, pretend he’ll remember his place in the food chain and go back to pretending he’s invisible. Instead, he closes the door behind him and waits. His hands are at his sides but I know he’s dying to grab me by the arm and shake sense into me.
I toe off my boots, slide them into the rack. My hands tremble, just a little. I feel the urge to wash—scrub every inch until the memory of Bam’s mouth is erased—but I won’t give Leone that satisfaction.
He’s the first to break.
“What the fuck was that?”
I don’t answer. I walk past him to my room, peel off my shirt and bra, toss them onto the chair before grabbing an oversized shirt sitting on the dresser.
