I am not anyone’s fucking doll.
And the next time Bam Ellis-Black touches me, it will be because I want him to, because I asked him to, and for no other reason.
I breathe in, slow and deep, and let the hunger take root.
Let the world try to ruin me.
I will devour it first.
Chapter 8: Bam
LunchatWestpointisalways chaotic. Long tables, bad lighting, no sound but the roar of a hundred overbred assholes jockeying for dominance. You can taste the insecurity in the air. I hate every second of it. But you watch. That’s where you find the cracks.
The rest of the Boys are sitting at our spot, but I’m restless. My girl is sitting alone, her bodyguards shadowed behind her, but something is off. I can feel it.
I’m on my third lap of the perimeter before anything new pings the radar. First it’s a smell: the too-clean chemical hit of dry cleaning, not the perfumed reek of a normal uniform.
Then it’s the shoes—leather, hand-stitched, zero scuff, the kind only old money or new muscle bothers with. I take my time with the rest. The way the guy moves is wrong.
Not afraid enough, not loud enough either. Transfers usually try to fade or flex. This one is pure shadow, stalking the edges like a hunter waiting for his chance.
He picks a spot near the windows. From there, he’s got line of sight on the main drag and two of the escape routes. He’s not eating. His tray is untouched, not even a dent in the jello. I don’t look at him direct, but I see his eyes, dark and wet, flicking from face to face, cataloguing the room. My own gaze slams into his once, just enough for him to know I see him. He doesn’t look away.
I want to break him right here, but I wait. Waiting is power. Instead, I snake around the back, watch the way students ripple and part for me. They don’t know why they’re afraid; their bodies just do the math and move.
At the far table, Dahlia is suddenly surrounded by a pack of first-years vying for her attention. She’s not smiling, but she’s running the show all the same—sharp voice, sharper stare. The other girls laugh too loud and flail their arms when they speak. Dahlia ignores it. She cuts her food into cubes, each one measured, lined up before she eats. The discipline is hot, but the control is hotter.
Transfer-boy watches her with the same hungry focus he used on the exits. His fingers drum his thigh, slow and even. I spot thewatch right away—a Patek, real gold, band etched with a symbol you don’t see here.Castillo. My stomach goes tight.
The Castillos are muscle for the Southside; they hate the Kings more than anyone but the feds. Dahlia’s family has a truce, but it’s worth less than the shit on the quad. A Castillo in Westpoint is a loaded gun being held by a madman.
I kill the next ten minutes studying him. When he stands, I follow at a distance.
I clock every detail: gait, stance, the faint bulge at his hip—maybe a blade, maybe not. He waits by her classroom. Dahlia’s entourage peels off, all giggles and hair flips, but he zeroes in on her. I feel my hands curl. My jaw sets so hard it crackles.
She walks like she knows she’s being watched. Chin up, stride perfect. He stops her with a palm on the wall as she moves to pass, fingers fanned just wide enough to be a threat. His smile is too white, too ready. I know the type. Charming but deadly. Knife in the dark.
He speaks low, words for her alone, but I’m close enough to catch the tail end.
“Your father’s business is not what it was, Principessa. Maybe it’s time for a new alliance.”
Dahlia doesn’t flinch. “You’re boring me.”
He moves closer. “You’re not safe. Not here, not anywhere. We’re everywhere.”
Dahlia’s pulse jumps in her throat, but she holds his eyes. “I don’t talk to bottom feeders,” she says, not flinching when he raises his hand to caress her cheek.
That’s when I move.
It’s not a choice. One second I’m watching; the next, I’ve got him by the back of the neck, my fingers digging so deep he makes a noise like a kicked dog. I slam his face into the wall so hard it dents, then whip him around and pin him with my forearm across his windpipe. The other students scatter. A couple of them whip out phones, but I shoot them a look and they remember how to forget.
The plant thrashes, goes for the blade at his side. I crack his wrist on the antique water fountain; the knife clatters to the floor. I squeeze until his face turns purple.
He tries to say something—maybe a threat, maybe a plea. Doesn’t matter.
“Wrong princess to threaten,” I growl, pressing in. I can smell his fear now, sharp and sour, cutting through the aftershave. “Wrong school, wrong city, wrong fucking planet.”
He spits at me, lips curling. “You don’t scare me. We have eyes on her everywhere. Even you can’t protect—”
