Julian’s still laughing. “God, you’re a fucking idiot. Loved that shirt, though.”
I wipe most of the blood off my hands with a napkin, not caring that it smears. “He’ll live.”
Colton is already staring at the door, tension gone. “Someone’s watching.”
I follow his gaze and, yeah. There, by the hostess stand—sunglasses at night, scarf up high. Female, small, posture tight.
Dahlia.
I catch her eyes. She doesn’t blink, just studies the scene, then pivots and walks out. I let her. The urge to chase is strong, but there are rules now. I have to play nice until I can no longer contain the beast rising inside me.
It makes my skin itch, makes it feel two times too small for my frame. Makes me want to storm after her and fuck her senseless.
We finish the drinks, leave cash on the table, and fade into the cold.
The walk back is slow and cold, other Academy kids doing the same walk home—a hundred eyes, a thousand rumors. The story will warp by morning, but it’s always the same ending.
We’re the monsters.
I stop outside the building, feel the air on my skin, chest hot with leftover adrenaline. I want to see her, want to make sure she’s inside, but I don’t go up. She needs the illusion of distance more than she needs me right now.
Instead, I circle the building, check the shadows. There’s a car parked across the street, engine running, windows fogged.
Not one of ours, so likely a King or a Castillo.
I resist the urge to make another scene and head inside.
At the end of the day, the Hunt will make one thing clear…
Who is really willing to fight and die for Dahlia Bonaccorso.
Chapter 11: Dahlia
I’minmysuite,blacked out curtains, everything chill. Somehow woke up with the worst fucking headache, but at least Leone isn’t here to irritate me to death. The noise from the quad is distant, like it’s happening to someone else. My phone is the only light—every notification pinging, driving me to madness.
The room is too clean. The smell of disinfectant clings to every surface, even though I haven’t let the maid service in for a week. I’m perched at the desk, my hands cradling my head, wishing this head pain away.
The phone rings, shrill and invasive. Only one person that could be. I let it ring twice, then answer, already bracing my voice.
“Papa.”
There’s a pause. I can hear the rattle of ice in his glass, the low warble of a news anchor in the background. “Lia,” he says without his usual affection, which generally means something bad has happened. “How are you sleeping?”
“I sleep fine,” I say. The lie is automatic.
“You are eating? Not the American shit, I hope.”
“I eat well. I cook for myself.”
“Good.” His voice is clipped, efficient. He hates small talk, but I can tell by the drag in his breath that he is pacing the study, fingers likely trailing across the old-world globe that sits next to his desk. He always calls from the study. Never from the kitchen, never from the bedroom. “I need to talk to you about the Board.”
This is not a social call.
I sit straighter, smoothing my crumpled PJ shirt, tucking one ankle behind the other the way my mother taught me before she left. “Of course.”
There’s a shuffling on the other end. “I received word that the Castillos are stirring the pot. They want a blood audit. They are not content to sit in our shadow, so they talk. They say you are soft. They say we have lost control.”
He says this like he is talking about weather or traffic. Not murder, not war.
