He finishes with a grunt, hips jerking, cock pulsing inside me. He stays there, breathing heavy, forehead pressed to the back of my neck.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then he pulls out, tucks himself back into his jeans, and steps away. I slide down the wall, bare legs trembling, panties still tangled at my knees.
He crouches next to me, all mock concern. “You okay, princess?”
I glare up at him, blinking back tears. “You’re a fucking asshole,” I hiss. “You’re just a meat sack with a good dick.”
He grins, brushing a thumb over my ruined mouth. “And yet, you didn’t call for your puppies to save you, so what does that make you?”
I spit at him, catching the edge of his jaw. He wipes it away, smirk never fading.
He walks off, unhurried, whistling under his breath.
I sit there, skin scraped and bleeding, chest heaving, and try to remember how to put myself back together.
When I finally stand, I pull my pants up, smooth them, and button what’s left of my blouse, pulling my jacket tight against me. I can’t fix my hair. I can’t fix my pride.
I fucking hate you, Bam.
I fucking hate you so fucking much.
And yet… as his come pools in my underwear, all I can think of is his cock taking and giving in equal measure.
I stifle a groan.
I am so fucked.
Chapter 12: Bam
Themoonismassiveas it hangs over the campus, white and full, the kind of thing that makes people itch for a fight and werewolves come out to play. Colton’s sitting on the windowsill, arms folded, and Rhett’s pacing like he knows something is up. He’s usually not here. Julian’s sprawled on the couch, shoes off, socks neon pink and fucking blinding in the dark. I’m sharpening a knife for no good reason when the knock hits the door. Three taps, then silence. A rhythm that’s meant to sound official but just makes me roll my eyes.
Rhett stops dead and stares at the door, head cocked like he can hear the blood moving on the other side. Colton’s eyes go flat and dark, the way they do before he says anything important.
I answer, because that’s my job. Always the first to open the door, always the one who gets blamed if something goes sideways.
The Board’s messenger is waiting in the hall. He’s got a face like a parking meter—no emotion, just the click and whirr of empty gears behind dead eyes. Black suit, white gloves, and a gold pin on his lapel. He smells like plastic, not a single drop of sweat or fear.
He looks up at me, then past me, at the others. “The Board requests your immediate presence. North Field. Dress code enforced.” He doesn’t blink, just pivots and glides away, no footsteps on the tile.
Julian groans, rolling off the couch. “It’s midnight. Can’t we do the Hunger Games cosplay in the morning?”
Colton’s already moving, quiet and quick. He’s pulling on a clean shirt with the other. Rhett just runs a palm over his hair and mutters something about “fucking parasites.”
I don’t bother with the blazer. I want them to see the tattoos.
This night is all about optics anyway. I don’t suspect it’ll be too difficult to chase a little rabbit through the woods and capture her unharmed.
We pile out and hit the campus quad. It’s deserted, but the lights are all on, windows shining like rows of teeth in the old stone buildings. I can feel them, the ghosts of every Hunt, everyceremony, every kid who lost more than their pride out here. My boots crunch on the gravel, and behind me, the Boys fall in line.
We move fast, cutting through the gaps, headed for the North Field. There’s a strip of woods between the dorms and the old ampitheater, and tonight it looks like something out of a horror movie. I can smell the cold, the dirt, the weak ghosts of a hundred dead cigarettes left behind by security.
At the edge of the field, I see the Board. Seven of them tonight, all in black, standing in a crescent moon around a table. Two of the Kings are there—big, mean-looking bastards in leather gloves, hands folded like they’re about to strangle a baby. The funders are easy to spot: one in a camel-hair coat, the other with a scarf so long he could choke a horse. They both look bored already.
And in the center, arms bound behind her, barefoot and wearing a pair of oversized white pajamas, is my girl.
She’s got her chin up, face blank, like she’s daring someone to laugh at her. Her hair is loose, longer than I remember, and her wrists are already red where they tied her. No makeup. No armor. She looks small. She looks like prey.
