“The Hunt. The Board. All of it.” My hands are shaking, so I close them into fists again. “Then I’m going to burn Westpoint to the ground.”
He smiles, but there’s no humor in it. “That’s ambitious, even for you.”
I look at him. Really look. Julian’s always been beautiful in the way that knives are beautiful. Elegant, precise, designed fora single purpose. He’s never cared about anything except the game.
“You with me?” I ask.
He sets the beer down, steps forward. He moves slow, like a predator, like he’s deciding whether to eat or fuck or kill.
“Obviously, dumbass,” he says. “You’re too stupid to come up with a plan on your own.” He holds up his hands, palms open, like a dealer offering a cut. “I’ll help you. But if you go soft for her, I’ll kill you myself.”
I almost laugh. “Deal.”
He nods once, picks up his beer, and salutes me with it.
For a moment, everything is quiet. The only sound is the drip of water off my hands and the clink of glass when Julian tips his head back to finish the bottle.
“Caius won’t like if you go rogue,” he says, almost to himself.
“Caius can go fuck himself,” I say.
Julian grins. “He’s still better than you at chess, though.”
I wipe my hands. The rage is a slow simmer now, not an inferno. I think about Eve, sitting on her bed, staring at the wall, trying to make sense of a world that was never meant for her.
“I need to go shower,” I say.
As I leave, he calls after me. “Colton… if you need me to kill your dad, just ask.”
I stop at the door. “No.”
Julian’s smile is pure poison. “Suit yourself.”
My knuckles are still bleeding when I step under the shower. I crank the dial until it’s full scald, water blasting the cuts and making my vision blur white at the edges. I scrub off the sweat, the stink of leather and rage, and watch the red rinse from my hands in thin, swirling lines.
I don’t think about Harrison. I don’t think about my mother, or the Hunt, or the future that was mapped out for me the day I was born. I just watch my blood circle the drain and try to remember what it feels like to not be angry.
When the water goes cold, I kill the tap and dry off with a towel that smells like old bleach and Bam’s aftershave. I pull on the first clean shirt I can find and track down my phone. The locate app is blinking; Eve is in her room, lights out, her dot pulsing steady and alone.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over her name, wanting to call. Wanting to hear her voice, just to be sure she’s safe. Instead, I pocket the phone, slide into my boots, and head out.
The night is quiet, but not peaceful. Security’s done their final rounds, most of the student body is locked down in their private hells. The air’s got a wet chill, and every footstep sounds like it might shatter the whole world. I keep to the side paths, duck the cameras, make it to the girls’ dorm in under three minutes.
I know the security code, because I know everything worth knowing. The keypad beeps, the lock pops, and I step inside.
The hall smells like cheap shampoo and vanilla vape. Every door is closed, the only light a weak glow from the vending machines down the hall. I know the route to Eve’s with ease.
The lock is old, and it was easy getting a locksmith to make a copy of the key she left laying on her dresser the day she moved in. Even easier getting it back to the same spot before she even noticed it was gone.
I slide the key in, slow and careful. The bolt clicks. I ease the door open.
She’s curled on her side, knees drawn up, face smashed into a pillow. She’s wearing one of those oversized t-shirts, the kind that covers everything and nothing at the same time. Her hair is down, a mess of brown tangled with light from the streetlamp outside.
She doesn’t stir when I close the door, doesn’t move when I sit on the edge of the mattress. I watch her breathe, soft and shallow. Her hands are balled in fists under the pillow, knuckles white.
I wonder what she’s dreaming.
I lie down behind her, careful not to touch. I pull the thin blanket up over both of us and close my eyes.
