I look in the mirror, into eyes that have never belonged to me until now.
“I don’t want to just survive,” I say, the truth blooming in my chest. “I want to win.”
Eve’s hand squeezes mine, and her eyes go bright with something like pride.
“Then you will,” she says. “But first, you have to let go of the good girl. She’s dead. You killed her when you found out the truth, which is more than most of us got.”
The realization lands with a kind of relief. I nod.
Eve lets go and steps back, giving me space.
“Julian’s going to push. He’ll do whatever it takes to make you break first. Don’t let him. And if you need help, find me. Or Colton. Or even Bam, if Jules presses you too hard. They’re good at putting each other in line. We’re not your enemies, not really.”
A part of me wants to believe her. Another part wants to run.
But I stay.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.
Eve’s smile is small and private. “Because I wish someone had told me. Because you’re one of us, now. Whether you want to be or not.”
There’s nothing left to say.
Eve heads to the door. Before she leaves, she turns to me.
“You coming?”
I wipe my face, tuck my shirt back in, and nod.
So much for class.
We step into the hall together, side by side, and I feel the eyes on us from every shadow. I keep my chin up, not because I’m brave, but because I have nothing left to lose.
We walk. Not fast, not slow. Just forward.
The world is different now, and so am I.
For the first time, I don’t feel like prey.
I feel like a predator in training.
And I can’t wait to learn.
Chapter 6: Julian
TheDean’sofficeisat the end of the hall. I take my time in the corridor, running my fingers along the panels as I approach. Marcus is a dick, but I want to go over the logistics of my Hunt. They’ve changed it up on every Feral Boy so far and I’m not about to go into mine blind-sided.
Plus, if I know what’s happening, it’ll be easier to plan how to destroy the whole fucking thing.
The secretary is gone. Lights are off in her office, computer in sleep mode. It’s almost noon, so the absence is intentional.
The doors to the Dean’s office are shut. I test the handle and it clicks, so I step inside.
I expect the Dean—maybe a whiskey in one hand, the other braced on the corner of his desk, already rehearsing the bullshit he wants to say. Instead, I get her.
Amara Marcus is not built for office environments. She is shuffling, barely contained energy as she shifts foot to foot. She stands with her back to me, hands pressed to the window frame, framed by the gray light that bleeds through the glass. For a moment, she doesn’t register my presence.
Then I shut the door. The click loud and it startles her.
