The rumors said she was beautiful. They always do. But beauty, to me, is just a metric—a ratio of symmetry to anomaly. Amara is not a standard deviation. She’s the raw data. There’s an emptiness in her expression, a refusal to participate in her myth. The effect is jarring.
For a moment, I wonder if she knows I’m watching.
She doesn’t look up. But her jaw flexes, once, and she lifts a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
My anger at being paired with her is gone. In its place: a curious, rising hunger.
It’s the kind of hunger you feel staring down from the roof of a tall building. The urge to see what would happen if you jumped. Or if you pushed someone else.
I imagine her seeing me for the first time. I want her to flinch. I want her to know, instantly and without doubt, that I am the architect of her future misery.
I want her to want it.
Moving closer, but not directly toward her. I circle, letting my footsteps ring out in the vaulted silence. I watch her eyes flicker at the sound. She glances up, just for a second, then drops her gaze again.
There’s fear there, yes. But something else. Calculation. Intelligence.
I lick my lips and taste bourbon, sweat, and the memory of peppermint.
The archway frames her perfectly, like a painting. I can see the pulse beating at her throat. I let the silence stretch. I want her to fill it.
She doesn’t. She just waits.
Time stretches. I wonder if she’ll look at me again. I wonder how long it will take before she breaks.
I glance away, feigning disinterest. I hear her exhale, slow and measured. There’s defiance in that breath. The first move.
I step forward. She looks up.
Our eyes meet, finally, and the world narrows to a point. Hers are gray—ice, not water. Cold and glassy, but not empty. There’s a challenge in them, the flicker of a dare.
My answering smile is feral and wild. She doesn’t even blink as she gives me a small smirk.
If they want to force us together, fine. I will turn alliance into annihilation.
My fuck this little wench is really trying to stare me down.
Me!
One thing is crystal fucking clear… she’s not prey. She’s the only thing worth chasing.
And I always catch what I hunt.
Chapter 1: Amara
Westpointisacathedralbuilt for humiliation.
I tell myself that as I pass through the arched front doors, inscribed with the Academy crest and a motto in Latin I’ll never admit I had memorized at age six. Not my choice, mind you.
The hallway swallows me whole, cold marble and shadow, echoing with the steps of a hundred legacies and even more failures. Every inch of the place was designed to remind you that you’re walking in the footsteps of men and women who could buy and sell you a thousand times over.
Today, I am supposed to belong here.
My father’s private driver pulled up so early I had to do my hair in the backseat. I pressed every blonde strand flat with an iron, then again with my hands, like I could paste the nerves to my scalp if I tried hard enough. My uniform is the same cut as everyone else’s but newer, tighter, more starched. My family crest neatly embroidered into it above my heart.
I spent last night with a seam ripper removing the tracking chip from the hem, then sewing the silk back into place. It left the tiniest seam, and I trace it with my finger as I move.
I feel it: the flaw, the rebellion. The only thing about me that doesn’t belong to my father… my mind.
