Rhett smiles. “Fucking rights.”
I lean back on the couch, letting the chaos swirl around me. For a moment, I feel almost tranquil.
And then I think of Amara.
Her face, blue eyes wide with the shock of wanting something for herself.
Her name on the list, circled in red.
The taste of her still on my tongue, the sound of her coming undone under my hand.
The old Julian would savor the hunt. The old Julian would break her, just to see what she became in the aftermath.
But that’s not what I want anymore.
I want her safe.
I want her mine.
I want to burn down the world that tried to own us both.
“See ya’ll tomorrow, I’m going to Amara’s.” And without preamble, I just leave them to their own devices, desperately needing to see my girl.
Despite having the key to her door, I just knock, three times, because if she’s not asleep I want her to choose to let me in.
She does.
She answers on the second try, swinging the door so wide it slams into the wall behind her, startling both of us. For a heartbeat I think she’s been crying, but her eyes are wild, not red. There’s a bruise under her jaw, faint, probably from when I grabbed her in the Dean’s office. I want to be sorry. I am not.
She’s wearing a too-big hoodie and nothing else. Her legs are bare, pale and perfect.
She grins, lopsided and unfiltered. “Julian! I thought you’d be at the bar or getting head from some chick or something.”
She’s drunk. Not blackout, but enough that the words slosh around her tongue, softening the edge she usually aims at me.
I step in, shutting the door with my foot, and catch her before she falls over. She smells like expensive vodka and the vanilla syrup from the coffee shop across town. Under that, she smells like herself—soap and skin and something sharp, the scent of a person who’s always braced for impact.
“You’re trashed,” I say. I guide her to the tiny couch under the window, pushing aside the stack of textbooks and curling her into the corner. She tucks her legs under her, then hugs a pillow to her chest and looks at me over the top, blue eyes luminous in the half-light.
“I had a wonderful time with my new friends,” she says, like she’s reciting it for a therapist.
I sit next to her. “How much did you drink?”
She shrugs, then holds up two fingers. “Two. Bottles. Not alone. I promise.”
“You don’t have to promise me anything, I’m not your father,” I say, and it comes out harder than I mean. I sigh and run my hand through my hair. “I just don’t want you hungover for the Hunt preparations. They start tomorrow.”
She laughs, a hiccup of joy. “You sound like a stern professor.”
I roll my eyes.
She shifts, pillow still clutched, and studies me. “Why are you here, Julian?”
I could lie. I could say I want to fuck her, or that I’m here for the thrill of the hunt, or that it’s just obligation.
Instead, I say, “Because you’re the only thing left worth saving.”
She blinks, but doesn’t flinch. “That’s very poetic for you.”
