I don’t answer. The silence fills the space between us, thickening with every heartbeat.
She’s the one who breaks it. “Do you ever think about running away?”
I study her, then the window. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t run,” I say. “I hunt.”
She laughs, softer now, and it isn’t a challenge. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. But if it makes you feel better to think of yourself as the big bad wolf, I’ll take it.”
I sigh. “That’s not what I mean, Amara. You’re drunk and being mouthy. I’ll make you a coffee and then you need to go to bed. This isn’t behavior fitting for someone of your status.”
“Can you just… hold me for a bit?” Her voice is small and her eye’s glassy as they look up at me.
How the fuck can I deny that? Goddamn.
We sit like that for a while. She tells me about her time with Eve and the other girls. She talks about the Board, about her father, about how she doesn’t really understand any of this. Her voice grows quieter with every confession.
At one point she leans into my side, head on my shoulder. I wrap my arm around her, careful not to hold too tight. The hoodie slips off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her neck. The bruise is more visible in this light.
“I’m going to hurt in the morning,” she says, not looking up.
I nod. “You are definitely going to be hungover.”
She smiles against my shirt. “Do you think it’s true, what they say? That the Hunt is about more than bloodlines?”
I consider the question. “Yes. But that’s not all it is. It’s about obedience. About breaking you until you fit the shape they want.”
She closes her eyes. “I don’t want to fit.”
“Good,” I say, surprising myself. “Don’t.”
The room grows still. Outside, the wind rattles the old glass. I can hear the distant echo of a party in the quad, laughter and music spilling out into the night.
She shifts, so she’s looking at me. Her hair falls over her eyes, and she pushes it back, the movement unsteady but beautiful.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
“Anything.”
“Why do you always look so sad, even when you’re smiling?”
The question takes me apart for a second. I search her face for malice, but there’s none.
I shrug. “Maybe because nothing here is real, and I’m the only one who doesn’t want any of this shit. Wealth means nothing to me. As much as I’m an asshole, I also believe in integrity,but that’s a word none of our father’s believe in, and one long forgotten to Westpoint history. You may think we could stand and refuse our place, but we can’t. Some of us have had siblings who tried, and they’ve mysteriously disappeared. We are just as fucked as you girls are, but it’ll change. Soon.”
She bites her lip, then reaches up to touch my cheek. The contact is feather-light, more permission than affection.
I don’t move away.
She leans in, lips grazing mine. The kiss is slow, careful, not hungry. Her mouth tastes like coke and vodka and want.
When she pulls back, she looks at me for a long moment.
“I know you want to ruin me,” she whispers. “But you’re not the only one.”
I’m not sure if she means herself or the world. Maybe both.
