He eyes the duffel bag, the mess on the bed, then looks back at me. "You ready?"
"For what?"
He sighs, like the question doesn’t matter. He reaches behind him and takes off the backpack, reaching in and brings out something white—a dress, folded over his arm, and a pair of shoes balanced on top. He holds them out to me, not waiting for me to accept or refuse.
I take them, the fabric cold and slippery in my hands.
"I’m not wearing this," I say.
"You are," he says, and there’s no room for argument. "It’s time."
He moves into the room, shoulders brushing the doorframe. He closes the door behind him, then turns to face me. He’s so close I can smell him—cologne and blood and something darkly sweet.
Danger.
I clench the dress tighter. "What is this for?"
He steps closer, until we’re only a breath apart. His eyes are everywhere—on my mouth, my hands, my throat, the pulse jumping under my skin.
"Tradition," he says. "And you look fucking perfect in white."
The words land like a slap. I flush, anger and something else burning in my face.
He reaches out, runs a finger down my cheek, then under my chin, tilting my head up. His hand is rough, knuckles bruised and cut. He’s not gentle, but he’s not cruel, either. He’s just certain.
He leans in, voice a growl: "Get dressed. We don’t have much time."
I pull away, the dress still clutched to my chest. I duck into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely unzip my hoodie.
I strip, tossing the clothes onto the floor, and slide the dress over my head. It’s simple—sleeveless, high neck, falls just above the knee. The shoes are white, too, low-top sneakers with brand new laces. I look like a terrified bride.
I look in the mirror. My eyes are red, hair tangled. There’s a mark on my neck, a bruise from where the doctor’s hand forced my head to the side. I touch it, and remember what I am: not a person. A womb.
A product.
I go back into the room. Julian is standing at the window, watching the world outside.
He turns when he hears me. His eyes go wide, then narrow. He steps forward and circles me, slow, like a wolf casing prey.
"You hate it," he says.
"I hate you," I say.
He grins. "Good. Hate is honest."
He puts his hands on my waist and pulls me close. I stiffen, but he doesn’t care. He buries his face in my neck, breath hot against my skin, then pulls back and kisses me—hard.
I want to bite him back. I want to rip him apart.
Instead, I let him kiss me. And then I kiss him back, begging to feel something other than fear. Something alive.
When he pulls away, we’re both panting.
He grabs my hand and leads me out of the room, out of the building, into the dark. He doesn’t look back. I follow.
The campus is empty. The world is empty. It’s just me and him, moving through the night.
We walk across the quad, past the chapel, toward the woods at the edge of campus. The moon is high, the sky is clear. I can hear my own heartbeat, loud as a drum.
