I manage a small smirk. “Yes, Mom.”
Jasper snorts, a breathy sound with no voice, then he turns and heads up the stairs. The wooden steps creak under his boots. I watch until the door opens and closes behind him, leaving me alone with the aftermath.
I wander over to the far wall where a collage of photos is haphazardly pinned and taped to the concrete—our makeshift wall of fame and infamy. My gaze drifts across familiar faces and moments captured in time. There’s Dredyn, grinning with a black eye, holding up a championship belt from some underground fight two years ago, Jasper and I flanking him, both of us sporting matching busted lips and triumphant smiles. We looked invincible that night.
Young gods that nothing could touch.
My eyes move over other photos: group shots at parties, crew victories, even a candid one of me and Jasper laughing like idiots, mid-prank on some poor pledge.
I rest a hand against the cool wall, looking at a picture of the three of us from freshman year. Dredyn’s arms slung over our shoulders, the three of us covered in dirt and sweat after an epic brawl with a Delta Sigma Nu. We’re bloodied and bruised, but we’re smiling like we won the world. At that moment, we thought we did.
We don’t break. We don’t bend. That’s always the mantra.
But lately, I swear I can hear the creak before the snap.
If Mara Black’s the reason our King’s unraveling… Maybe it’s time I get a closer look at the girl who brings gods to their knees.
NINE
MARA
The late afternoon sun slants through the oak trees shading the old walkway at the edge of campus, and I pull my cardigan tighter around my shoulders.
Classes are finally over for the day, but I don’t want to go back to the dorm just yet. After the past couple weeks, I need a moment of quiet. My feet wander almost automatically to the garden behind the library. It’s a large hedge maze with a few gazebos surrounding a large ballerina statue.
There are a lot of stories surrounding this statue, but I think most are lore rather than truth.
I notice a student sitting on a bench leaning against the pillars, drawing the dancer, lost in her thoughts. I wish I could be creative, but I was built with more of an analytical mind. And I hate that.
I pass by a tall hedge and freeze. From somewhere deep inside comes a tiny, desperate little mewl. I lean in slowly, breath catching until a pair of green eyes glint at me from under a thicket of leaves. The kitten is almost entirely black, fur matted slightly with dirt and dew, but it looks up at me, terrified.
“Hey there,” I whisper, crouching. The kitten flinches, hissing a little. It’s probably just a baby—maybe three months old—thin and shaking. My heart lurches.
I let my voice soften. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
A delicate sound:meow.The kitten stirs deeper among the leaves. I kneel and reach a trembling hand in, trying to coax it out. My fingers graze its fur—warm and soft. The little creature purrs in surprise, and I manage to pull it out of the hedge. The kitten is limp with relief, tiny claws pawing weakly against the ground.
“Oh, you poor thing,” I murmur, and the kitten’s eyes close as I cradle it gently to my chest. Instinctively, I wrap it in my cardigan, tucking it against the warmth, and it burrows happily into the folds. For a moment, I forget the world and the need to hide my body.
I hurry back to my dorm and shut the door behind me, heart still racing like I’d stolen something—which, technically, I had. Or rescued. Depends on who you ask.
The kitten immediately begins to knead the blanket the moment I set him down on my bed. I pull off my cardigan and drape it around him like a nest. He blinks up at me with his shiny black fur and big eyes.
What the fuck am I going to do with this little ball of fluff?
I crouch down beside the bed, stroking behind his ears. He melts under the touch like warm wax, curling into my palm. “You shouldn’t trust me,” I whisper, brushing a stray fleck of dirt from his fur. “I don’t get to keep things.”
He presses his nose to my wrist.
I can’t tell if that makes it better or worse.
There’s a knock at my door—three quick taps. I freeze, instinctively shielding the kitten with my arm like someone’s about to barge in and tear him away.
“It’s me,” Zane calls.
I exhale and rise, cracking the door just enough to peer out.
He blinks at me, brows lifted. “Why did you sprint inside like you robbed someone?” he asks, holding a granola bar inone hand and an iced coffee in the other. “Did you murder someone? Because if so, we need to talk about alibis.”
