THIRTY-THREE
MARA
Milo picks up his phone for the third time in five minutes. His thumb moves, his jaw flexes. Concern etches across his face in the way I’ve known since we were small—eyebrows drawn, lips pressed thin. I can read my twin like a headline. I know when his mind is somewhere else. And I know when he thinks I’m a complete burden.
“You don’t have to be here.” My voice comes out flat, but it’s an accusation dressed as a kindness.
He ignores me, flipping through his textbook, pretending to be calm, but his knee bounces under the table. His fidgeting gives him away.
“Milo!” I snap.
He looks up at me. “What, Mara? Yes, I do have to be here. There’s just… other things going on.”
“Girl trouble?” I arch an eyebrow.
He squints. “I don’t date girls.”
“Okay… boy trouble?” My smirk is small, a knife.
“Fuck off, Mara.”
“I’m trying to.” My voice dips bitterly. “But I’m only allowed to leave the PTO house supervised. So, kinda hard.”
The library hums around us—muted voices, pages turning, the click of shoes on polished wood. My eyes roam the room automatically, scanning for any sign of Omega Chi. Nothing. Not even a glimpse of Dredyn’s black hoodie or Jasper’s sharp blue stare. If I had to guess, Milo’s already posted his guys at the doors to keep OCK out entirely. Probably even at the catacomb entrances too. My brother knows how to lock a place down without ever announcing it.
“Mara.” Milo’s voice drops to that tight twin register that’s half command, half plea. “I took you here like you asked and you’re not even studying. We can go back.”
“I’m not a dog you walk for enrichment time,” I mutter, picking at the edge of my notebook. “Why don’t you tell Valen’s daddy to figure out who’s murdering everyone so I can go back to my life?”
Milo doesn’t answer. His silence is a wall. It’s always been his strongest move, and today it works. My throat burns.
“Fine.” I push back my chair, the scrape loud in the hush. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
He flicks a glance at one of the guards my father assigned me. The guy starts to rise automatically.
“I’m fine. It’s literally ten steps away.” My voice softens just enough to sound like a sister instead of a prisoner.
Milo finally looks at me. His stare reminds me of a prison bar: hard, unyielding. Then he gives the smallest nod. Permission.
I slip away, fast. My pulse is already pounding. Each step feels like an escape hatch, like air hitting my face after being held under.
The back stacks swallow me—colder, dustier, the kind of air that tastes like old paper and secrets. Shadows eat the golden light until it’s all dim corners and silence that feels too alive.
I turn a corner and stop breathing.
Or maybe begin to breathe again for the first time all week.
Talon’s there, leaning against the shelves like he summoned me. Hands in his pockets, head tilted.
“Miss me, Princess?”
The word slices through me. I hate that it lands where it does—low, hot, in the pit of my stomach.
“You can’t be here,” I hiss. “Not now. Milo’s?—”
“That’s the point.” He pushes off the shelf, as lazy as a lion stretching.
My back hits the books before I even register moving. He’s taller up close, shadow stretching over me, heat rolling off him. Up close, he’s a hundred dangerous details: the bulk of his shoulders, the way his shirt clings to him like it was made to show off everything beneath; the faint scent of smoke and leather that clings to his skin; the scar cutting a pale slash along his jaw, almost hidden under stubble; the flecks of green in his dark irises that catch the last strips of sunlight. It’s too much. Too close. My nerves sing like live wires.
