“I will be,” I answer, forcing a smile.
He gives me a look but doesn’t press. “You need a drink.”
“I need to leave.”
He laughs again and steers me toward the kitchen. “You’ll be fine. Stick with me.”
I nod, because arguing will just make him more persistent. We weave through the crowd, stopping occasionally as he introduces me to people whose names I immediately forget. When we get to the kitchen, Ryan shoves a cup into my hand, and I drink without thinking.
Big mistake. It’s stronger than I expected, and my throat burns as I cough through it. “You asshole,” I wheeze.
Ryan grins, and I swear I’m going to punch him. “You’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t want to,” I breathe, coughing again. “Fuck, that’s terrible.”
“Too bad, it’s tradition.”
I roll my eyes and glance back toward the corner where Damien’s still standing. This time, though, he has his arm wrapped around some girl’s waist.
She’s tall, pretty, and laughing too loudly, as if she wants everyone to know she’s with him. Her long nails trail up his chest as she says something into his ear, and he leans in. He’s not close enough to kiss her, but close enough that my stomach knots.
I look away before I can catalogue it further. Before I memorize the way his fingers rest on her hip. Before I start making comparisons I shouldn’t make—comparisons between her and me, or between the people he touches… and the one he doesn’t even look at.
Ryan notices. Of course he does. He’s a crow when it comes to tension—sharp-eyed and always circling. “You two still not talking?”
I shake my head. “No, but I think it’s better this way. Easier for him, I guess.”
I busy myself with my cup, even though the taste still lingers wrong on my tongue. The house feels too full and tooloud. My brain’s already starting to hum from the noise, the flashing lights, the way every conversation seems to blend into one overwhelming mess of sensory overload. I know this about myself.
I need space. Predictability. I hate the feel of people brushing past me without apologizing, or the heat of too many bodies in a space that’s too tight. I hate the smell of cheap vodka mixed with cologne. I hate the chaos.
And I hate that I’m still here.
Ryan opens his mouth, probably to say something annoying and heartfelt, but he must see something in my face that makes him stop. He takes a breath, then jerks his chin toward the back of the kitchen.
“Come with me.”
“I’m really not in the mood to—”
“Not a suggestion.”
Before I can argue, he grabs my wrist and pulls me away from the noise and the stupid red lights and the burn in my throat that has nothing to do with the drink. I think about fighting him off, but the alternative is going back upstairs to spiral alone, and I’ve done that too many times already.
He leads me around the corner, through the back of the kitchen, toward the far end of the island where I can’t see out into the living room. Two guys are sitting there, perched comfortably on the marble island—Sage Blackwell and Nate Carter.
Nate is dressed in some ridiculous oversized black mesh shirt and black ripped jeans, platform boots kicked up on a barstool, chewing on a red lollipop. His nails are painted black, and his eyeliner is probably better than mine ever has been, the cat-eye making his Korean features pop. He’s lounging against Sage, who is busy talking with his hands.
Sage’s features are the complete opposite of Nate’s. Where Nate has shoulder-length straight black hair, Sage has long, wavy blond hair. Where Nate has the lightest green eyes that I’ve ever seen, Sage has brown eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses.
I know of them. Everyone at Blackthorne does. Sage is Luca’s chaos goblin of a boyfriend, unapologetic and terrifyingly honest. Nate is Liam’s—god, I don’t even know if boyfriend is the right word for how intense they seem with each other. I’ve never had a full conversation with either of them, mainly because the thought of speaking to anyone who always looks so comfortable in their own skin makes my chest tighten.
They both glance up as we approach, Ryan dragging me behind him as if I’m a kid in trouble.
“Hey,” Ryan says casually. “I’m dropping him off.”
Sage blinks, then narrows his eyes at me. “Who, Bluebird?”
“His name’s Noah,” Ryan deadpans.
