By the time I drag myself through the shower and into my uniform, I feel like a ghost wearing my own skin. I line my eyes in kohl to hide the tiredness. Tame my hair into a ponytail. When I finally step out into the hallway, everything feels too bright.
Too loud.
I keep my head down throughout the morning, the nightmares following me like a cloud.
Before third block starts, I take a seat up near the back, hoping to blend in. I should’ve known better.
Jace slides into the seat behind me. I feel him before I even hear him — that cold presence like a knife drawn quietly in a dark room.
“Rough night, Ashthorne?”
His voice is low and smooth, a private whisper against the back of my neck.
I stiffen, straightening without turning around. “Why? Looking to send a sympathy card?”
A soft chuckle. “Not exactly. Just thought you looked a little…” He pauses. “Haunted.”
I clench my pen tighter. My hand stills over my notebook.
“Must be the lighting,” I mutter, not trusting myself to say more.
He leans in, voice dipping even lower. “You’re not sleeping well. That’s a shame.” A beat. “Blackmoore’s supposed to be safe, isn’t it?”
I turn just enough to meet his eyes. Blue. Cold. Studying me like a question he already knows the answer to.
“Get a hobby,” I say quietly.
He smiles—if you can call that twist of his mouth a smile. “You are my hobby.”
Then he sits back, completely at ease. The teacher starts the lesson. I don’t hear a word of it. I feel the burn of his stare between my shoulder blades the entire time.
I knowsomething is wrong the second I step into the atrium on my way back to my dorm.
It’s too quiet. Not the good kind, either. The kind that hums under your skin and makes your instincts curl up like a cornered animal.
Too late now. They’re waiting.
Tex perches up on the arm of a leather couch like a predator scanning for prey. Luca, sprawls nearby with an apple in hand, a lazy smile as his eyes track me. Noah’s already staring at me, the blue glow of a tablet reflected in his face. And Jace, of course. Standing. Silent. Watching.
I move to walk past, pretend I don’t see them—but Noah lifts the tablet, and my name flashes across the screen.
ISOBEL GRACE ASHTHORNE
My blood runs cold.
“What the hell is that?” I ask, voice low.
Noah smirks. “Just some light reading. School files are surprisingly easy to access when you know where to look.”
I lurch forward, hand outstretched. “Give it?—”
“Did you know,” Luca interrupts, grinning lazily, “you’ve moved… what, six times in the last five years?”
Tex whistles. “That’s gotta be a record.”
“Foster homes. Group homes. Temporary placements,” Noah lists, flicking through the file like he’s swiping a menu. “Oh, here’s a fun one— ‘removed due to suspected domestic abuse.’ But no charges were ever filed.”
Jace doesn’t say a word. Just watches me. Waiting.
