I don’t even pretend to resist anymore. Letting them use my body is the only thing that shuts off my brain. Between classes, I study. Between studying, I sleep– sometimes alone, sometimes with a body or two beside me. But the rest of the time? I let them make me forget how bleak my life has become by their hands, the three men who probably wouldn’t blink if I died tomorrow. I could get philosophical about it, but the truth is, I just get sick of being in my own head and need the escape.
Especially now, with the Dollhouse’s silence looming like a hangman’s shadow over. We sent them the video, sent them the money, but nobody’s heard a peep from Voss. Not a threat, not a call, not even one of those creepy old-school envelopes with cutout letters. Just…nothing.
Which brings me to tonight.
If the Dollhouse is the thing I can’t run from, the Invictus is the thing I can’t escape into. Because tonight is my official presentation, the first stage of my initiation into the secret society that’s been indirectly running my life since I set foot on this campus. It’s not the full shebang, just the ceremonial ‘taking of the vows’. The boys couldn’t– or wouldn’t– tell me much more, other than I have to show up, wear white, and keep my mouth shut. They don’t seem worried. They never do.
I’m not particularly worried, either. I’m in that weird, resigned place where so much has already happened to me, it can’t get much worse. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. Until I come back from dinner with Bryce in the Bistro and find one of Chelsea’s blonde sidekicks lurking in the living room, perched on the arm of the couch with a mug of tea in her hands and an expression so sweet I instantly want to punch her.
Stella Powers is Wes’s twin sister, which I guess explains the perfectly sculpted face and the air of effortless superiority. We’ve spoken exactly once, in the girls’ bathroom between classes, when she told me that she liked my boots and then warned me that the campus was full of predators. I thought it was a threat at the time. Now, I realize it was just her way of being nice.
Wes is sitting beside her, legs splayed, while Ford’s sprawled in the armchair across from them, fiddling with his laptop. Raf isn’t in sight, but I hear the rhythmic thump of his drums from down the hall, so at least one of the Kings is burning off nervous energy.
As soon as I step through the door, all conversation halts. Stella sets her mug down on the coffee table and stands, beaming at me. “Ava!” she chirps. “Perfect timing.”
Wes pushes to his feet, running a hand through his hair, eyes flicking between me and his sister like he’s bracing for a chemical explosion. “Hey,” he says, voice weirdly tight. “I, uh…invited Stella over. Thought you could use some help getting ready for tonight. Like, girl talk or whatever.” He gestures helplessly, then slumps back onto the couch, as if the effort of organizing anything more complicated than a boathouse party physically drains him.
My eyes narrow on Stella. She doesn’t look like someone sent to torture me, but then again, neither did her brother the first time I met him. “Hi,” I greet, voice flat.
She glides over to me with complete confidence, glossy blonde hair shining in the lights. “I hear you’re being presented tonight,” she says conspiratorially. “Which way to your room?” She hooks her arm through mine, steering me toward the hall before I can even protest.
I glance back at Wes, but he just shrugs. Ford doesn’t even look up from his computer, but I see a wicked smile creeping onto his lips, like my discomfort amuses him.
“Uh, down here,” I mutter as I let myself be dragged off, out of the living room and down the hallway. As soon as we’re clear, Stella’s whole demeanor shifts. The smile stays, but now it’s tinted with something sharper, like a warning edge to an otherwise soft weapon.
“You look nervous,” she remarks, sizing me up.
I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. She must notice, because she tightens her grip and steers me into my bedroom like she owns the place.
Once we’re inside, Stella shuts the door, then crosses straight to my bed and sits on the edge, folding her legs under her. “You can relax, you know,” she says, patting the spot next to her. “I promise this is a friendly visit.”
I hover by the door, watching her with deep suspicion. “No offense, but your definition of friendly doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence. You hang out with Chelsea and Blair.”
She sighs, tossing her hair. “I hang out with them the way you hang out with the Kings. Out of necessity, not preference.”
That makes me smile, but only a little. “Touché.”
Stella waits a beat, then leans forward, lowering her voice. “I won’t sugarcoat it. Tonight’s not going to be fun. But it doesn’t have to be a nightmare, either. If you play it right, you can get through with your dignity intact.”
I snort. “I lost that weeks ago.”
She shrugs. “Then you’re ahead of schedule.” She gives me a once-over, then stands and moves toward my closet, opening it and flicking through the hangers like she’s working retail. “You have to wear white,” she says. “It’s dumb, considering they’re just going to make you put on a robe, but that’s part of the pageantry.”
I watch her rifle through my clothes, equal parts offended and impressed. “Is this, like, your hobby? Consulting for cult ceremonies?”
“Only for the select few.” She finds a simple, strappy white silk dress near the back, holds it up, and tilts her head in approval. “This one.”
I take it, surprised. “That’s… not bad, actually.”
“Wear it with the nude slip underneath. It’ll keep it from looking cheap.” She winks. “Anything else is up to you, but I’d go heavy on hair and makeup. The prettier you are, the more they’ll like you.”
“I suck at makeup,” I admit, wincing.
Stella grins. “Good thing you have me, then.” She glides over to my tiny vanity, running her fingers over my sad, mismatched makeup collection. “Sit,” she commands, pointing at the stool.
I obey, because at this point, why not?
She opens the palette, dabs a brush in some powder, and gets to work. For a few minutes, neither of us speak. She’s surprisingly gentle, her touch light as she paints my eyelids andlines my lips. It’s almost soothing, in a strange way. But I know a thing or two about wolves in sheep’s clothing.
