I press my lips together until my jaw aches, trying to hold myself together in a space that’s been taken apart piece by piece.
Stepping backwards out of my room, I slowly push open the bathroom door, scared to see the desolation on the other side.
Makeup is smeared across the counter, crushed into the sink, powdered eye shadows ground into the tile like bruises blooming under harsh light. The mirror is cracked, my reflection fractured into sharp, uneven pieces that refuse to align. It feels deliberate, like he wanted Korbyn to see herself broken, wanted her to understand that they could reach even the most intimate corners of her life.
This part feels personal in a way the rest doesn’t. This part feels like a message meant for Korbyn.
I step back out, heart beating harder now, and move down the short hall.
Lucian’s door waits at the end.
I hesitate, just for a moment, bracing myself for more destruction, for another violation, for proof that nowhere is safe.
Then I reach for the handle.
It opens easily, and I try to process how pristine the room is compared to the rest of my rig.
The bed is made in the precise, almost military way he always leaves it. His bag sits where he left it, and his shoes are still lined up. Nothing disturbed, and not a single thing out of place.
I stand there, staring, the contrast hitting me like a blow. My space is completely torn apart, nothing salvageable, almost everything is shredded or gone, while his was left untouched. The line between them is so stark it feels intentional.
“He didn’t come in here,” I murmur, the words barely more than breath.
I turn back toward the wreckage of my space and face the spray paint, the missing books, the violence carved into soft things. The destruction feels different now, sharper, and more pointed after seeing Lucian’s room.
“He knew where she was sleeping last night,” I say, gesturing toward the bookshelf, toward the empty gaps where familiar spines should be. “Those books, he probably thought they were ones she brought with her. Things she cared about.”
My chest tightens as the logic builds, brick by brick, ugly and undeniable.
“He didn’t touch your room because he didn’t need to,” I say, the truth settling in like a weight. “This wasn’t about you. It was about getting close enough to scare her without going straight for her.”
Lucian’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. He lets me keep going, lets me follow the thread because it’s leading somewhere that makes sense, somewhere that hurts less than believing I was the target.
The slashed mattress flashes in my mind again. The makeup destroyed, the word ‘mine’ sprayed across the side of the rig. All of it was violent and deliberate.
“He wanted her to know he could reach her,” I continue. “And he wanted her to feel guilty that it landed on me instead. He must’ve realized we were onto him, and she was slipping out of his hands, how he’s losing everything. He’s spiraling, and he came here to send a message.” The certainty settles deep in my chest, cold and solid.
Lucian exhales slowly beside me, the sound careful, measured, as if he’s trying not to add anything that might tip me further off balance.
“We’ll document everything,” he says at last. “Then we’ll get you out of here.”
I nod, still staring at the untouched doorway to his room, at the invisible line the destruction never crossed. The line drawn around him, but not around me.
In my head, the story is already written.
An angry man. A bruised ego. A threat delivered sideways because going straight for her would’ve crossed a line he wasn’t ready to cross yet.
17
Celeste
Before I know it, flashing lights paint the campsite in red and blue, washing over the wreckage like a warning that came too late. Officers move around us with clipboards and radios, asking the same questions in different orders.
Every question they ask only sharpens the truth I’ve already accepted: this wasn’t random. This wasn’t about me. This was James sending a message to Korbyn, and I was the closest surface he could carve it into.
Lucian’s hand rests at the small of my back, steady and warm, guiding me toward the SUV once they finally release us. I climb in, but I’m already pulling out my phone.
Me:Are you okay, Little Crow?
