Maybe too easily.
As Lou reaches across me to hand a dish down the table, I catch sight of a long, deep scar across her palm. A raised slash of pale skin. It twists across her hand like a vine that’s taken root, grown instead of healed.
“Ow,” I say as I reach for her hand, capturing it in my own. “That must’ve hurt. What happened?”
I expect her to pull away. To laugh it off. Instead, she turns her hand over in mine, studying the mark with an expression that’s almost fond.
“It’s from my bon—boyfriend,” she says, correcting herself with a small smile. “He lives over at Ashford House.”
I drop her hand, and she tucks it into her chest, fingers curling.
“We have this ritual,” she continues. “Between the fraternity and the sorority. When a couple gets serious.” She smiles gently, as if she’s telling me a sweet story, romantic. A fairy tale. “We cut our palms. Both of us.”
She lets out a light laugh, but her eyes dart to mine, searching for my reaction.
“You mean a blood oath?” I ask. The words sound strange out loud. Out of the past. As if the room should be lit by candles. Lanterns, not electricity.
She shrugs casually, smiling. Opens her hand as if there’s nothing to hide. “I guess you could call it that.”
I examine the scar again. The depth of it. How straight the line is. How deliberate. That’s not something you do on a whim or for fun. It reminds me that this place isn’t just traditions and dinners and pretty rooms. It’s legacy and the secrets they hide.
Lou with her open smile. Carrson with his long silences.
And Jackson.
“You don’t like Jackson either?” I ask, glancing at her. I remember the way her expression changed when Carrson said his name, how quickly it soured.
She drops her hand, her expression hardening. “He’s awful.” Her gaze sweeps the room before she leans in, lowering her voice. I move closer to catch it.
“At the beginning of every year, he picks a couple of girls,” she says. “Freshmen. The ones who still believe what they’re told.” Her lips flatten. “He chases them, makes promises, then leaves them wrecked.” A pause. “A few have even dropped out.”
The laughter around us feels farther away.
“It got bad enough that I added a warning about him to my welcome speech,” she continues. “Told them to stay away.”
She exhales quietly, as if the memory bothers her.
“He and Carrson have always hated each other,” she says. “The rivalry between the Ashford’s and the Beaumont’s goes back generations.”
Her eyes lock onto mine.
“It’s no question. If Carrson shows any interest in you,” she says, “Jackson will come after you.”
Her hand closes around my wrist, firm enough that I feel the raised line of her scar againstmy skin.
“Be careful,” she says. “Please.”
Lou glances around the room one more time before speaking, making sure no one is close enough to overhear.
“Ashford House is unstable right now,” she says in a quiet voice. “More than people realize.”
I frown. “Because of Jackson?”
“Partly.” She folds her napkin in half, then in half again. “But mostly because Carrson hasn’t fully stepped up.”
“Why not?”
Lou’s eyes lift to mine. “Not because he’s weak,” she says, guessing where my mind went. “But he wasn’t raised for it the way he should’ve been.”
