“Do you think he’s behind this?”
What?
The question is straightforward; Elijah plants the seed of doubt in both our minds. Nico’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer. Though I can tell that wheels are turning inside his head. I can feel the tension coil between us, the kind that doesn’t fade when the conversation ends. Before I can respond, my phone buzzes again. A single message.
No name… just anonymous.
I swipe it open, and what comes next makes a shiver run down my spine, and my blood turns to ice. A photo fills the screen, a picture of none other than Fernanda—alive and well. Along with a message that’s enough to make my stomach drop to my ass and bile to climb up my throat.
Anonymous:
Looks like the elite aren’t the only ones keeping secrets… Naughty boy!! So many skeletons inside your closet.
I have to force my mouth to stay shut as my vision tunnels. The noise around me fades until all I can hear is the blood rushing to my ears. I stare at the image, thumb trembling over the screen.
Nico looks at me with worry, his hand clasping around my shoulder. “Zayden, you good, bro?”
Clearing my throat, I shove my phone back into my pocket. The cold is now biting into my flesh.
“I need some clothes,” I say, looking down at myself. I’m wearing nothing but satin shorts.
Nico nods, realizing he also should be dressed. When it dawns on me that he was also at the auction, and given the bloody state in his mind, I can tell he didn’t have a good time. That feeling sticks to me, knowing all the while he’s drowning in pain, I’m blissfullydickmatizedevery time Thiago slips inside me. I welcome his abuse… And right now, I couldn’t hate myself more for it.
From inside the lounge, I can hear the tension in their voices as they continue to talk over the plan for trying to figure out what the hell happened on the cliff. How the fuck did Allison end up dead, and two donors are in critical condition? Just as Thiago steps out the door, I turn away and make my way out the main door. Thankfully, he doesn’t follow. The night air hits me like a slap, and I instantly regret walking back to the dorms when my phone buzzes again. The urge to chuck into the ocean is very hard to ignore, but still, I dig into my pocket and look down at the screen.
This time there’s no picture. Just another anonymous message with a location.
Anonymous:
Building C, Apt. 304.
My fucking dorm.
The wind howls down the cliffside, cold enough to sting. And suddenly, I know that whatever’s waiting for me inside isn’t mercy. It’s the beginning of the end.
1. “Let me see you.”
Chapter Twenty
Zayden
The smell of Safra’s cologne clings to my skin, tangling with the floral perfume that belongs to Fabiola. The night air continues to slap against my skin, and the cold sting is enough to keep me awake. Enough to help clear my mind as I head towards campus. Wondering what the hell happened tonight…
The thought stops me mid-stride, my hand moving towards the joint carefully stored in my pocket, alongside the lighter. Grabbing one, I bring it to my lips and light it. The flame flickers against the wind before it catches, and the first drag burns down my throat. Some smoke curls through the night air as I exhale through my nose. My mind is restless, and my nerves shot from all the adrenaline coursing through me, urging myself to move, so I can focus. The questions in my head won’t stop clawing at me. Were the donors truly set up? If so, by whom?
Could it be that Greyson found out about the truth and retaliated? Peter? Safra, maybe in a fit of jealousy, not knowing his father was with them.
The possibilities are endless. A deep groan escapes me, feeling the headache that begins to form behind my eyes. I rub the bridge of my nose, trying to organize the chaos in my head, but it’s useless. No matter how much I try not to think about it… I simply can’t.
I don’t care about donors; what I do care about is how this will affect us.
And that question lingers in my mind, like a festering wound. Infecting my bloodstream with dread and unease, knowing that what happened tonight could happen to any of us. After all, we’re all capable of getting our hands dirty for the people we love. I glance down at my hand, the joint dangling from the corner of my lips, imagining the invisible stain of blood that coats them.
It could be any of us… that realization settles like cement inside my chest, heavy enough to crush the air out of me. The joint smokes itself to ash, exhaling through my nose. I watch the plume escape into the cold. My feet move before my mind does, carrying me through the thinning crowd. Dodging party goers as they drift away from the gym, whispering amongst themselves, making up stories that fit whatever narrative they want to run with.
“My bet is that Thiago got all jealous and went berserk,” a girl states, looping her arm around her neck.
“I don’t think so,” the blonde one chimes in. “He’s too hot… Literally can have whoever he wants.”
