I want to kiss her. Want to fracture that composure, see what breaks. Want to know what happens when calm gives way.
I stop. Pull my hand back. The absence hits harder than the contact.
“Finish your drink,” I say. “We’re leaving.”
She studies me, measuring the cost of belief. “Fine. But we’re taking my car.”
“We walked.”
“Then we’re walking to my dorm.” She rises, already moving. “You want the shield? You follow my lead. Tonight, that means we go somewhere I control.”
I stay seated a beat, the phone buzzing again in my pocket, insistent. The storm keeps building.
Then I stand and follow her anyway.
Because she’s right.
And if this turns lethal, it’ll be because she chose the line—and dared me to cross it.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 14
Gio
Cold air outside the Penalty Box hits like relief and punishment at the same time. Sharp. Clean. It slices through the taste of cheap beer and fryer grease, scrapes the haze off my throat, forces my lungs to remember they belong to me.
We walk in silence. The kind that carries weight. Dense with things neither of us is giving language.
Wednesday night is dead on the surface—empty sidewalks, storefronts dark, the occasional streetlamp buzzing overhead—but this town doesn’t need crowds to watch. It watches from windows. It watches from parked cars. Everyone knows who I am, and thanks to the Whisperer, everyone thinks they know what I did.
A car slows at the intersection as we cross—blacked-out windows, engine revving too high for the speed it’s crawling. My eyes stay on the sidewalk. My body adjusts instead, shifting half a step in front of Zoë like it’s instinct. Like training. Like it’s mine to manage.
“You don’t have to do that,” she says, her breath blooming pale in the air.
“Do what?”
“Bodyguard me. I can handle a Honda Civic.”
“I’m focused on what’s inside it.”
“It’s the only thing here.”
I let that sit. I keep the text out of my mouth—the vibration that hit my pocket five minutes ago, sharp enough to register through denim. Careful who you stand next to. Rylan doesn’t need a crew to be dangerous. An internet connection and a vendetta do the job.
“You really think this is a good idea?” I ask, eyes fixed on the concrete. “Walking into the lion’s den with me?”
“I’m not in the den,” she says. “I’m on the perimeter. And I’m watching you.”
“Watching me how?”
“Waiting for the mistake.”
I stop short.
We’re under a streetlamp on the edge of campus, harsh light bleaching the color out of the pavement. It carves lines into her face—sharp cheekbones, controlled mouth, eyes that never drift. She’s close enough that I catch the tension behind the calm. One step nearer—without crowding, without claiming—and awareness spikes anyway. Heat. Proximity.
Her hand lifts like it’s going to touch my arm. An unconscious reach. Then it halts. Fingers curl back into her palm like she caught herself caring and refused to show it.
