“Bullshit.” The word comes out low, sharp. “You armor yourself with that mouth and that perfect GPA. You dodge the fact that you actually give a shit.”
She stiffens. “I don’t give a shit about you.”
“You do. Or you wouldn’t be here.”
“I’m here for access.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” My hand lifts before I think better of it—tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, my thumb brushing her neck. Her pulse jumps under my skin. Fast. Treacherous. Faster than someone playing this as purely transactional.
“Go inside,” I say.
“Gio.”
“Go. Now.”
She hesitates. One beat. Two.
Then she turns and climbs the stairs. I track every step—counting them without meaning to—until the third-floor light flicks on behind her window.
Only then do I move.
My phone vibrates again. Different weight this time—deliberate. I pull it out.
Whisperer: Looks like she picked a side. Hope she knows what happens to the collateral when the building falls.
Rage detonates—white-hot and clean. This isn’t about me anymore. This is about what I dragged into the open because control felt better than silence.
My thumbs move fast.
Me: Touch her, and you won’t make it to the hearing.
Send.
The phone disappears into my pocket as I turn toward the townhouse. A drink would help. Breaking something might help more.
What settles heavier than either is the realization that for the first time in my life, fear isn’t pointed inward.
It’s locked on what I failed to stop in time.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 15
Gio
Elm House is a fucking disaster zone.
Thursday night is supposed to mean studying, or at least the performance of it, but the living room is already a minefield of red Solo cups and stale beer. Music thumps through the floorboards from the basement—bass-heavy, relentless, vibrating through my teeth like it’s trying to shake something loose.
We’ve holed up in the designated “War Room,” which is just a euphemism for the back office with a door that locks. Dante, Cole, Adrian, and Declan sprawl across mismatched furniture, bodies arranged with the loose familiarity of people who’ve bled together. The inner circle. The only guys in this town who understand the difference between a slapshot and a felony charge.
I drop onto the couch and tip my head back against the wall. Sleep never showed. The Whisperer’s posts kept me awake until after three, staring at the ceiling, running every possible scenario where Rylan finds a new way to hurt Zoë.
“You look like shit,” Cole says.
He’s pacing—sharp turns, restless stops. A glance out the window. Then back across the room. His energy is jagged enough to cut skin.
“I feel like shit,” I say. “Thanks for checking in.”
