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I follow his gaze, my stomach twisting. The guys are young—probably freshmen or sophomores—and they're naked except for black boxer briefs, their skin flushed and shining with sweat. One of them stumbles slightly as he weaves through the crowd, righting himself at the last second before a tray of shots goes flying.

"Isn't that hazing?" I ask, keeping my voice casual. "Pretty sure that's against university rules."

Wesley's smirk is slow, dangerous. "We're not hazing them, baby. We're testing them. Big difference."

"Right," I say flatly.

He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. "You want a drink? I'll get you one."

Before I can answer, he snaps his fingers at one of the initiates passing by—a kid with dark hair and hollow eyes who looks like he hasn't slept in days. "Hey! Jackson! Get her a drink."

The kid—Jackson—stops immediately, his gaze flicking to me for half a second before dropping back to the floor. "Yes, sir," he says, his voice flat, empty.

I watch him turn and disappear into the crowd, and something hot and furious coils in my chest. He looks soulless. Ashamed. Like whatever light he had when he walked into this house has been systematically snuffed out, replaced with obedience and fear.

My blood boils.

This isn't a fraternity. This is a fucking cult.

I force a smile and lean into Wesley, letting my lips brush his jaw. "You know what?" I murmur. "I think we should go somewhere more private."

His eyes light up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He stands, nearly dumping me off his lap in the process, and grabs my hand. "Upstairs. Come on."

Georgia catches my eye as Wesley pulls me toward the staircase, and I give her a quick nod—I'm fine, I'll text you—before letting him lead me up.

The second floor is quieter, the bass muted to a dull thud beneath our feet. Wesley's room is at the end of the hall, marked by a gold nameplate that reads W. CARTER in embossed letters. He fumbles with the door, his coordination shot, and I have to reach around him to turn the handle.

The door clicks shut behind us, and Wesley's on me immediately.

His mouth crashes into mine with all the grace of a freight train derailing—sloppy, aggressive, his tongue shoving past my lips like he's searching for something he lost in there. His hands grab at my waist, my hips, fumbling with the kind of desperation that screams I have no idea what I'm doing but I've seen it in movies. He tastes like whiskey and Red Bull and the particular brand of entitlement that comes from never being told no.

I force myself to kiss him back, tilting my head at an angle that doesn't make me want to gag, my hands coming up to rest on his chest in what I hope passes for desire rather than the instinct to shove him into next week.

This is fine, I tell myself. You've done worse for less.

Except I haven't. Not really. Because even at my most desperate, even when I was playing girlfriend-for-hire to men whose names I forgot the second the check cleared, I never had to pretend this hard.

Wesley's hands slide lower, grabbing my ass with the kind of proprietary squeeze that makes my skin crawl. His grip is too tight, too presumptuous, like he's already decided how this night ends and my participation is optional.

Breathe, Elara. You need him distracted.

But my mind betrays me, slipping away from this room, from this boy, from the wet sounds of his mouth working against mine like he's trying to win a competition. Instead, I'm thinking about Alexander. About the way his hands move with precision, with intent, like every touch is a decision he's made and stands by. About the way his mouth tastes like control and sin and dark coffee at midnight, nothing like the saccharine desperation coating my tongue right now.

Alexander kisses like he has all the time in the world and knows exactly how to use it. Wesley kisses like he's racing a clock only he can hear.

Focus.

Wesley pushes me back toward the bed, his hands already fumbling with the zipper at the back of my bodysuit. His fingers are clumsy, catching on the fabric, and I have to resist the urge to do it myself just to speed this along.

"God, you're so hot," he slurs against my neck, his breath hot and damp.

Riveting dialogue, Wes. Really setting the mood.

I let out what I hope sounds like a pleased hum rather than the internal scream building in my chest. His mouth moves to my collarbone, sloppy and unfocused, and I stare at the ceiling, cataloging the crown molding, the expensive light fixture, anything to keep from acknowledging what's happening.