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It’s the middle of October, sophomore year, at some dingy party scene. There’s a reason I don’t drink—but I barely remember it now, buried beneath shots of tequila and the burn of lime and salt on my tongue. Nothing distracts from the constant sting of being back in Waterfell without him.

Lately, I’ve been drinking a lot.

But tonight, something is different. Wrong. I can feel it.

“I need to use the bathroom,” I say, but the words feel loose on my cotton-dry tongue. The guy whose name I’ve forgotten entirely smirks and tries to touch my newly bleached hair. I shove his hand away, hard, but I miss entirely.

“This way, babe,” he says, using his hands on my waist to lead me through the party and to one of the doors in the long stretch of hallway.

My stomach sinks again as I realize it’s a bedroom, not a bathroom.

This is what you wanted, right, Polly? It’s what you deserve.

I grasp the doorframe and shake my head. “I’m gonna be sick,” I threaten, which seems to work enough to get him into action. He takes me through to a conjoined bathroom and I shut the door quickly, nearly slamming it in his face.

I grab for my phone, tears blurring my vision. I can barely see enough to click the contact, and with the panic racing through me, I take a chance.

He answers on the first ring.

“Bennett?” I call, before he can even breathe into my ear.

“Paloma?” he asks, his voice a disbelieving cry. “What—”

“I need help,” I beg, soft and quiet. A soft curse threads through my ear. “I’m—I’m sorry to call. But I’m scared.”

I hear something loud, like an engine roaring to life, before Bennett’s voice comes back over. “Tell me where you are. I’m gonna come get you.”

My eyes droop lower, head swimmy and fogged up with alcohol and . . . something else. I barely have enough in me to tell him how to find me.

• • •

“—the fuck out of here, before I kill you.”

“Take it easy! She didn’t say she had a boyfriend—”

I can barely lift my heavy eyelids. Eyelashes fluttering, I try to blink to see what all the distant yelling is about.

No. Not distant. I can almost feel the rumble of one of the voices, as if it’s coming from me.

My hand flexes out, grabbing for something and closing around soft warm material—a shirt. A warmer, stronger hand covers mine, lips to my forehead briefly as I realize that I’m in someone’s arms, outside—the October air cool against my heated skin.

Bennett Reiner’s arms, as he carries me out of the house like a goddamn superhero.

“I didn’t do shit—” someone yells. The voice makes me tremble, hunching down farther into Bennett’s arms, as if I can burrow myself into the bulk of him.

“You better fucking hope I can’t find proof that you drugged her,” Bennett snaps. Though I almost second-guess if it’s actually him—I’ve never heard Bennett sound like that, as if he’s near to feral. I’ve never heard him even raise his voice. “You have no clue what I’m willing to do when it comes to her.”

“Listen, man—”

“That’s Bennett fucking Reiner, dude. What the fuck did you do?”

Someone else must’ve come outside, the owner of the new terrified voice, because Bennett tenses further, pulling me closer as he drops his voice.

“I’m taking her to the goddamn hospital—so you better get your shit together because I’m sure campus security and the IFC would love to hear about this.”

The IFC—Interfraternal Council. He’s threatening them.

I squeeze his arm as tight as my loose, drugged grip can and whisper, “Can you walk me home?”