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And I’m about to make her life hell.

It’s late when the goats finally get settled. Most are probably still hung over from the party the night before. I know I’m running on fumes, but that doesn’t mean it’s time for a break.

Most of the pledges have just settled into their sleeping bags when bright lights click on and one of the gauntlet runners shouts over the bullhorn, “Baaaaaaa baaaaa,” he bleats, “Get up! One more task before the night is over.”

The room groans, but everyone complies, even if it’s grudgingly.

“There’s an old horse pen that circles the field out back. Complete four laps and then you can go to bed.”

Across the room, Reagan’s shoulders droop. She’s exhausted. Worn out from the party, the drugs in her drink and what transpired between us.

I grab the arm of one of my brother’s passing by. “Hey, Rat, tell forty-seven to come to my room.”

Rat pauses. “And miss the run?”

Rat got his nickname during his week in the gauntlet for cutting his long hair but leaving a sliver of a rattail hanging down the back of his neck. The hair is long gone, but the nickname stuck. Now he’s covered in tattoos, including a massive one on his chest of a rat chewing his way out of his ribcage. He’s worked his way up to Warden—the person who doles out the majority of the initiation activities.

“He’ll make it up,” I assure him. “I’ve got some work that needs to be handled. Worse than the run.”

He laughs. “Gotcha.”

I exit the barn and cross the yard toward the main house. It took me months to find this place, scouring through my father’s properties. Our family has lived in this area for a century and snapping up real estate is a tradition. This place is perfect. The house is in good condition, only recently sold off after the owners died. The furnishings inside are nice—better than the frat house. There’s a large kitchen, a living room complete with TV and gaming consoles, and nice bedrooms upstairs. There’s a bunkhouse adjacent to the barn where the non-officer members will sleep for the next week. By not having the frat pay for a separate facility for Hell Week, there’s no discernable paper trail. All things Zeta Sig needs to keep our chapter legal while we carry out our traditions.

I stop by the kitchen to grab a beer out of the refrigerator and head up to my room. Knox and Royer can oversee the drama outside. I need to check in with my goat.

Swallowing half the beer, I enter my bedroom and take in the queen-sized bed and comfortable furniture. Since he’s president, Royer got the biggest room, but this one will work. Knox is next door, on the other side of a shared bathroom. I stop at my suitcase, unzipping it and rummaging under the clothes.

I barely hear the tapping on my door, but call out, “Come in.”

The door opens with a soft creak. “You wanted to see me?”

My fingers graze the wooden box at the bottom of the suitcase, and I grab it. “Yeah, I need you to do some work in here.”

Reagan swallows anxiously, the Adam’s apple noticeably missing from her throat, along with the telltale stubble that should shadow her chin at this stage of the day. She’s wearing baggy sweatpants that manage to make her look even skinnier and an oversized Wittmore hoodie.

“Close the door.”

She shuts it, and I note her stiff shoulders and trembling hands. She thinks I’m going to hurt her. The realization sends a warm spark down my belly. Control is a very powerful, intoxicating thing.

“It’s not just work,” I say, sitting on the edge of my bed. I open the box and remove rolling papers and a small baggie of weed. “I also didn’t want you getting busted.”

“Did I do something wrong?” Her eyes follow my hands. Watch me place the items on the mattress.

“Nothing that’s not nature’s fault. I’m not willing to risk you getting caught the first night because you’ve got a girly-run or something.” I nod at the suitcase. “Hang that shit in the closet. I can’t find anything.”

She frowns. Relieved? Disappointed? “That’s all?”

“For now.”

I roll the joint while Reagan hangs up my clothes one piece at a time. It’s not much—just enough to get me through the week. I lick the edge of the paper, securing the weed inside and wrap it tight, watching her as she methodically works.

“I should go back.” Reagan says once the suitcase is empty. The clothes hang in an orderly line behind her, including my pants. She arranged my shoes in rows underneath. “Someone will notice I’m missing.”

“Nah.” I pull my lighter out of my pocket and flick the lever. It sparks twice and then ignites. I light the end and take a deep drag. “Part of the gauntlet is people vanishing here and there. Everyone has a different journey. Officers pick different goats to monitor.” I take another drag and feel the burn deep in my lungs. “Right now, I’m monitoring you.”

“I wish you’d let me run,” she says quietly.

“Why’s that?”