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And look up to see that Blake is staring at me directly, unblinking eyes behind his glasses, head cocked just slightly to one side. He doesn’t look away when I meet his gaze, doesn’t even flinch or look embarrassed to be caught watching. If anything, he just keeps staring at me more, seemingly unfazed.

It’s unnerving.

Even more unnerving is the fact that I can still feel him watching me when class lets out, never saying a word, face revealing nothing of what he’s thinking.

It’s strange to think that Blake’s father is America’s favorite action star to put on magazine covers, and his mother Korea’s most looked-up to former actress turned entertainment mogul. Somehow Blake himself has inherited none of their open-faced charm. He’s like a closed—and very unnerving—book.

He may have gotten their good looks, but on him they resemble a marble statue: cold and without any color.

It’s a relief to move on to my next class, far away from Blake Lee’s inscrutable stare.

* * *

Thankfully, my English class is free of any of the Elites or the girls I encountered in the communal shower last night, but the same can’t be said of lunch. Every student will be there.

Including the ones I’ve run my mouth in front of.

Trepidation fills me as I cross the Coleridge Center towards the dining area, laptop bag swung over one shoulder, hyper-aware of the streams of students all around me. So many of them already seem like the best of friends; you wouldn’t know it’s the first day. They break off naturally into little groups and walk confidently through the dining hall’s double doors like they were born here.

Leaving me all on my own, separated from the pack.

I knew that most of the students at Coleridge were legacies of some sort, or kids from private schools that feed straight to the academy, but I didn’t realize just exactly how alone I would be. A sudden longing fills me: to be at Jade’s house again, getting ready for school with her after our traditional end-of-summer sleepover.

I’ll never have friends like that at Coleridge. No one I’ve known for years or grown up around. Steps slowing, I look around for another straggler like me, a scholarship student maybe, or the weird kid from one of the private schools.

There’s always a weird kid. Every school has a social pariah. Maybe Hector is around somewhere, or Tricia.

I’d even settle for Chrissy right now.

But I don’t see any lonesome strays. No familiar faces either. That’s a strange feeling to me. In a small town like Wayborne, there are always friendly faces around—or at least, familiar ones. I don’t know anyone here at all. If I can pick out a face and name of a student, it’s because I’ve seen their Instagram feeds and magazine photoshoots. Some of them have millions of followers to go with their millions in trust fund money that will come to them the instant they’re of age—and you can tell.

I don’t fit in. And I can feel it. I know they can see it, too. I do my best to keep my chin up, but as my steps take me closer to the big double doors at the end of the hall, my pace falters.

Because I know I’m going to be alone on the other side of those doors.

Taking a deep breath, I rub the scars at the base of my thumb. I think of Silas, who was supposed to be here—not me.

And I decide I’ll never be alone in Coleridge’s halls. Not really.

A ghost comes with me. Not the little girl who died in the fire, but another ghost entirely.

With his memory strong at my side, I walk through the double doors of the dining hall.

Straight into Tanner Connally.

Chapter 15

"Brenna." It's so strange to hear my name on his tongue, that drawl of a Kentucky accent dragging out the syllables. "Or should I call you Fire Girl? I heard you're marked now."

"Yeah, your friend promised to make me a social outcast or something." My pulse has skyrocketed just from being near him. I can't stop thinking about what Veronica said: that a guy like him would never go for a girl like me. He's certainly looking at me closely right now, but that could just be because I ran right into him. "Are you going to join Cole in his little games?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Tanner cocks his head, a roguish grin on his face. "If there's anything you've shown me, Fire Girl, it's that youlikegames. Especially when they hurt."

Reaching out faster than I can dodge, he grabs my right hand and pushes his thumb into the burn there, which I slapped a thick bandage on last night after my shower. I wince as pain pulses through me like the warmth of a fire—and burn bright red in shame as a different kind of warmth spreads between my thighs.

He's so close. He smells like wood smoke and grass trimmings. When I lick my lips, swallowing a whimper of pain, his light hazel eyes follow the motion of my tongue. Then he inhales sharply—and lets go of my hand.

"Is that all you got?" I ask him, dare him, push him. "And here I thought you played a different kind of game with girls."