Page 29

The blare of my ringtone slices through the thick silence like a blade.

I groan, burying my face deeper into the pillow, the sheets tangled around my legs like restraints.

Everything aches — my temples, my throat, even my skin.

My phone keeps buzzing somewhere on the floor, persistent and loud.

I finally drag my hand out from under the covers and fumble for it, squinting at the screen.

Dad.

Shit.

I clear my throat before swiping to answer. “Yeah?”

His voice is calm, but I can tell he’s concerned. “Hey, kiddo. Just checking in. You alright? It’s almost four and I didn’t hear you leave your room.”

Four?

My eyes snap open, heart skipping at the realization. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

He hums like he doesn’t quite believe me. “Heading to the rink for the meeting with the guys. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Mmhmm.” I hang up before he can ask more questions and flop onto my back, kicking off the blanket. My mouth tastes sour, and my body’s heavy like I spent the night drinking. But I didn’t. At least, I don’t think I did.

Dragging myself upright, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stretch, joints cracking. My thighs sting when I shift. Sharp. Raw. Like rug burn, but lower. I wince and glance down at my legs, at the faint lines and bruises on my inner thighs. Panic stirs.

I stagger toward the bathroom, flicking on the light. My reflection is a mess — mascara smudged, hair knotted, lips swollen. But it’s the edge of my hip that catches my attention. I turn, lift the oversized T-shirt, and freeze.

A tattoo.

A fresh, angry, inky mark sitting high on my skin. Letters, script-style, bold as hell.

Property of Eli.

“What the fuck?” My voice echoes in the tiled space. I rub at it like it might smear off. It doesn’t.

My stomach flips. A knot tightens behind my ribs. This isn’t a joke or some messed-up dream. It’s real. And permanent. That asshole branded me like I’m some kind of possession.

Rage spikes fast, clearing away the last of the grogginess.

My phone’s still in my hand. I punch in Eli’s number, pacing the bathroom with the kind of restless fury that builds in your chest until you want to break something.

It rings once, twice, then dumps me to voicemail. I try again. Same result.

I don’t even bother leaving a message. My thumb hovers, then lands on Caleb’s name.

He answers after two rings. “Didn’t expect to see your name, bunny. You miss me already?”

“Have you seen Eli?” I ask, skipping the small talk.

There’s a pause. “What, you two fighting? You call me up to play mediator already?”

“I’m not playing anything. Just answer the question.”

His laugh scratches like sandpaper. “I don’t keep tabs on him. Not my job. If you’re looking for him, try the Reaper party tonight.”

My throat tightens. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Watch that mouth.” His voice dips, lower, darker. “You know I don’t like being talked to like that.”

“Go to hell.” I hang up before I say something I’ll regret.

The silence that follows is thick. My reflection still lingers in the mirror, that damn tattoo glaring at me like it’s taunting me. I open my browser and start typing with shaky fingers.

How to care for a fresh tattoo.

How to fade a new tattoo.

Tattoo removal options first week.

None of it helps. Every article talks about avoiding infection, keeping it clean, moisturizing, no scratching, no swimming. Nothing tells you what to do when you wake up branded by a guy you trusted. Nothing about betrayal or wanting to scream loud enough to shake the fucking walls.

I sit on the edge of the tub, staring at the ink.

My skin’s tender, red around the edges, still slightly raised.

The lines are clean, precise, almost too good.

I picture Eli watching me sleep, his hand guiding the artist, maybe even holding me down.

A chill races up my spine, one I can’t shake off this time.

Did he come here last night?

My stomach churns. I run through everything I know about him, every time he looked at me like I was more than just a game. Every touch that made my head spin. Every lie hidden behind those stormy eyes.

I want to believe he didn’t do this. I want to believe he wouldn’t.

But the ink is there.

Did my mention of Caleb send him over the edge into a jealous spiral?

My hand curls into a fist, nails digging into my palm because I already know the answer. I refuse to cry. I’ve cried too many times over things I couldn’t control. This — this I can control.

I’ll find him.

I’ll find out what the hell happened.

And when I do, he’s going to regret ever thinking he could mark me like I belonged to him. Like I’m some trophy they get to pass around, laugh about later over beers and stories of how they broke the coach’s daughter.

I push myself up, turn on the shower, and let the steam rise. Stripping off my shirt, I step under the hot spray, flinching as water hits the tattoo. It stings. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

I brace my hands on the tiled wall, letting the water run down my back, chest tight, jaw locked. There’s only one place he could be tonight. One place where the Brotherhood gathers, where they celebrate and conspire and pretend they rule this damn campus.

The party.

I’ll go.

Not for him.

Not to beg for answers or scream at him across a crowded room.

But because I need the truth about all of this shit.

The truth about both guys.

And I’m done waiting for it to come to me.

I get out, towel off with jerky, rushed movements, my skin still humming with fury. I throw on leggings and a hoodie, pulling the drawstrings tight, not caring that I look like a girl ready to commit a felony instead of party.

My phone buzzes again. Caleb, a text this time.

Come if you want. Wear something fun. Might be your last chance to enjoy the perks.

Perks.

I nearly hurl the phone across the room.

This isn’t a game for me. This isn’t about perks or parties or being somebody’s entertainment.

I thought — hell, I don’t know what I thought.

That maybe Eli was different. That maybe under all that grit and anger, there was something real.

And that maybe Caleb had a heart. Girl, I’ve been misreading this all wrong.

I shove my phone in my pocket and grab my keys. Screw them. Screw their secrets and codes and that smug, disgusting name he inked into my skin.

Let’s see how they handle it when the girl they branded walks through the door and sets their whole world on fire.

I throw on a black hoodie over a ribbed tank top and a pair of ripped jeans. My boots are scuffed, but steady. There’s a voice recorder tucked into the pocket of my jacket, two pinhole cameras clipped beneath the lapel. I stare at myself in the mirror for one beat too long. My eyes are bloodshot.

I pull the hood up and head out.

The campus is alive in that eerie, twilight way.

The Reaper’s mansion glows like it’s on fire, light pulsing through the windows, bass thumping like a war drum.

My palms sweat as I cross the lawn, weaving through packs of drunk students, most of them oblivious.

I tell myself to act like I belong. I repeat the lie until I believe it.

Inside, the place reeks of liquor and smoke. Bodies grind. Laughter rings out too loud. No one looks twice at me. Good. I move through the chaos, eyes scanning for Eli. For Caleb. For answers.

Then I hear it.

That voice.

A lazy, venom-laced drawl. Familiar. Cold. It slides across the room like oil over water.

“Well, well. Didn’t think you were this stupid.”

I freeze. Turn. And there he is.

The red mask.

Same as before. Only this time, I’m conscious. Alert. Pissed off.

“You,” I say.

His head tilts. “Looking for Eli?”

I square my shoulders. “Where is he?”

He gestures casually. “Follow me.”

I stay rooted. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps forward. One hand wraps around my wrist, the other around my waist. Before I can react, I’m off the floor, slung over his shoulder. He’s stronger than he looks.

“Put me down,” I snap, fists pounding at his back. “You psycho.”

He chuckles quietly. The kind of laugh that makes your stomach clench.

He carries me down a hallway away from the music. A door opens. I’m tossed into a room that reeks of beer and something sour. I scramble up and look around.

A mattress sits in the corner. No sheets. Just bare foam. There’s a desk with a flickering lamp, an open laptop, wires, headphones, two cameras. One is aimed right at the bed.

“You’re disgusting.”

He shuts the door. Clicks the lock.

“I know you like proof,” he says. “So, I brought receipts.”

He walks to the desk, taps a key. A video begins to play. I recognize the black bunny mask I had on. This is from the first night of Eli and Caleb. When Caleb forced Eli to fuck my mouth.

I can feel heat claw up my chest.

“I’ll send this to your dad. He deserves to know what his precious daughter’s been up to.”

My throat tightens. “Do it. I don’t care.”

“Liar.”

He’s close now. The scent of him is sharp. Sweat, cologne, and something chemical.

He traps me between his arms, palms flat against the wall behind me. I refuse to flinch. Not in front of him.

“This position,” he murmurs. “Reminds me of last time. You liked it, didn’t you? The way you were soaking through your—”

“Shut up,” I hiss.

He smiles behind the mask. I can see it in the way his eyes narrow.

His gaze drops, then sweeps toward my bag. He grabs it. Digs inside.

“What’s this?” he asks, pulling out the recorder, the cameras. “Planning your own little documentary?”

I don’t answer.

His mood shifts.

Slowly.

Dangerously.

He turns the recorder over in his hands like it personally insulted him.

“You’re really stupid, aren’t you?”

I meet his stare. “Guess that makes two of us.”

He moves faster than I expect, hurling the recorder across the room. It smashes against the wall, pieces scattering like glass stars. He steps forward.

“You have no idea what you’ve walked into. What they’ll do to you if they find out.”

“They?” I sneer. “What are a bunch of overprivileged college boys gonna do? Paddle me?”

That’s when his composure cracks. For real this time.

Caleb slaps me.

Hard.

The sting lights up my cheek. My knees almost buckle, but I stay upright.

He drags me to the mattress. “You came here. Now you pay.”

I twist, claw, kick. He grabs a nylon cord from the desk drawer, ties my wrists. I spit in his face. It hits the mask. He wipes it with his sleeve.

“You don’t learn.”

He shoves me onto the bed and binds my ankles. The cords bite into my skin. My breath is ragged. Not scared. Furious.

“You don’t get to do this,” I snap.

“Oh, but I do.”

He crouches in front of me, his face inches from mine. His voice is low and even. “You think this is just a frat party? That this is some social club? We make the rules here. We own everything. Including you, if we want.”

I stare at him. “Then what are you waiting for?”

There’s a flicker of hesitation. Barely there. But I catch it.

“You think this makes you powerful?” I ask. “Because all I see is a coward hiding behind a mask.”

He lunges again. One hand at my throat, squeezing just enough to make it hard to talk. The other fumbles with his belt.

“Open your mouth,” he growls.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes from the slap, but I glare straight into his face. “Do it again. I dare you.”

He stills.

For a second, I see the decision weighing in his eyes. Something jagged. Unstable.

Then the door swings open.

Everything halts.

His head jerks up. Mine too.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Rushed.

The mask doesn’t move. But his grip loosens. He backs away, fast.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he says.

Like I could.

He exits, slamming the door behind him.

I’m left tied, blinking under that awful flickering light, cheeks stinging, adrenaline still roaring through my bloodstream.