Page 7

SEVEN

SABLE

I manage to find a quiet spot in the heart of the gardens behind the library. After classes today, I couldn’t bring myself to go back to my dorm. Heather has been absolutely insufferable, and I don’t have the patience for her right now. She’s been obsessing over the death of that guy from Silas’ fraternity. It’s all over her blog—the whistleblower of all things from Ashen Grove University. For days now, her updates have been consumed with theories, rumors, and tributes to him.

It’s suffocating.

Heather’s also part of the campus sorority, and apparently, they’ve been organizing nightly memorials in the quad for people to pay their respects. The idea of standing there pretending to mourn someone I never knew feels eerie to me, almost dishonest. Why would I mourn someone I didn’t even know?

I settle on a bench under the ivy-covered gazebo, hoping to clear my mind. The air here is fresh, cooler in the shade of the towering trees, and the rustling leaves almost drown out the distant hum of campus life. I pull out my sketchbook and start drawing the statue at the center of the garden—a graceful ballerina, frozen in mid-pose. My back leans against the wrought-iron post, providing a solid surface as I work on shading the delicate folds of her dress, focusing on the curve of her body as I try to capture the fluidity of movement in still stone.

But even as I focus on the sketch, my mind won’t shut off. The image of Tessa’s face when she ran out of the woods that night, pale and terrified, is burned into my eyelids. I have to physically shake my head to clear the memory. I didn’t see Toby’s body that night—hell, I didn’t even know him—but his death has become the only thing anyone talks about. In every class, it comes up. It’s as if he’s become a ghost that haunts the campus.

The Medical Examiner ruled it a heart attack, which should have put everything to rest. But no. The whispers continue, and Tessa? She’s been shunned by almost everyone on our floor. They call her “The Widowmaker,” making disgusting jokes about how her blowjobs are so bad they’ll literally suck the life out of you. She stays locked away in her room now, probably hiding from the shame that people have unfairly dumped on her. I’ve thought about bringing her some food, just to be friendly, but I’m not sure how much that would help.

The one class we share? She sat in the corner, hood pulled up, completely withdrawn. Her once confident, carefree demeanor had vanished. And it wasn’t just her. The back of my head felt like it was on fire for the entire ninety-minute lecture, thanks to Kai. He didn’t stop staring. I could feel it, the weight of his gaze never letting up. By the time the class ended, I grabbed my bag and practically sprinted out of there, eager to escape his scrutiny.

Kai.

He seems to think he has some say in my life—like he’s my keeper.

I don’t need him telling me who I can sleep with or what I can do with my body. If I wanted to let Dayton finger fuck me in the middle of—I freeze, my pencil slipping slightly as giggling from the corner of the gardens pulls me from my thoughts. My eyes flick up, and I see a guy with thick-rimmed glasses twirling a redhead around, her brown dress billowing out as she laughs. He sets her down gently, their fingers intertwining as she leans her head on his shoulder.

It’s sweet.

I wait for something to stir inside me. A flutter, a pang of longing, maybe even a flicker of envy. But it doesn’t come. I watch them, and all I feel is... nothing.

Isn’t that what I’m supposed to want? The romance? The connection? The comfort of someone who loves you, holds you, makes everything else in life seem bearable? That’s what everyone says love is, right?

But it doesn’t move me. Not the way I thought it would.

No, instead, my mind keeps going back to that night in the catacombs. To the way my heart raced—not from fear, but from arousal—when I watched those two guys fucking that girl. The way she moaned, completely lost in the moment, letting them take control as she surrendered to her own ecstasy.

It should’ve made me sick.

It should have made me feel dirty, but it didn’t.

It made me feel... something else.

I exhale slowly, blowing a strand of hair out of my face as I press the pencil to the paper again, trying to push those thoughts away. I should be disgusted with myself, ashamed of what I felt. But I’m not. If anything, I felt envy. The girl had reached some kind of nirvana—a place where nothing else mattered but the pleasure she was experiencing.

Pure, unfiltered pleasure.

That’s what I want. Not love. Not romance. I want to lose control, to let go, to feel everything all at once. That feeling—of being washed over by something so intense you have no choice but to ride the wave—has been on my mind since that night.

I glance back down at the ballerina statue, the poised elegance of her pose a stark contrast to the mess I’ve made of my thoughts. I stare at the curve of her body, trying to capture the subtle movements I’ve always admired in dance—grace, control, perfection.

Things I don’t have.

The truth is, no matter how much I try to bury these thoughts, they always surface. And it’s getting harder to ignore them. Harder to pretend that I don’t crave something more. Something raw. Something that strips away the layers of politeness and propriety and leaves me feeling completely exposed.

But no. I need to focus.

This isn’t me. I’m not that girl who lets herself be defined by lust, or by a moment of weakness in the dark. I tell myself that as I shade in the folds of the ballerina’s dress, each stroke of the pencil feels like a quiet rebellion against the chaos in my mind. But deep down, I know it’s a lie.

Because maybe I am that girl, after all.

The words echo in my mind, but no matter how many times I repeat them, they don’t sink in. My sketchpad blurs before my eyes, the little ballerina dissolving into nothing more than a series of messy lines and broken shapes. Each stroke that was once deliberate now feels shaky, uncontrolled. My hands tremble slightly, betraying the unease that churns deep within me, and the graphite pencil slips from my fingers, leaving a dark, ugly smudge across the pristine paper.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, frustration welling up inside me. It mirrors the anger and confusion that has been simmering for days now, ever since that night in the catacombs. The pencil rolls off the sketchpad and falls to the ground with a quiet thud. I stare down at the ruined drawing, the ballerina’s graceful form now twisted and distorted, just like my thoughts.

Why do I even have to be here? So close to home. So close to the constant reminders of all my failures.

So close to Silas.

I can’t help but replay that night in the catacombs over and over again in my mind. The way Dayton’s hands had roamed over my body, his lips pressing against mine with a fervor that had left me breathless. It was intoxicating, thrilling—and yet, now, in the cold light of day, I regret it.

Why did I let things go so far? What was I thinking?

I press my fingers to my temples, rubbing circles into my skin as if I could will the memories away. But they cling stubbornly. The way Dayton had looked at me—dark, possessive, hungry. The way he made me feel, like I was the only girl in the world. In that moment, under his gaze, it was easy to forget everything else. It was easy to let go, to let myself be consumed by him.

But it was too much, too fast.

I should have stopped it sooner. I should have had more control.

A gust of wind rustles the leaves, and I close my eyes, trying to find a moment of peace. But all I see is Dayton’s face. All I feel is the lingering sensation of his hands on my skin. I need to talk to someone, to sort out my feelings, but who can I turn to?

Heather is out of the question.

Tessa is too caught up in her own drama.

And Silas... I don’t even want to think about Silas right now.

I look down at the mess I’ve made on the page. The ballerina is ruined, her once delicate form now a tangled web of erratic lines and smudges, as chaotic and jumbled as my thoughts. I sigh heavily, leaning back once more, the weight of it all pressing down on me. The laughter of the couple in the corner drifts toward me, soft and distant, but I barely register it. Everything around me feels muted, distant, as if the world is moving forward and I’m stuck, trapped in this endless loop of confusion and regret.

I pick up the pencil again, but my heart isn’t in it. My mind is too tangled, too full of the past few weeks, to focus on something as simple as a sketch. The events of that night in the catacombs swirl in my head like a storm that refuses to pass. Every thought leads back to the same place: What the hell is wrong with me?

“Fuck this,” I mutter, and before I realize what I’m doing, I shove the sketchpad off my lap and onto the ground. It lands with a dull thud against the grass, and I pull my knees up to my chest, hugging them tightly. The outburst feels childish, but I don’t care. I can’t hold back the frustration anymore. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to find a sliver of calm, a tiny corner of my mind where I can just breathe.

In the silence that follows, I focus on my breathing, on the steady rise and fall of my chest, trying to calm myself. I count the breaths—inhale, exhale—over and over until the world outside of me fades away. The warmth of the sun breaks free from behind the clouds, and I feel it touch my ankles where they peek out above my boots, the light soft and comforting. It’s a small, fleeting comfort, but I cling to it, anyway.

Still, my mind won’t completely quiet. There’s this gnawing feeling inside me I can’t shake, something deeper than just regret about Dayton, deeper than confusion about Silas. It’s the feeling of being out of control. Of being pulled in directions I don’t understand by people I can’t predict.

And the worst part? Part of me craves it. Craves the chaos, the recklessness. The way Dayton’s touch made me forget, for just a moment, who I was and what I was running from. But as much as I want to surrender to that darkness, I can’t shake the sense that it will only make things worse.

There’s the sound of shuffling footsteps approaching me, and I look up, startled. My cheeks, still wet with unshed tears, heat as my eyes meet Dayton’s. His smile is soft—softer than I expect from him—as if he’s caught me in a vulnerable moment and doesn’t quite know how to react. He bends down and picks up my discarded sketchpad, his gaze moving over the messy drawing before lifting it to examine it more closely.

“Give that back,” I snap, my jaw clenching as I hold out my hand.

He chuckles, that irritatingly charming smirk tugging at his lips. “You threw it just a moment ago. Are you sure you even want it back?”

My glare sharpens, and his smile falters just a little. Reluctantly, he hands the pad back to me. I yank it from his grip, quickly flipping the cover closed and wiping my face with the back of my hoodie sleeve, trying to hide any trace of emotion. “How did you find me?”

“Oh, you know me,” he says, arrogance practically dripping from his words as he casually stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I love a secret meeting in the gardens.”

“Your charm might work on everyone else, Dayton, but it won’t work for me.”

His lips curl into a playful grin, his eyes flashing with mischief. “Will it work long enough to convince you to join me for movie night?” He bats his lashes, eyes twinkling, trying to melt through the defenses I’ve built around myself. My brain screams to tell him to fuck off, to remind him I’m not some girl he can easily sway. But then the thought of going back to Heather—back to her suffocating emotional spiral—makes me hesitate.

“So you can fuck me?” I raise an eyebrow. “Is that the plan? Bring me back to your frat house and see what happens?”

His grin widens, completely unfazed. “Oh, that doesn’t have to happen... unless you want it to.” He bites his lip, clearly amused, but all I can do is roll my eyes harder.

“I’d rather not let you touch me,” I snap, crossing my arms defensively and tucking my sketchpad between them, holding it like a shield.

Before he can respond, another set of footsteps approaches us. I glance over and spot Kai jogging toward us, his dark hair damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead and cheeks. His gray gym shorts hang low on his hips, the cut of his muscles sharply defined. My eyes instinctively follow the line of definition that disappears below his waistband, and a curse slips through my mind.

Fucking hell, Sab. Focus.

Kai removes his headphones. “What are you two doing?” His brow is furrowed. Probably wondering why I look like a tomato and Dayton is practically drooling like the rabbit from Looney Toons, trying to get me to go back to their frat house so they can fuck me.

“I was trying to convince Sable here that she should come for movie night,” Dayton chirps.

Kai looks at Dayton warningly. “D, no. Silas will actually murder us.”

At the mention of Silas, my interest piques. My head swivels between the two guys, eyes narrowing. “Oh, Silas will be there?” Without thinking, I jump up from the bench, my heart racing with a sudden rush of adrenaline. “Let’s go,” I say quickly, grabbing Dayton’s hand before I can second-guess myself.

Kai steps in front of me, blocking my path. “No,” he says firmly. Dayton intertwines his fingers with mine, pulling my hand behind me. His body presses lightly against my back, while Kai stands inches from me, his chest still heaving from his run.

“You cannot come back to the manor.”

I smirk, tilting my head slightly. “The manor ? How quaint.” I let the words drip with sarcasm as I eye him. “If it will piss Silas off, then I’m going.”

Kai’s face tightens, the frustration clear in the hard set of his jaw, but he doesn’t try to stop me again. Instead, he falls into step beside Dayton and me, his posture tense. The path to the frat house—or manor, as they called it—winds along the back of campus, lined with towering oak trees. Their branches hang low, draped with moss that casts shifting shadows across the path, the light from the streetlamps barely penetrating the dense foliage. It feels like a different world back here, separate from the lively campus.

It’s only a few minutes later that we approach the house. Or rather, the mansion. It rises in front of us like something out of a gothic novel—ivy creeping up the sides of its black stone walls, gothic detailing etched into every window frame. The place looks ancient, as if it belongs in another era, yet it somehow fits in with the rest of Ashen Grove’s architecture. The mansion’s brooding presence looms over us, its darkened windows reflecting nothing but the night.

The double doors at the entrance are massive, made of a dark wood with little swirled carvings. Kai unlocks the door and pushes it open for Dayton and me to walk inside. I’m immediately hit with the smell of aged wood and a faint scent of vanilla. The foyer is dimly lit by a large chandelier above. The staircase on the left goes up to a second floor.

Kai moves ahead of us and up the staircase. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Dayton gently tugs me further inside, leading me past the foyer and down a hallway until we reach a set of double doors. He pushes them open, revealing a spacious room dominated by an oversized couch at the center. The space is cozy, homey even, the opposite of the intimidating gothic exterior. But the warmth doesn’t entirely dispel the unease crawling up my spine.

Another guy is already on the couch. His dark hair is pulled into a small bun, the sides shaved down to reveal the ink that snakes up his neck. His black hoodie is rolled up at the sleeves, exposing more tattoos that trail down his forearms. His posture stiffens when he sees me, his jaw clenching as his eyes lock onto mine, sharp and assessing.

“Movie night central,” Dayton announces, his voice breaking the uncomfortable silence as he releases my hand. I didn’t realize how much warmth that simple connection provided until it’s gone, leaving me feeling oddly exposed. I bite the corner of my lip and pull the sleeves of my jacket over my hands, feeling the stranger’s eyes still on me, watching, scrutinizing.

Dayton plops down on one side of the couch, patting the space next to him. “Come on, Sable. Let’s pick a movie before Kai gets back down here and chooses something none of us wants to sit through.”

I hesitate, glancing around the room. It’s comfortable, almost homey, but the stranger’s eyes hone in on me like I am some kind of prey that I can’t shake. I take a deep breath and join Dayton on the couch, trying to ignore the other person’s stare.

The guy on the couch narrows his eyes slightly as I sit down. “Brought home another toy, D?” he mutters, putting his book down on the end table beside him.

Dayton chuckles, unfazed. “Sable, meet my brother, Levi.”

“ Step brother,” Levi corrects him, his tone flat, but his eyes remain on me.

“Oh.” My head tilts, taking in the subtle differences between the two. Dayton’s carefree demeanor, all boyish charm, and Levi’s more intense, brooding energy. I shift uncomfortably, but can’t help leaning slightly into Dayton’s warmth. It’s instinctive, and I immediately regret how easy it is to seek comfort in his presence.

Levi’s lips twitch into a smirk as he hands me the remote. “Pick something good.”

I scroll through the movie options, my attention split between the screen and the burning sensation of Levi’s stare. It’s unnerving, like he’s dissecting me with every glance, searching for something I’m not sure I want him to find. I focus harder on the movie list, trying to find something that all of us could agree on, but it’s impossible to concentrate.

Thankfully, the sound of footsteps pulls my focus, and Kai reappears, freshly showered, his hair still damp, and his clothes comfortably fitted. He’s wearing a simple gray t-shirt and black joggers, but I can’t help the faint twinge of disappointment that he’s now fully dressed. He offers a small smile as he walks over to the giant ottoman, pushing it against the couch until it turns the whole setup into a massive, cushioned bed.

“No fluffy movies,” he says with a grin, then crawls onto the ottoman, wedging himself between me and Levi.

Levi murmurs something into Kai’s ear, their conversation low, almost conspiratorial. I can’t make out what they’re saying. I finally settle on a thriller, needing something to match the unease in my gut. Dayton slips away to make some popcorn, and by the time he returns, we’ve all settled in.

He flops down beside me, settling back into the couch. The bowl of popcorn rests in his lap, and as the movie starts, he leans in closer, his arm draping over the back of the couch. The warmth of his body seeps into mine, our thighs brushing, and I can’t help the way my body responds to the closeness. My hand dips into the popcorn bowl, my fingers brushing against his every so often.

“You cold?” Dayton asks in a low murmur, his voice soft, almost intimate.

I nod, even though I’m not really cold. It’s an automatic response, and before I can reconsider, he pulls a blanket from the back of the couch, spreading it over the both of us. As soon as the fabric settles, his hand slips beneath it, his fingers trailing along my thigh. My breath catches in my throat, my pulse quickening at the sudden contact. I glance at him, but he just smirks, his eyes dark with mischief.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, and the smug look on his face tells me he’s fully aware of the effect he’s having on me. His fingers continue their slow exploration under the blanket, creeping higher, each touch sending sparks of heat through my core.

I shift slightly, trying to refocus on the movie, but it’s impossible to ignore the way Dayton’s fingers trace patterns on my skin, his touch featherlight but deliberate. My body betrays me, leaning into him just a little, craving more of the warmth, more of the attention, despite the nagging voice in the back of my mind telling me this is a terrible idea.

Kai’s eyes flick toward us briefly, his expression unreadable, and I wonder if he notices. Or if he even cares.

But Levi? Levi’s gaze never leaves me. Not for a second.

Dayton’s possessive hold tightens by the second. I can’t even form a coherent thought. His hand slides lower, his fingers dangerously close to the edge of my pussy.

Levi gets up, muttering something about needing to study, and leaves us alone. Now it’s just me, Dayton, and Kai.

Kai’s still on his side of the couch, nursing a beer bottle, but I can feel his eyes flicking over every shift Dayton and I make. He’s watching us, and the knowledge keeps my body stiff, nerves on high alert.

“You’ve been squirming all night,” Dayton murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. His voice is teasing, almost mocking. “What’s the matter, Sable? You need something?”

Before I can respond, his hand moves higher, slipping beneath the hem of my leggings. My breath catches in my throat as a mix of excitement and panic floods through me. I glance at Kai, but Dayton doesn’t seem to care—if anything, the presence of another person only emboldens him.

“Dayton,” I whisper, trying to sound disapproving, but the breathy weakness in my voice betrays me.

He chuckles softly, clearly enjoying my reaction. “Shhh, babygirl,” he growls, his voice low and rough as his fingers find the waistband of my panties. “You’re not fooling anyone. I know you like it. I can feel how much you want this.”

His fingers slip under the fabric, brushing against my already wet skin, and I can’t help the small gasp that escapes me. My body arches into his touch despite my internal protests.

“You’re already so wet,” he whispers, his breath hot against my neck. “I knew it. A good girl on the outside, but underneath? You’re just waiting for someone to take control, aren’t you?”

I bite my lip hard, trying to stifle the moan building in my throat. I should tell him to stop, push him away—but I don’t. I can’t. His touch feels too good, the risk of being caught only heightening the intensity. My pussy floods with desire as his fingers find my clit, circling it with just enough pressure to make me twitch in his grasp.

“Stay quiet,” Dayton orders, “Or I’ll make him join us.”

I clench my fists, gripping the blanket so tightly, my knuckles turn white. My thighs tremble as he quickens his pace. He learned in the catacombs the right way to flick, brush, and pinch. Or he is just an expert at this. “Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice dark and hungry, “grinding against my hand like a desperate little slut. You’re mine right now, babygirl. Remember that.”

His filthy words make me wetter, the pressure inside me building rapidly. I can’t stop my hips from moving against his palm, riding his fingers as they pump in and out of me. The sensation is overwhelming, the pleasure almost unbearable, and I know I’m close—too close.

The movie plays louder in the background, an action scene masking the soft sounds of my breathless gasps. But I’m hyperaware of everything—of Kai, who hasn’t moved, but whose presence makes every brush of Dayton’s fingers more forbidden, more dangerous.

The combination of Dayton’s words and relentless touch sends me spiraling over the edge. My body tenses, and I bite down on my lip hard enough to draw blood, desperate to keep quiet as the orgasm rips through me. It’s like a tidal wave, shuddering through me with an intensity that leaves me breathless, my entire body trembling as I climax around his fingers.

Without hesitation, Dayton lifts his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean, his eyes locked on mine the whole time. “You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs, his voice filled with arrogance. “I can’t wait to devour you next time.”

My cheeks burn, heat flooding my body as I watch him. My mind is spinning, unable to process everything that just happened. I swallow hard, my heart still pounding in my chest, and risk a glance at Kai. He hasn’t moved from his spot, still staring at the screen, but there’s a slight tension in his posture, his hand gripping the bottle a little too tightly. He knows . There’s no way he didn’t notice what just happened.

Dayton shifts beside me, clearly pleased with himself, his arm pulling me closer as if to stake his claim. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice a dark purr filled with satisfaction. “You did well. You liked being touched in front of him, didn’t you?”

My body shudders at the insinuation, embarrassment mixing with the lingering pleasure. I’m too dazed to respond, my body still humming from the orgasm, and my mind too clouded to form a coherent thought. But deep down, I know he’s right. The thrill of being touched like that—knowing Kai was right there—was intoxicating.

Dayton leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my temple before smirking. “Next time,” he whispers, “you won’t be able to stay quiet.”

The movie is just about at the end when the front door flings open, slamming against the wall. The sound echoes through the house, making me jump. Dayton and Kai exchange a look, and Dayton’s arms come down around my shoulder as he pulls me in tighter. I glance up at him, but his eyes are already focused on the entrance of the room.

Kai straightens, his casual demeanor from earlier vanishing as he shares a pointed look with Dayton. My pulse quickens, anxiety prickling beneath my skin as I follow Dayton’s gaze to the entrance of the room. Silas stands in the doorway, his presence a force of nature. His broad frame fills the space, sweat glistening off his arms and chest, his workout gear soaked. His fists are still taped up, muscles rippling beneath his shirt, but it’s his eyes that lock me in place. Cold, furious, and full of fire. His chest heaves with barely restrained anger, and his gaze cuts straight through me like a knife.

“What the hell is she doing here?” he demands, his voice a low growl.

The atmosphere in the room shifts immediately, the tension snapping taut. Dayton pulls away slightly, but his arm remains a protective barrier around me.

“I invited her,” Dayton replies calmly, though his tone has an edge. “We’re just watching a movie.”

Silas’ gaze doesn’t move from me. He steps further into the room, his presence suffocating, the heat of his fury radiating out in waves. “I told you she can’t be here,” he snaps, his voice sharper now. “She needs to leave. Now.”

The command ignites something inside me, a spark of anger that quickly flares into a full-blown inferno. I yank myself out of Dayton’s grip and stand, my body vibrating with fury. “I’m not going anywhere.” I fire back, crossing my arms as I meet Silas’ gaze head-on. My voice is steady, but my heart is racing, pounding so hard it drowns out the sound of the movie credits. “You don’t get to control where I go or what I do, Silas.”

He takes another step forward, his eyes narrowing. “This is my house, I said leave.”

“It isn’t just your house,” I retort, stepping up to Silas with a defiance I didn’t know I had in me. I look up at him, refusing to back down.

Silas’ jaw tightens, his teeth grinding together as he struggles to keep control. For a moment, something flickers in his eyes—frustration, and beneath it, something softer, something almost vulnerable. But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by the cold, hard mask he always wears. “You need to leave,” he repeats, but the words sound strained, like they’re being forced out.

I tilt my head, my anger burning hotter, pushing me further. “What’s the matter?” I challenge, my voice dripping with contempt. “Are you jealous? That I’m here with Dayton?”

The effect is immediate. His eyes blaze with pure, unbridled fury, his chest heaving with the effort to contain it. Before I can react, he strides forward and grabs my arm, his grip like iron, unyielding. I barely have time to gasp before he drags me out of the den, his stride wide, my feet scrambling to keep up with him. His hold on me is terrifyingly primal, like a predator pulling its prey away from danger, or worse—claiming it.

He doesn’t stop until we’re in the kitchen. With a rough shove, he pins me against the wall, the breath knocked out of me on impact. His body presses hard against mine, hot, solid, overwhelming. He grabs my wrists in one hand and slams them above my head, his fingers digging into my skin, holding me there with brutal strength.

“Don’t you ever fucking call me jealous, Sable Wilson,” he snarls, his voice a dangerous growl that sends a shiver through my entire body. His breath fans across my face, warm and intoxicating, and for a moment, I can’t tell if I’m more terrified or aroused.

I want to shrink under his anger, but the heat between us only fans my defiance. My lip curls in a mocking smile. “Then don’t tell me what to do, Silas .”

His grip tightens, his body pressing me harder against the wall, every muscle in his body taut with barely restrained rage. His eyes are a stormy sea, turbulent and dark, and I can feel the heat radiating off him, searing through the thin fabric of my clothes.

“This isn’t a game, fucking little devil,” he growls, his voice a harsh whisper that vibrates through me. The nickname he’s given me is spat out like an accusation.

I meet his gaze, unflinching. “Maybe because you’re already losing.” I squirm in his grip, testing his hold, but he doesn’t budge. I can’t help the smirk that continues to spread across my lips as I push further. “Dayton seems like a nice enough person... to fuck. I’ve already come on his fingers.” I pause, watching the storm in his eyes darken. “Twice now.”

For a moment, I think he might snap. His gaze drops to my lips, and his breath comes faster, hotter. My heart skips a beat, anticipation and fear swirling together in a heady mix. His hand clenches around my wrists, but slowly, his grip loosens. He steps back, releasing me completely, though the tension between us remains taut, electric.

Slowly, he releases my wrists, his hand dropping to his sides. He takes a step back and I can finally breathe again, though my heart is still pounding. His expression hardens, nothing but cold detachment.

“You think you’re special?” he sneers. “Dayton fucks anything with a warm hole. He’s just using you to get under my skin.”

The words sting, but I refuse to show it. I straighten, forcing myself to stand tall despite the lingering adrenaline coursing through my veins. “Why would I get under your skin? Huh?”

“Just go home, Sable. Stay out of my business.”

“No,” I snap, stepping toward him again, refusing to back down. “Answer me this: why would you have your friends keep an eye on me? Huh? Why does it matter what I do?”

He glares at me, his eyes cold and unfeeling as he delivers his words with brutal honesty. “Because I can’t have you embarrassing me.”

The bluntness of his response knocks the wind out of me. I blink, stunned, but he doesn’t stop. His voice is cold, calculated, each word meant to cut deep. “You were top of your class, got into the most prestigious school in the country, and then you just flunked? Because of a few panic attacks? You’re weak. It’s best to keep a close eye so I can tell your mother when to pull you out of here—before you ruin yourself again.”

His words tear through me, and despite my best efforts, the tears well up in my eyes, burning hot with anger and hurt. My vision blurs as they spill over, and I blink hard, trying to hold them back. “You’re a fucking piece of shit, Silas,” I whisper, my voice trembling, broken. “I thought... I thought maybe you actually cared.”

Silas’ face remains a mask of stone, devoid of any emotion. “Care about you? I’ve been taking care of you since we were kids,” he says, each word colder than the last. “Now leave.”

I storm out of the kitchen, my heart pounding with anger and hurt. I make my way through the house, and Dayton and Kai look up, their eyes filled with concern.

“Sable, what happened?” Dayton starts to stand, but I shake my head.

“Nothing. I’m leaving,” I say, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to stay strong.

Dayton opens his mouth to protest, but one looks at my face, and he knows better than to push. He nods reluctantly, his expression pained. “Let me walk you home.”

“No,” I say, more forcefully than intended. “I need to be alone.”

I don’t wait for a response. I just head for the door, my steps quick and determined, each one fueled by the overwhelming mix of emotions crashing over me. As I step outside, the cool night air hits my face, and I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart, trying to control the tears that refuse to stop flowing.

Silas’ words sting like salt on an open wound, his grip on my wrists still warm on my skin, a visceral reminder of the way he pushed me, the way he cut me down with his cold, unfeeling words. It’s like his touch has left invisible bruises, a mark of his power over me that I hate with every fiber of my being. I walk briskly, trying to clear my head, trying to shake off the weight of his cruelty, but his voice keeps echoing in my mind.

He’s been like this for as long as I can remember. Always finding ways to tear me down. Since we were kids, we’ve been pitted against each other—rivals in every sense of the word. Our families pushed us into competition, every accolade, every achievement weighed against the other. I can still hear my mother’s voice echoing in my head, sharp and relentless. “Silas got an A on the test, Sable. Why didn’t you? Silas is on top of his class, Sable. Why aren’t you?” The comparisons were endless. Constant.

And it’s always been like that between us—this toxic dance of competition, neither of us willing to let the other win. We were rivals at everything. Grades. Sports. Even our parents’ approval. Every single time I managed to get ahead, Silas would find a way to knock me back down. He thrived on it. Thrived on making me feel smaller.

It used to drive me mad as a kid. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I pushed myself, Silas was always there, a step ahead, waiting to remind me of my failures.

And now? Now, even years later, with us in college, it hasn’t changed. He’s still doing the same thing, still making sure I know exactly where I stand in his world—beneath him.

His words tonight were no different.

Weak.

He doesn’t know the full story. He doesn’t know what it was really like—how college didn’t just stress me out, it nearly broke me. He doesn’t know how the anxiety my mother dismissed so easily became a relentless storm, suffocating me day by day. Silas doesn’t know about the sleepless nights, the panic attacks that left me gasping for air, clutching at my chest like I was dying.

No, to him, I’m just weak . Just another girl who couldn’t handle it.

But he doesn’t know. He wasn’t there when it all came crashing down. He doesn’t know about the pills I took, the haze I lived in, hoping that somehow things would get better. He doesn’t know that the drug-induced psychosis wasn’t just some dramatic episode I could sweep under the rug—it was my body’s desperate cry for help when I was too stubborn, too ashamed to admit that I was drowning.

And now, here I am, still fighting, still trying to keep my head above water, and he dares to call me weak?

The tears come faster, hotter, burning my cheeks as they fall freely. They betray the strength I tried so hard to maintain in front of him. In that moment, I wanted to scream, to tear down his carefully constructed walls and make him see me—make him understand. But no, instead, I let the tears spill over, let them soak my sleeves as I furiously wipe at my face, hating how easily he broke me down.

His accusation of weakness cuts deeper than anything anyone’s ever said to me. It’s like he’s stabbed at a nerve I didn’t even realize was exposed. A nerve that’s been raw and aching for years.

I know my flaws. They scream at me every day, every moment, their voices growing louder and louder until they’re deafening. They tell me I’m not enough, that I never will be, that I’ll keep failing, over and over again. They’re etched into my very being, consuming me from the inside out. And now, Silas fucking Morgan’s voice has joined the chorus.

How could I not hear them? They’ve been with me all along, gnawing at me from the shadows. But hearing them from him? It solidifies every fear, every insecurity. Like he’s peeled back my skin and seen every ugly, fragile part of me. And he hates it.

I hate it, too.

I walk faster, my feet pounding against the pavement, my breathing coming in short, ragged bursts. I don’t even know where I’m going—just away. Away from him, away from the suffocating weight of those words. But I can’t outrun them. They follow me, swirling in my mind, growing louder with every step.

You’re weak.

You can’t handle it.

You’ll never be enough.

My fists clench, nails digging into my palms as I fight the urge to scream. But the tears keep falling, and I can’t stop them. I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I don’t want to be trapped in this never-ending cycle of doubt and failure. But no matter how hard I fight, it’s like I’m stuck, sinking deeper into the quicksand of my own mind.

I’ll make him fucking regret calling me weak.

My thoughts spiral, twisting and turning, growing more desperate, more angry. I won’t let him win. I can’t let him win. Silas thinks he can control me, belittle me, make me feel small, but he doesn’t realize that this—this burning rage, this fire in my chest—it’s fuel. It’s what will keep me going when everything else fails.

He’s wrong. So fucking wrong.

I’ll show him. I’ll show him what real strength looks like, what it means to fight your demons and win. When I rise up, when I prove him wrong, he’ll be the one on his knees, begging for forgiveness. And when that day comes, I’ll smile. I’ll make him regret every single word, every condescending look, every time he made me feel like I was nothing.

He’s wrong.

He’s always been wrong about me. About what I can handle. About what I’m capable of. And one day, I’ll show him. One day, I’ll make him eat his words, and he’ll regret ever underestimating me.

But tonight? Tonight I just need to breathe. I need to stop the spiral before it consumes me whole.

Because as much as I want to prove Silas wrong, as much as I want to make him pay for every cruel word, there’s a part of me that knows—knows that if I let this rage take over, I’ll lose myself in it. And I don’t know if I can come back from that.

The tears slow, but the anger remains, simmering beneath the surface. I wipe at my face again, breathing deeply, trying to steady myself.

Silas may have pushed me down tonight, but I won’t stay down. I’ll rise again. Stronger. Fiercer. And next time? Next time he won’t be able to touch me.

This school is a fucking labyrinth.

You would think that after over a month here, I would be used to navigating through the old campus. But every day I am reminded that this campus is a never-ending colossal maze that we are trapped like rats trying to find our way through. The building reserved for all performing and visual art students, where studios can be booked for hours of work, is on the far corner of campus. A detail I wasn’t fully realizing until I’m halfway through my frantic trek. That’s why I’m rushing, nearly breathless, trying to make it on time so I can use every minute of the six hours I reserved.

My legs burn as I jog up the steps, a large sketch pad awkwardly tucked under one arm, my backpack slung over the other. My calves scream from running across campus, the cool fall air cutting through my lungs, battling against the stuffy, warm atmosphere of the old buildings.

“Fifteen-A,” I repeat under my breath, scanning for the room number hastily scribbled on a crumpled piece of paper taped to the door like an afterthought. When I finally find it, I push through without bothering to knock.

It should be empty.

The room is quite large, with a domed glass ceiling, with plush octagonal walls to diffuse sound. Soft, diffused light filters through the glass and creates little patterns on the floor as I step inside. In one corner of the room, a grand piano sits, the light shining down on it in an ethereal glow.

But my attention is drawn to the figure hunched over the piano, absorbed in his frenzied scribbling on paper. His dark hair pulled into a casual bun, a few strands framing his face with effortless grace. When he looks up, startled by my entrance, his soulful eyes pierce through me, freezing me in place.

His hand holding the pencil pauses; recognition dawns slowly.

Levi. Dayton’s stepbrother.

“I… I’m sorry,” I manage to squeak out, heat rising to my cheeks. “I was looking for the art studio. I must have?—”

“You have the wrong room,” he interrupts sharply. “Obviously,” he adds under his breath, his pencil resuming its furious dance across the music sheets. I watch him, captivated by his presence—his lean, wiry frame leaning over the piano, his hands moving with a precision that mirrors the meticulous nature I bring to my own art. For a moment, it’s as if he forgets I’m there, lost in his pursuit of creating something beautiful.

Then, abruptly, the spell shatters.

“Leave. Now,” he commands, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. “I can’t work when someone is breathing in my space.”

His words startle me. Disappointment and embarrassment wash over me, but I resist the urge to retreat immediately. There’s something about Levi’s intensity, his brooding aura I didn’t notice last night seems to draw me despite his harsh dismissal.

“I’m sorry for intruding,” I murmur, mustering my courage to meet his intense gaze. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

Without waiting for a response, I turn and begin to make my way back toward the door, the weight of Levi’s gaze lingering on my back.

I finally reach the room that is meant for me, relieved to find this one empty. Closing the door behind me. I lean against it, taking a deep breath to steady my racing heart.

Setting down my sketch pad and backpack, I begin unpacking my supplies, arranging them around the large canvas on the easel. The blank expanse of canvas stares back at me, mocking me, demanding that I turn it into something beautiful. Something meaningful. But right now, all I feel is pressure. The kind of pressure that makes my hands tremble.

Art speaks to me so pessimistically. A forceful edge to be let out. It used to be so easy to create. As a kid I could throw some color on a page without having a care in the world if the shade was the right blue, or if the hand was realistic enough. I could have given up art a long time ago. Picked up something better for my mental health to escape into. But like any true vice, I can’t stop, a masochist for the pain which only my own hands are to blame.

I dip my charcoal pencil into the soft hues of pastel, the medium blending smoothly on the textured surface of the canvas. My hand moves mechanically at first, tracing the outlines of the ballerina I had begun during my last session. She’s mid-pirouette, her figure delicate and poised, surrounded by a sea of dark, twisted roses. Her tutu is tattered at the edges, and her ballet flats are muddied, worn from hours of dancing in the garden.

There’s something haunting about her—beautiful, but broken. Free, but blind to the mess around her. It’s a metaphor, I realize, for everything I’m feeling. But as I continue sketching, frustration knots my brow. I can’t seem to capture the fluidity of movement I need. My strokes feel heavy, clumsy. The ballerina should be graceful, ethereal, but instead, she’s stiff. Lacking life.

I press harder on the charcoal, my frustration bleeding into the work. My thoughts return to Levi—his eyes, intense and scrutinizing, roaming over me like they had the other night. There’s something about him, something raw and unsettling that I can’t shake. I close my eyes, and suddenly I can see him again, standing over me, his fingers trailing down my skin instead of the piano keys, creating something entirely different with his touch. My body reacts to the thought, a flush rising to my cheeks, but I shake it off.

Why was he so angry with me for making such a simple mistake? Why does it feel like everyone in that household is afraid of me, or worse, resent me? Everyone except Dayton, of course.

No. You cannot let those boys get to you.

Or any guys, for that matter.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

This is my time, my sanctuary to create, to lose myself in the dance of charcoal on canvas. But no matter how I try to focus, his presence lingers like a haunting melody, weaving through my thoughts and disrupting my concentration.

Hours pass in a blur of sketches and measures, the ballerina on the canvas evolving and devolving with each attempt to perfect her form. I lose track of time, immersed in a battle in my own mind of ambition and self-deprecation. I don’t stop until the last light of day filters through the dome ceiling. I step back to assess my work. The ballerina gazes back at me from the canvas, her lines fluid and graceful, yet somehow lacking the spark of life I had envisioned.

She’s a reflection of me—beautiful, but hollow. Full of potential, but stuck in place.