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“You have to get them young,” he said, relaxing back into his chair and tilting his hips up a little like he was turning himself on.

“You’d be surprised how many of them want it.

You really need to get them fresh. You have to think about how many dicks have already gotten into that hole before you put your own there.

It’s like a sock, right? Do I want to fuck a sock that’s been stretched out and filled already, all sloppy and used?

Or do I want one fresh from the laundry, nice and tight? It’s better when they’re untouched.”

The words landed like heavy stones in her gut, whatever fragile light she had hoarded from her night with Mikel shrivelling up and dying.

It wasn’t because Jeff had shocked her—nothing shocked her anymore.

It was because of how easily he had spoken those words.

Like it wasn’t evil. Like he expected her to be impressed with his mindset.

She smiled, her lips pressed tight together. “Thank you,” she said.

He blinked again, confused. “For what?”

“For your honesty.” She stood, her movements fluid and composed, the picture of poise. Her hands didn’t shake. Her voice didn’t crack. But inside, she felt herself crumbling. “Shall I fetch you a sampling of the pastries on offer today?”

“Ah, no.” He fumbled for the menu, quickly scanning it and giving his order, still frowning at the subtle switch in her attitude.

Who the fuck cared? She was expected to be polite. She was being polite. Compared to the Alphas, she was going above and beyond.

“I’ll be back shortly with your order.” She picked up the tray again and slipped through the curtains. Usually, she would leave it there and bring over a pot of coffee or tea, but she didn’t want him accidentally discovering the bug.

As she passed Niko’s booth, she didn’t look at him. But she could feel him watching her. They could all feel what was inside her.

The rage. The rot. The desperate, itchy desire to just burn it all down .

Niko followed her to the bar. He watched as she set the tray down and gave Jeff’s order to Ethan.

The bond was crackling with heat and fury, the meld so fiery, she didn’t even know where hers ended and theirs began.

Niko had been in the room beside hers with no client to focus on.

He had likely heard everything Jeff had said to her.

His eyes swept over her face like he was searching for signs of injury, his fingers twitching against the bar, his jaw working back and forth.

He tilted his head toward her booth just slightly .

She gave the smallest shake of her head.

She didn’t even know what he had asked and what she had answered; she just knew that there was absolutely nothing they could do about that man.

Nothing more than what she had already done.

She tilted up one of the teacups on her tray, showing Niko the bug stuck beneath.

I wanted him to say what he said , she told him through the bond.

He nodded, but his eyes were still on fire as he returned to his table.

He sat down heavily and picked up a fork, stabbing a strawberry so violently that it split apart, and half of it bounced off the chair opposite him.

He had switched seats so that he could glare at the wall separating their rooms.

She felt a tug through the bond and glanced to the next room—Mikel’s.

He was still there, and Tilda was still talking, but he had turned his whole body subtly toward Isobel, like a compass finding north.

His fingers drummed out an agitated, uneven, twitchy rhythm on a too-delicate coffee cup cradled by his hand.

Elijah stood from his booth with the grace of a cat stretching, tucking his tablet away.

He adjusted his cuffs, ran a hand through his hair, and rolled his shoulders back.

His eyes locked with hers in the reflection of the mirror decorating the back wall of his private room.

A beat passed. And then another. He didn’t blink, pale grey eyes digging through her until he finally released her from his stare.

He sat again and settled his bored attention on the girl across from him, who had hesitantly picked up her bag like she thought he was about to storm off.

Gabriel sat frozen in his booth, his body perfectly upright, shoulders tense.

His client was talking—soft, eager, too close—but Gabriel wasn’t listening.

His hands stayed curled in his lap, and his mouth was pressed in a stern, furious line.

He didn’t look at Isobel, but she could feel him.

He was digging around inside her, gripping and examining everything he could get his hands on.

Theodore’s performance didn’t falter. Not even a little bit.

He was smiling, gesturing lightly with his fingers, posture perfect—but everything about it was wrong—the lie only visible from the inside, where he burned and raged like a beast savaging the walls of his cage.

Cian was still laughing. Still saying all the right things, if his client’s enamoured expression was anything to go by.

But his laughs were coming too fast now.

Just a second too early. Just a little too quiet.

His smirk was flawless, but the edge in his eyes was sharp enough to draw blood, and the woman sitting across from him was beginning to stutter her questions.

She still couldn’t see Kalen, and someone had tugged the curtains of Kilian’s room closed, but she could feel them both trying to dig into her through the bond, none of them daring to communicate in their heads—not with so many eyes on them.

A moment later, her phone buzzed, and she dug it out.

Kilian: Say the word, and we can be done with today. Oscar has been good at keeping his power under wraps. Nobody would question it.

She stared at the message, pausing before she could give in to her knee-jerk reaction to tell them she would be fine.

Kilian: We mean it. One word.

Her breath caught. Her chest cracked open. And then her thumbs moved.

Isobel: Fuck it. Let’s be done. I’m not going back in there.

There was a beat, and then her phone vibrated again.

Oscar: Fuck. Yes.

The world tilted instantly. Her elbow somehow slipped against the bar, jetting her tray off the surface and sending porcelain crashing to the floor.

A sharp sound broke the brief, shocked silence, like someone had been slapped.

“W-What the fuck?” a voice uttered in outrage, and then there was another crash.

Voices rose in overlapping outrage, shouts and curses climbing in volume.

Someone shrieked a demand for a refund. Part of the ivy-strewn, sculptural overhang above the bar began to collapse, lights flickering as it hung there for a brief moment before falling into the bar and snapping off a drink dispenser.

Isobel blinked in shock as the pressurised hose of Diet Coke began snaking wildly in the air, squirting soda everywhere. Jordan Kostas, one of the human students, slipped over the soda, her platter of cakes flying up into the air and dropping all around her like squishy little bombs.

The sound system popped and went dead.

Isobel stood frozen, droplets of soda hitting her cheek, watching dumbly as her perfectly curated hellscape unravelled around her.

Oscar and Moses strolled out of the kitchen, calm as anything, ducking beneath the spray of liquid and side-stepping the cake bombs.

Oscar’s curls were a little frizzier than usual, like the energy had singed the air around him.

Moses winked at her as he passed. “Time to clock off, Sigma.”

Two days later, Bellamy and Sophia’s story dropped.

The officials had spun their fairy-tale love story into something delicate and magical, covering up their own brutality with footage of Sophia picking through the burned wreckage of her home.

Her tear-specked eyes, gaunt frame, shorn hair, shadowed eyes, and voicelessness painted her as the perfect modern-day Cinderella.

It helped that Bellamy—being the only other Icon offspring at the academy aside from Isobel—was the ultimate Prince Charming, right down to his curly brown hair and cute British accent.

Sophia had been repackaged as the tragic darling of the settlements, saved by Bellamy, a product of the Icon track at Ironside. It was a neat little narrative, painting poverty and trauma in a rose-tinted glow. A human interest story devoid of any genuine humanity.

It seemed, for a few days, that attention swung toward the settlements. A few comments here and there, along with a few stories that struggled to gain traction. There was a small opening not just to look at Sophia, but to see her. To see what was happening and to pry deeper. To ask questions.

The opportunity was there, but society fumbled, and then the window seemed to close, and people moved on from the tragedy of the settlements to the enduring strength of love in saccharine soundbites.

The officials capitalised on it ruthlessly—editing old footage of Bellamy, staging fresh photo ops during the week they were in the hospital, and breathing down their necks during a time that should have been delicate, vulnerable, and private.

The world saw it all. The moment Sophia woke up. Her struggle to stand on that first day. When she attempted to speak, and realised all she could manage was the quietest croak of sound. The way they silently fell asleep in each other’s arms. How Bellamy flinched whenever someone touched her.

The next Friday, Sophia, Maya, and Luis were moved into the human accommodations while the officials went to work on rebuilding the chapel residence. That morning was the first time Isobel saw Sophia again, after she jogged to the chapel with Niko as usual.