Page 16 of Slick & Spooky

I feel like the exact kind of spoiled, untouchable brat they all whisper about behind closed doors.

He thought he could keep me soft. Thought he could fuck the fire out of me. But softness is a blade, and I’ve learned how to use mine to cut deep; straight through the heart of him.

The thought sends me turning, heat licking at my spine. I don’t hear Joey calling after me. I don’t clock Tripp’s wounded pride or the whispers curling around the room. All I know is every step I take toward the hall where Knox disappeared feels like permission.

Not to want, but to take what’s already mine.

5

There’s this thing they drill into us from day one. A core tenet of the brotherhood.

Truth.

To be a real Mu Lambda Nu man, you have to be honest with yourself and with everyone else. No masks. No lies. Only brutal, soul-baring accountability.

It’s bullshit, obviously. Or maybe it’s only bullshit when you're the one lying.

That’s what I’m chewing on as I stalk through the house, heart still jacked from the scene in the front room, pulse hot behind my eyes, scanning every hallway for a glimpse of him.

What is the truth?

I’ve twisted myself into whatever shape needed by those around me so they’d accept me. So I could pretend the power of my name wasn’t the only reason they let me in, but I am who I am, whether I want that or not.

I don’t get a say in how people see me. I only get to choose how I use it.

The truth is… Power is sexy.

I like the way it feels when the room tilts toward me. When I take up space and no one dares to look away. That used to scare me. Now maybe it means I’ve finally stopped pretending I have to play nice to belong.

I especially like the feeling when just existing is enough to make a man bend a little.

It makes me feel hot and a little unhinged, like I’m buzzing with it. It makes me want a world where I can show that off, where everyone can see exactly what I’m capable of. Where Knox is mine and I can leave my name carved somewhere permanent and brag about it.

It’s a dangerous part of me that I could learn to love if I’m not careful. The part that whispers I’d rather be dangerous than forgettable.

I take in that realization with adrenaline still burning in my veins and I don’t feel cold. I don’t feel like my dad. I feel?seen. Maybe I didn’t have to sand myself down to be worthy. I can stay sharp and still be wanted.

The party’s still raging downstairs, but up here there’s a party all its own.

Guys snoring on couches. Someone puking in the communal bathroom. I step over a trail of Solo cups and a half-eaten slice of pizza

Meanwhile, behind closed doors, the house hums with a different kind of rhythm of moans and muffled laughter as girls and brothers make memories on futons that should’ve been replaced five pledge classes ago.

I snake through the front hallway and round the corner toward the president’s suite. Tucked in the far corner of the house, it’s the only room big enough for an actual bed and not some creaky twin XL lofted over a mini fridge.

My footsteps go quiet as I get closer. These next steps carry me to a threshold I can’t cross lightly. Whatever happens past this point doesn’t get undone.

When I reach the door, I pause. It’s cracked. Not enough to see inside, but enough to make my pulse skip.

It’s an invitation. Or maybe a test.

I press my fingertips to the door and push. It eases open, like the house itself is holding its breath. A warm amber glow spills into the hallway.

The air changes the second I step in. Thick with something unspoken. Heavy with what’s about to happen.

He’s slouched in the armchair. His ski mask dangling from one hand, the other clenched tight around the armrest. His bare feet rest on the edge of the bed, every inch of him saying he’s been waiting for this moment.

“Lock the door,” he says.