Chapter 8 Julian
The Boys are back together, hanging out in the dorm, all of us except Cai, of course. Bam is working a dartboard the way a hangman works a gallows—casual, efficient, landing every throw.
Each lands with a dull thud, punctuated by a stream of expletives at the painted face of the Dean Marcus tacked to the bullseye. My doing. It’s therapeutic, what can I say?
Rhett, legs splayed across the coffee table, peels the labels from bottles of beer, eyes tracking Bam’s throws. Colt occupies the kitchen bench, drinking his fourth vodka coke.
“Well, this looks wonderful. Why is everyone so fucking melancholy?” I ask.
Before the mood can even begin changing, Bam’s phone lights up. He glances at it, expression darkening as the caller ID registers.
“Don Bonaccorso,” he says. His voice isn’t quite fear, but there’s an edge that wasn’t there before.
He accepts the call, then puts it on speaker. The room hushes, all posturing and friendly banter dissolving in the presence of something truly dangerous.
“Bam,” the Don’s voice fills the air. “Listen carefully. I still hate your guts for taking my daughter, but this isn’t about you and me.”
Bam flexes his hand, knuckles whitening. “I’m listening.”
“There’s a contract on the table for every Feral Boy. You will not survive the Hunt if you show up. The Board has lost their patience. The Law as written will be enforced.”
Rhett sits up, all traces of drunkenness gone. “Which fucking Law is this now?”
“Legacy Law, moron. How do you not know about this? No wonder they want to kill you,” the Don says.
“They want to see you all bleed. Your defiance in the face of tradition has come at a cost. They are making deals with the Castillo’s as we speak and I only know this because we happen to have a rat in cells right now. ”
I cut in, voice sharp. “What about the Runners?”
There’s a pause on the line, then the Don speaks with a kind of weariness that I recognize all too well. “The girls are to be collected. Those who fail to abide by the contract will be transferred to a facility—undisclosed, but I know where it is. They do not return. This includes my daughter.”
The gravity of it settles over us. Westpoint has always operated on the threat of violence, but this is different. This is a cull.
Bam says, “Why the fuck are you telling me this?”
“Because my daughter loves you. Even if I think she’s insane.
You’re a dead man if you don’t run. And she’s dead too.
I will do what I can to support you all, but if you can’t kill them before they kill you, you’re fucked.
I will stop at nothing to save Dahlia, but I’m giving you a chance to earn my respect and be the man she deserves to have. ”
A flicker of shock passes over Bam’s face. It’s gone in an instant, replaced by respect. “Thanks, Don.”
The call ends. No one moves.
Colt is the first to break the paralysis. He slaps his hands on his knees, voice too loud. “We could just not show up to the Hunt.”
“Not an option,” I say. “You know the rules. You don’t show, the girl will die and unfortunately, that’s not a trade-off I’m willing to make.”
Rhett stands, moving to the sink to grab a glass of water. He stares at the drain as if it might spit the truth back at him. “So we’re cornered.”
Bam’s eyes meet mine. “So what’s the plan?”
I smile, not because I want to, but because it’s the only response that makes sense.
“We do what we always do. We go to war. Cai must have intel, which means we can make our moves. The night of the Hunt is our best bet and if we want to make this smooth, we need to get our shit together in the next three days.”
A hush falls over the room, but this time it’s different. Not fear, but resolve. The kind you only get when you realize there’s no way out but through.
Bam pulls out a switchblade from his boot. He flicks it open, the sound loud in the dead air.
“One for the Boys ,” he says, and slices his palm with practiced ease. Blood wells up, dark and thick.
Rhett follows, his cut less elegant but no less committed.
Colt rolls up his sleeve, exposes the tattooed roadmap of old fights and fresh wounds, and draws the blade across his lifeline. Blood spatters the tabletop.
I take the knife last. The pain is sharp, but it’s welcomed. The four of us press our hands together, blood mixing on the pine, the pact sealed.
“For the Hunt,” Bam says.
“For the girls,” Colt adds.
“For each other,” Rhett finishes.
I say nothing. I just watch the blood drip down, pooling into the cracks and scars of the old wood.
The moment passes. Bam wraps his hand in a rag, then grabs a bottle of whiskey, pouring out a shot for each of us.
“To the end,” he says.
We drink.
And for a second, I feel alive.
The ritual complete, I wipe the blood on my slacks, ignoring the sting. The room’s mood has shifted, violence distilled into purpose.
But there’s one more to include in this news.
I pull out my phone and dial Caius.
He answers on the second ring. “Julian. You have something?”
“We got a call from Don Bonaccorso. The Board is devolving. They want us dead.”
There’s a pause, then the sound of typing. “We already suspected. Slade’s been pulling traffic off their back end. Want to see?”
“Send it.”
Within seconds, the computer monitor pings. Colt angles it for all to see. Onscreen: a series of memos from the Board, timestamped and heavily redacted. But the meaning is clear.
Phase 1: Execute all noncompliant Males (see: Feral).
Phase 2: Extract female Runners and contain.
Phase 3: Purge records, reset legacy cycle.
Below, a roster: our names, along with their Hunt Runner pairings. The girls’ names are highlighted. The notes read: “To be processed post-termination event in the event pregnancy has not been achieved.”
Bam’s laugh is cold. “They’re not even hiding it.”
Caius’s voice comes back over the line. “The only way to win is to play their game better.”
I glance at the boys, then at the screen.
“Let’s do this,” I say.
The call ends. We’re alone again, but this time, together.
Bam picks up the darts, lines up a throw, and puts it straight through the Headmaster’s painted eye.
“That’s what I’ll do to them,” he says.
Rhett smiles. “Fucking rights.”
I lean back on the couch, letting the chaos swirl around me. For a moment, I feel almost tranquil.
And then I think of Amara.
Her face, blue eyes wide with the shock of wanting something for herself.
Her name on the list, circled in red.
The taste of her still on my tongue, the sound of her coming undone under my hand.
The old Julian would savor the hunt. The old Julian would break her, just to see what she became in the aftermath.
But that’s not what I want anymore.
I want her safe.
I want her mine.
I want to burn down the world that tried to own us both.
“See ya’ll tomorrow, I’m going to Amara’s.” And without preamble, I just leave them to their own devices, desperately needing to see my girl.
Despite having the key to her door, I just knock, three times, because if she’s not asleep I want her to choose to let me in.
She does.
She answers on the second try, swinging the door so wide it slams into the wall behind her, startling both of us.
For a heartbeat I think she’s been crying, but her eyes are wild, not red.
There’s a bruise under her jaw, faint, probably from when I grabbed her in the Dean’s office. I want to be sorry. I am not.
She’s wearing a too-big hoodie and nothing else. Her legs are bare, pale and perfect.
She grins, lopsided and unfiltered. “Julian! I thought you’d be at the bar or getting head from some chick or something.”
She’s drunk. Not blackout, but enough that the words slosh around her tongue, softening the edge she usually aims at me.
I step in, shutting the door with my foot, and catch her before she falls over. She smells like expensive vodka and the vanilla syrup from the coffee shop across town. Under that, she smells like herself—soap and skin and something sharp, the scent of a person who’s always braced for impact.
“You’re trashed,” I say. I guide her to the tiny couch under the window, pushing aside the stack of textbooks and curling her into the corner. She tucks her legs under her, then hugs a pillow to her chest and looks at me over the top, blue eyes luminous in the half-light.
“I had a wonderful time with my new friends,” she says, like she’s reciting it for a therapist.
I sit next to her. “How much did you drink?”
She shrugs, then holds up two fingers. “Two. Bottles. Not alone. I promise.”
“You don’t have to promise me anything, I’m not your father,” I say, and it comes out harder than I mean. I sigh and run my hand through my hair. “I just don’t want you hungover for the Hunt preparations. They start tomorrow.”
She laughs, a hiccup of joy. “You sound like a stern professor.”
I roll my eyes.
She shifts, pillow still clutched, and studies me. “Why are you here, Julian?”
I could lie. I could say I want to fuck her, or that I’m here for the thrill of the hunt, or that it’s just obligation.
Instead, I say, “Because you’re the only thing left worth saving.”
She blinks, but doesn’t flinch. “That’s very poetic for you.”
I don’t answer. The silence fills the space between us, thickening with every heartbeat.
She’s the one who breaks it. “Do you ever think about running away?”
I study her, then the window. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t run,” I say. “I hunt.”
She laughs, softer now, and it isn’t a challenge. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. But if it makes you feel better to think of yourself as the big bad wolf, I’ll take it.”
I sigh. “That’s not what I mean, Amara. You’re drunk and being mouthy. I’ll make you a coffee and then you need to go to bed. This isn’t behavior fitting for someone of your status.”
“Can you just… hold me for a bit?” Her voice is small and her eye’s glassy as they look up at me.
How the fuck can I deny that? Goddamn.