Chapter 9 Amara
I wake to silence. No hands at my throat, no weight pinning me to the sheets, just the cold void where Julian slept.
If he even sleeps. My sheets are twisted, damp with sweat and other things, and when I roll over the ache between my legs flares.
I half expect to find him beside me, grinning like the devil, but the space is empty except for a faint indentation where he was.
There’s a spot of blood on the pillowcase.
My mouth or his? I can’t remember. I flex my jaw and it clicks, a reminder that last night was real, not a fever dream conjured by insanity.
I pull the covers up, then back down. The urge to linger in bed—safe, hidden, untouched—is as strong as the urge to get up and pace, to see if the world has changed. To see if I have.
I take a shower, scrubbing hard. The water is hot and scalds me. I run my fingers over every blemish he left, counting them.
By the time I emerge, the sun has slanted in through the tiny dorm window, throwing bars of light across the floor.
I towel off, then sit naked on the edge of the bed.
For a moment, I consider calling my father.
I imagine telling him that I’m not doing the Hunt.
That I’m here to learn and grow. But I already know the answer.
You’re a Marcus, Amara. You will endure.
I dress in my uniform: the skirt, the blouse, the blazer with its embroidered crest. I pull my hair into a low ponytail, then let it down.
The dining hall is almost empty at this hour. I make up a plate—eggs, toast, black coffee—and find a table by the window, same as always. I eat mechanically, watching the early risers drift in and out. Some glance at me, then away. Others linger, whispering behind their hands.
I am a curiosity now. A warning, maybe. Or a trophy.
Eve is across the room, talking to a first-year girl who looks like she’d rather die than be here.
Her hair is down, wild, and she’s wearing a pair of oversized headphones around her neck.
She glances my way, holds my gaze for a second, then raises her eyebrows in an exaggerated “are you alive?” gesture.
I smirk. I am, for now.
Classes blur together. In Ethics, the professor talks about moral relativism, but my mind wanders. What is the morality of letting yourself be used? Is it worse to enjoy it? To want it?
The other students give me a wide berth. A group of legacy boys snicker when I enter the room, but none of them make eye contact. Even the professor seems to hesitate before calling on me.
In my third class, someone has scrawled “Whore” on the desk in pink marker. The insult is so old-fashioned, it almost makes me laugh. I trace the letters with my thumb, then sit anyway.
By noon, the whispers have reached a fever pitch. I hear my name, paired with Julian’s, paired with Roth, paired with every rumor that could be spun from seeing us together as much as we have been.
I hear things I didn’t know were physically possible.
I hear that he bent me over the Dean’s desk (true), that he made me beg for it (also true), that I orgasmed so loud the secretary called campus police (not true, but impressive).
The last one makes me smile, because for a split second I like the idea of myself as someone so loud, so impossible to ignore.
The day stretches on. At some point, I stop noticing the stares.
The girls in my last class—Business Law—are the worst. They watch me with a mixture of disgust and envy, as if I’ve stolen something precious from them.
Their perfume fills the air, expensive and sickly sweet, and when I pass their table, they all go silent.
I want to scream, but instead I bite the inside of my cheek.
When the final bell rings, I am the first to stand. I gather my things and head for the quad, wanting to find a bench out on the grass and breathe fresh air. The sky is overcast, filled with the promise of rain. I walk fast, almost running, but the feeling of being watched follows me like a shadow.
At the far side of the quad, under the twisted arms of an old oak, Eve waits. She’s sitting on the low stone wall, a battered duffle bag at her feet and a cigarette tucked behind one ear.
When she sees me, she grins. “Well, well. If it isn’t the new Lady Roth.”
I groan. “Don’t start.”
She hops off the wall, landing with a thud. “Too late, babe. News travels fast around here. I heard you and Julian nearly broke the old marble in the admin building. Someone said the cleaning crew found your bra in a trashcan.”
I check my pulse. It’s racing, which is not the reaction I want her to see.
“I don’t wear bras most days,” I laugh. “All lies, but we did bang over my dad’s desk. That one’s true.”
“Even better,” Eve laughs. She slings the duffle over her shoulder and falls into step beside me. “You look like shit, by the way.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks.”
She bumps my shoulder with hers. “You coming tonight?”
I blink, thrown. “Coming where?”
She cocks her head, then sighs as if I am the dumbest animal on earth. “The girls are going out. Club night. You’re coming.”
“I don’t think so.” I have never been to a club. I have never even left campus after curfew, except for that one time when Julian drove me to dinner. The idea of leaving now, of being in public, of being seen, is both thrilling and nauseating.
Eve reads my hesitation and laughs. “You are so adorable. Listen. Westpoint’s a prison and the only way to survive is to escape once in a while.
We need to let our hair down and let loose before we reign hell down on this place.
The place is off-grid—no security, no narc-ing staff.
Just music and a lot of sweaty people who have never heard the name Marcus. ”
I hesitate. The thought of Julian finding out makes my heart stutter. Not because I’m afraid, but because I want him to. It’s the first time I want to do something just for myself, and it terrifies me.
Eve grins, sensing victory. “You’ve never been to a club, have you?”
I shake my head.
She beams. “Perfect. We’ll corrupt you properly.”
I want to say no. I want to go back to my cell, to curl up and lick my wounds.
But something rebellious flickers in my chest. Maybe it’s the desire to spite the world.
Maybe it’s the way Julian’s hands left me feeling more alive than I’ve ever been.
Maybe it’s just Eve and her refusal to let me drown.
“Fine,” I say, voice softer than I mean. “I’ll go.”
Eve claps, triumphant. “Knew it. I have the perfect dress for you. Black, tight, not too slutty, but enough that you’ll give the other girls a heart attack. They’ll all assume you’re there to hunt men.”
I laugh. “Maybe I am.”
Eve gives me a look, equal parts challenge and concern. “Don’t worry about Julian. If he wanted you on lockdown, he’d have you chained to the radiator. Plus, he’s got Hunt prep all weekend. I’ll text you the address. You’ll love it, I swear.”
The promise hangs between us, a dare and a lifeline at once.
“See you at seven to get ready,” she calls, then peels off toward her own dorm.
I stand there for a minute, watching her vanish into the crowd, then glance up at the gray sky. I realize I am still alive, still capable of surprise.
I walk back to my room, slow, letting the excitement build. When I close the door, the silence is almost friendly.
For the first time in my life, I feel a little less like a doll in a glass house and a little more like a person who could want things for herself.
I strip out of my uniform and slide into some comfies, and stare at myself in the mirror, at the marks, the wild hair. I tilt my chin up, studying the face that’s supposed to belong to a Marcus, to a queen.
She looks nothing like the girl from last week.
That makes me smile.
Tonight, I’ll see what else I can become.
The knock comes at exactly 7:00. Not a minute early, not a minute late. Eve’s punctuality is as legendary as her disregard for all other rules.
She barges in without waiting for me to answer. The duffle hits the floor with a thud, and she sweeps into the room like a stage director on opening night.
“Okay, Amara, undress and get over here. We don’t have all night.”
I blink at her, then at the duffle, which looks like it could conceal a human body. “What’s in there?”
She unzips it and dumps the contents on my bed: an arsenal of makeup palettes, half a dozen hair tools, a tangle of necklaces, and—at the bottom—a black dress that is less a garment and more like lingerie. The fabric is thin, shiny, and so short it could be mistaken for a shirt.
I recoil. “There’s no way that fits me.”
Eve rolls her eyes, already separating the makeup by function. “Of course it fits you. I had it tailored to your size. Now, do you want to look like a ‘Marcus’ or do you want to look like a girl who can fuck up the world?”
I hesitate, but the challenge in her voice tips me forward.
I peel off my shirt and toss it aside, and then take off my sweats, covering my nipples with my hands.
I’ve never been naked in front of a friend before.
The moment is almost intimate. Eve doesn’t stare.
She’s already busy lining up brushes like surgical instruments.
She points to the chair by my desk. “Sit. I’ll start with your face.”
I sit, still covering my boobs. Eve works fast, smoothing primer over my skin, brushing foundation over the bruises with a gentle touch. I close my eyes and let her paint me into someone new.
Her hands are warm. She smells like peppermint and cigarettes and the faint bite of vodka. Her own makeup is done in a soft wing, matte black that sharpens her eyes into points. As she dabs and blends, she talks.
“You know, the first time I did this, I had no idea what I was doing. My mother never wore makeup. She said it was for sluts and politicians. But I was twelve and desperate, so I stole her lipstick and painted myself into a fucking clown.”