Chapter 2 Rhett #2
After five days, I know her routine better than my own.
I know when she takes her tea, how she holds her phone in public (left hand, always), the precise amount of time she spends in the shower (fifteen minutes, never more).
I know the way she checks her reflection in any glass surface, but never stops to fix herself, just looks at the image, moves on.
It’s not about vanity. It’s about seeing who she is, so she can remember what she isn’t.
I wonder how long it will take her to notice me.
On day six, she catches my reflection in the glass of the biology lab.
Her eyes cut to mine and hold for two seconds longer than human decency allows.
I see the dilation in her pupils, the small flare of her nostrils.
She doesn’t smile, but her lips part in a snarl, just enough to show a sliver of white.
When I pass her in the corridor, she steps aside, lets me through. Our arms graze. There’s static in the contact, sharp enough to feel it. She keeps walking, never glances back, but her pace picks up.
Later, I watch from the library stacks as she fakes a cough to get a librarian off her trail, then slides a restricted volume into her bag. When she leaves, I check the shelf: it’s the campus directory from 1947. She’s hunting the past.
I shouldn’t allow that to happen. Not if I want to keep my spot, much less my head.
Yet I don’t move to stop her.
The next morning, I arrive on the quad before sunrise. She’s already on the go, as if she never stopped from the day before. I keep my distance, but she must know I’m here. She increases her pace, almost daring me to match it. I do.
We complete the loop together, never speaking, never looking at each other. When we cross the finish, she slows, leans forward with her hands on her knees, and breathes hard.
She’s sweating, but her skin is cool. She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, glances up at me, and says, “Enjoy the view?”
I don’t answer. It would be too easy.
She shrugs and walks off, the muscles in her calves bunching with each step.
I’m late for class, so I peel off and head there, irritated that something as menial as paperwork is getting in the way of my new favorite activity, but I have to go.
I’ve already missed too many this week. It’s a damn drag, but I make some excuse and leave a few minutes early so I can intercept her making her way back home.
She’s there, same time as always, power-walking across the quad with her earbuds jammed in and her expression set to kill.
She’s focused on whatever catastrophe she plans to engineer today, probably something involving a security loophole and a misplaced student file.
She carries herself like an accusation in search of a target.
I fall in behind her, matching pace, then angle for the shortcut at the northeast arch. I had Bam set up some orange cones across the path to force her into this very moment.
Pathway maintenance.
She never uses this route—there’s a drip from the roof that leaves a perpetual puddle, and the sightlines are bad. But today I left her with no choice, and she rounds the corner without her usual caution.
Timing is everything.
I step out, coffee in hand, just as she clears the threshold. She plows into me with a shriek. The cup explodes between us. Brown arcs through the air, then gravity sucks the rest into her shirt and blazer, splattering the white cotton.
She gasps, sharp and breathless, and for a second the only sound is the hiss of hot liquid sinking into fabric.
“Shit—” She staggers back, clutching her chest, and the shock on her face is half fury, half disbelief. Drops of coffee bead along her collarbone, mixing with a flush that creeps upward, high and red.
The top button of her blouse is open; the coffee finds the path of least resistance, soaking straight through to the skin. It clings to her nipples. No bra. Perfect.
She looks down, then back up at me, eyes wide and burning.
“Are you kidding me?” Her voice shakes, and she clenches her tiny little fists.
I don’t apologize. I don’t even offer her a napkin. Instead, I watch as the adrenaline hits her system—pupils huge, pulse hammering at the angle of her jaw. Her breath is shallow, fast, almost a pant.
She yanks the blazer off in one motion and shakes it, flinging droplets to the pavement.
I allow myself half a smile. “You should watch where you’re going.”
She stares, then lets out a jagged laugh. “Asshole.” She digs in her bag, finds nothing, and curses again, louder. The word bounces off the stone and comes back with company.
She tries to brush the shirt clean, but it only spreads the stain. Her hands tremble.
“You want to take a picture?” she snaps.
I consider it. “Yeah, actually, would you mind?”
Her fingers flex. She wants to hit me. Instead, she goes still, drawing herself up to her full height—not insignificant, especially in those boots—and fixes me with a look that could strip paint.
It doesn’t work, but I do find it endearing.
She tugs the shirt away from her chest, wincing as the fabric peels off her skin. The flush deepens, no longer just embarrassment but something else. She’s angry, humiliated, but under it all—she’s excited. Her eyes flicker from my face to my hands, back to my face again.
“You get off on this?” she says.
I lean in, just enough to crowd her space. “You tell me.”
For a moment, we’re eye to eye. Her breath catches. The muscles in her neck tense, then relax, as if she’s forcing herself not to step back.
She holds the line.
The moment stretches, too tight to be comfortable. Finally, she breaks it with a single word: “Who are you?”
It’s not the question she wants to ask. The real question is “What are you?” She already knows the answer, but she needs to hear it, needs to make it a rule she can break.
“Rhett.”
Her mouth twitches. “Of course. Feral Boy number two. I knew I recognized you. Shitty job you’ve done stalking me this week. Hope you found out something useful.”
I’m impressed. We aren’t usually front page news. Our society is more of a ‘in the shadows type.’ “You’ve done your homework on us.”
She snorts. “Don’t think I’m stupid, Rhett. I know all about your little games.”
“They’re so much fun, Isolde. Maybe you’d like to play one with me someday. I have some duct tape and rope in my truck. Or maybe you’re more of a mask girl who deserves to be choked and told what a good little princess she is.”
She shakes her head, and the movement sends a drop of coffee down to the waistband of her skirt. She swipes at it, frustrated. “Figures. They said this place was bad, but I didn’t realize it was run by actual sociopaths.”
I smile, slow and deliberate. “You’re cute.”
She bares her teeth in a parody of a smile. “I bite.”
Her composure is a marvel. Every other transfer I’ve ever met crumpled under the first hit. She’s holding together by pure will.
I decide to press. I step closer, my shadow falling over her, close enough that I can smell the muted perfume on her skin. “You should get cleaned up before it sets. Coffee’s a bitch to get out.”
She glances down, then up, calculating the angle. “You going to follow me to the bathroom, or is this where the creepy part ends?”
I let the silence drag.
Finally, she shakes her head and pushes past, brushing my arm with hers as she goes. The contact is electric, enough that I almost reach for her wrist. Almost.
She disappears into her building, and I stand there, watching the door swing shut behind her.
I catch her again, skulking down the halls, two hours later. She’s wearing a different shirt, some band one with faded lettering. Not becoming of an Academy student, but I don’t give a fuck. Her hair is damp, curls twisting at the temples, and the blush has faded to something cool and hard.
She sees me and hesitates before continuing on down to the study hall, then makes a show of ignoring my presence, sitting at the end of a bench with her back to the rest of the room. She opens her notebook and pretends to read, but I can see her eyes darting to the reflection in the window.
She wants to know if I’m still watching.
I am.
Halfway through the hour, I pass her table. She doesn’t look up, but her breath stutters in her throat. I stop, lean over, and tap the table once.
“Following me?”
I shake my head. “Just curious.”
She rolls her eyes. “About what? How fast I can run?”
I sit on the edge of the desk. “You’re not running.”
She bristles, but doesn’t argue. “So what do you want?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I reach for her notebook. She snatches it away, fingers locking down.
“Don’t touch my stuff.”
I let my hand fall. “Fine.”
She watches me, suspicion in every line of her body.
We’re at an impasse.
I break the silence. “Why are you here?”
She doesn’t blink. “You know why.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
She considers, “I’m here to take back what you stole. The truth.”
I nod. “Fair enough.”
Her eyes widen a fraction. She wasn’t expecting agreement.
I push off the desk, crowding her just a bit, watching the way her breath speeds up. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“So are you. And for the record, you Boys think you’re the only ones with secrets, but you’re not.”
For a moment, it’s almost funny. She thinks she can outlast me. That she can outplay me, but she can’t.
“Now fuck off, asshole.”
She goes to stand, grabbing her shit and throwing it into her bag before trying to move past me, but I don’t let her get that far. Grabbing her wrist, I swing her into me.
She jerks back, mouth opening for a scream or a curse, but I’m faster.
I back her into the wall, not hard, but with enough force that she feels the cold stone at her spine.
My hand slides to her throat, thumb pressing just under the jaw, not choking, just a lever.
The rest of my body follows, pinning her in place, the crowd flowing around us as if we’re a rock in the stream.
She makes a sound—half gasp, half growl. Her hands come up, nails raking at my wrist, but I’m expecting it, and the pain is nothing.
Her breath stutters. I can feel her pulse, frantic and erratic, under my thumb.
We’re close enough that I can see every shade in her eyes, the ring of blue inside the gray, the little crack of red in the left sclera from a broken capillary. I can smell the shampoo in her hair, the sharp tang of sweat on her skin, the after-ghost of coffee.
The hall is full of students, but the volume drops as we collide. No one wants to intervene. They see the uniform, the familiar shapes, and they avert their eyes. Westpoint’s unwritten rules: never insert yourself into a predator’s kill.
She meets my gaze, furious and unblinking. “Let. Me. Go.”
“No,” I say, and lean in until my lips are just above her ear.
Her pulse jumps.
I could kill her, right here, if that was the game. But it isn’t.
“If I’m not the only one with secrets,” I whisper, “what are yours?”
Her breath hitches again, chest expanding rapidly, her ribs straining against the cotton. The color surges in her face, a line of red slashing from the corner of her mouth to her cheekbone.
She shoves at me, hard. I let her move, just enough to keep her believing it’s possible.
“My secrets don’t involve murder,” she hisses.
I smile, close-mouthed. “You sure about that?”
She bares her teeth, baring every weapon she owns, but her body is trembling. Not with fear. With something a shade more complicated.
I ease the pressure on her throat, but don’t step back. She stays where she is, pressed to the wall, hands caught between us. Her nails draw a thin line on my skin, breaking the surface.
“Why are you doing this?” she demands.
I consider. “Why are you here?”
She flinches, as if I’ve struck her. “I told you. To take back what you stole.”
“No,” I say, soft but certain. “You’re here to see if you can beat me. To see if you’re capable of the same things I am.”
She opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again. “I’m nothing like you.”
“Liar.”
I move my face closer, close enough that her eyelashes brush my cheek. Her eyes flutter closed for a fraction of a second. When they open, they’re full of hate. And hunger.
She tries to knee me in the groin, but I block it, shift my weight, and bring her tighter to my chest. For a second, our hips are aligned, and I feel the jolt of awareness in her when she feels what’s in my pants.
She’s breathing in gasps now, fast and shallow, heart hammering so hard I can feel it through both our shirts.
I lower my mouth to her ear again, this time letting my lips graze the skin. “Don’t panic. Your time hasn’t come yet.”
Her hands fist in my shirt, as if she’s going to rip it, and then she pushes me away.
I let her go. She stumbles, catches herself, straightens.
She’s shaking, but she covers it with rage.
She turns on her heel and storms away, hair flying, shoulders squared. Every head in the hallway pivots to watch her go.
I lean against the wall and wipe the blood from my wrist, then lick it off, slow and deliberate.
She’s better than I thought.
Maybe even better than Casey.