Chapter 4 Rhett
I follow her because I have to. Even when I try not to, my body moves after hers with the inevitability of a moon-pulled tide.
The cold is merciless tonight, wind hammering across the abandoned quad and knifing through the open cathedral doors.
She doesn’t hesitate at the threshold, doesn’t even slow—just walks in like the chapel is a temple built for her alone.
I linger outside, watching her reflection warp and bend in the ancient leaded glass.
She’s methodical, always is. Pulls a notebook from her bag, checks the flash on her phone, then starts snapping pictures of the first stained glass panel.
There’s nothing special about this window, except it’s directly opposite the altar, and most people never notice the hairline fracture across the Hunter’s face.
She does. The phone’s shutter click slices the silence.
What is this little wench doing now?
The air in the chapel is close and heavy, layered with the ghost of incense and a moldy tang that lives in all old churches.
At the far end, tarnished candelabras flank the altar, their arms bent at weird angles from a century of abuse.
Some are streaked with wax, others with rust or something that looks a lot like dried blood.
The altar itself is a block of marble, black-veined and cold, carved with sigils that no one talks about in daylight.
Most people don’t come here. It’s got bad mojo, yet this wildcat decided to make knowing everything about Westpoint her business.
She moves down the aisle, stopping at each pew to scribble a note or snap another picture.
She’s wearing a jacket three sizes too big for her, probably stolen from a boyfriend or maybe a thrift store.
The collar is turned up to hide her mouth, but I know she’s chewing her lip—she does it every time she’s about to do something reckless.
The moon is bright enough tonight that I can track her without making a sound. I drift quietly, careful to keep my shadow long and out of her line of sight. She’s so absorbed in the act of gathering evidence, she doesn’t notice me until I’m almost on her.
Almost.
I slow my breathing to nothing. Wait. Let her get deep enough into the maze of pews that she can’t run without tripping over her own feet.
She kneels at the front row, just three arm-lengths from the altar, and pulls out a pencil.
Her hands are steady, even when she draws the Hunt sigil at the base of the stone—precise, fast, as if she’s memorized it from somewhere else.
She takes a picture, then another. Her face is pale in the reflected screen light. When she stands, her movement is quick and decisive.
I step out of the darkness. “Looking for the Holy Grail, or just a little light creeping?”
She jolts hard enough to knock her notebook to the floor. The pencil rolls under the first pew. She spins, and for the first time since I started watching her, I see the flash of real fear. It doesn’t last; her expression locks down into suspicion.
“What do you want?” she snaps. There’s a tremor in her voice, just one, but I catch it.
“Curiosity,” I say. “Couldn’t sleep.”
She narrows her eyes, hands curling around the edge of the pew. “You always haunt the chapel at midnight?”
“Only when there’s something worth praying for.”
She scoffs. “You expect me to believe you go to confession?”
I close the gap between us. “Everyone at Westpoint is guilty of something. Some of us just admit it.”
She shifts, puts the pew between us like it’s a seawall. “That’s not a confession. That’s an excuse.”
“Depends on the context.” I let my eyes drift to the open notebook, then back to her face. “You cataloging ghosts, or making your own?”
She scoops up the notebook, hugs it to her chest. “What do you care?”
“I’m just wondering if you know what you’re getting into.”
She straightens, chin up, defiant. “More than you think.”
The stained glass paints her face in shards of color: red over the brow, blue slicing the left cheek, a shot of yellow blazing across her lips. The hair at her temple is already wild from the wind outside, and her eyes—hard, dark, unblinking—lock onto mine with a heat I haven’t felt in years.
I put my palms on the back of the pew and lean in, not enough to threaten, just enough to block her exit.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I say. “You stop poking around in places you don’t belong, and I’ll stop pretending to care.”
She laughs, the sound sharp and ugly. “You’re scared. That’s what this is. I’m getting close, and you’re scared I’ll find something you tried to cover up.”
I smile, just enough to show a canine. “You think you’re the first one to try?”
“I think I’m the only one who can finish it,” she says. “Casey—”
The name hits me like a shot of cold water. I let her see it, just for a second.
“Casey’s dead,” I say. “Nothing you do changes that.”
She steps around the pew, fearless. “You talk about her like you cared. But you don’t. You just want me to back off because I might embarrass you.”
I hold her gaze. “You couldn’t embarrass me if you tried.”
“Then why are you here?”
She’s close now, so close I can smell the shampoo in her hair, something berry. She stares me down, daring me to move first. I see her pulse in the hollow of her throat, ticking up, faster with every second.
“Why are you here?” I echo. “Why risk all this for someone who’s gone?”
She hesitates. Her jaw flexes, and she shakes her head.
“Because she deserved better,” she says, soft now, a whisper meant for the dead. “And so do I.”
The words hang in the chapel like smoke. For a minute, neither of us says anything.
Then I move.
I close the distance, fast, stepping into her space and catching her wrist before she can pull away. She swings the notebook at my face, but I block it with my forearm and twist, forcing her back until her spine hits the end of the pew.
She glares up at me, defiant, furious. Her breath comes in short, fast pants.
“Let go,” she spits.
I don’t.
Instead, I grip her jaw, tilting her face up until she has no choice but to look at me. I can feel the shudder that runs through her—part anger, part fear, part something else. Her hands come up, nails sharp, but I pin them both to the wood, trapping her completely.
“You’re not her,” I say, voice low. “You never will be.”
She sneers. “Good. She didn’t deserve this.”
For a split second, I hate her for saying it. Then I want her more than I want to breathe.
I press my mouth to hers.
It’s not gentle. There’s no patience, no seduction—just hunger and the need to obliterate every word she’s ever used against me.
Her lips are cold at first, but then they burn.
She fights, one hand coming loose in the battle, nails digging into my arms, but I don’t let up.
I bite her lip, hard enough to draw blood, and she makes a sound somewhere between a whimper and a snarl.
She tries to twist away, but I catch her by the nape and force her still. Her hair knots in my fist, and I can taste the sharp, metallic tang of her blood mixing with mint from her stupid lip balm. I want to ruin it. I want to ruin her. To make her forget everything but me.
She keeps fighting, even as her body betrays her—her back arches, her hips buck, and for one perfect heartbeat she surrenders, kissing back with the desperation of someone about to drown.
I drag it out, refusing to give her the satisfaction of mercy.
When I finally break away, she’s trembling, breathless, eyes bright with hate.
I lean in, nose to nose. “You’ll never get away from me.”
She laughs, wrecked and shaking. “Fuck you, Rhett.”
I smile. “I can do that. Is now a good time? Drop your panties, little one and I’ll show you just how hot you run for me.”
She shoves me hard, but I let her go this time. She stumbles back, wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her jacket, and glares at me like she could set me on fire with just her eyes.
“You think you’re so untouchable,” her voice is raw. “But you’re not. I’ll prove it.”
I step back, hands in my pockets, already missing the heat of her. “Maybe. But not tonight.”
She hurls the notebook at my head. I catch it one-handed and toss it onto the pew.
She backs away, careful to keep me in her sightline, then vanishes down the side aisle and out into the dark.
I watch her go, heart pounding, skin buzzing with the need to finish what I started.
When the silence returns, I go to the altar, run my fingers over the old marble. The sigil she traced is deep in the stone, just visible in the weak moonlight. I press my palm to the center, feeling the cold bite through my skin.
I stand there a long time, until the cold is all I can feel.
Then I pick up her notebook, thumb through the pages, and walk out.
She’ll come back for it. She’ll have to.
And when she does, I’ll be waiting.
Now that that’s done and I’ve satiated the beast she brings out in me, I can go find out once and for all that she’s going to be mine.
There’s a technique to entering the Board’s chamber: never let the Board see you sweat.
I have it down to a science, muscle memory ingrained from years of attending disciplinary hearings and legacy ceremonies.
But tonight, the pulse in my neck is loud—each beat a reminder of the chapel, her mouth, the copper-bright taste of blood and need.
I walk the corridor with my hands in my pockets, shoulders set, tie knotted tight. The floor is stone, uneven, freezing through the soles of my shoes. The air tastes of old books and secrets—formaldehyde and dust, the ambient rot of a building grown too fond of its own ghosts.
At the door, I pause and run my tongue along the split in my lip. There’s a smear of blood there, drying into a scab. I savor it, then push inside.