Chapter 12
Clara
My dorm door rattles before I even get the chain off, the sound sharp and violent against the thin wood, like someone testing the strength of a cage.
“Clara Jean Harrington, open up,” Zoe singsongs, knuckles pounding against the frame.
I’m still replaying the locker room scene from Thursday—the steam, the suffocating silence, twenty pairs of eyes tracking me, the raw, possessive fury in Adrian’s voice.
His gaze had sliced through the heat, leaving me exposed.
Skinned. Branded. All without a single touch.
The knock jolts me from the memory, an electric snap in my nerves.
I don’t move fast enough. Genny’s voice seeps through the gap, dry as salt. “She’s ignoring you. Again.”
“I’ll kick it in,” Zoe threatens, and I know she means it.
“You’ll break your heel,” Genny responds, completely unbothered.
I sigh and undo the chain, catching my reflection in the tarnished brass. For a second, I see the same haunted stare I brought back from that locker room—raw, unsettled, not quite mine. As if something he left behind is living in me now.
Zoe blows in on a gust of expensive perfume and glitter eyeliner, sequins on her top scattering weak light across the walls of my ten-by-ten cell.
Her hair is curled and glossy, her skirt cut to provoke.
Genny follows at her own pace, pausing in the doorway as if weighing the space for threats.
Oversized blazer, silk camisole, jeans tailored to slice—her whole posture is a weapon.
Where Zoe is chaos, Genny is calculated control.
Zoe spins in the center of my room, arms wide. “God, you live like a monk. It’s Saturday night, the world is happening, and you’re in here communing with the ghosts of academia.”
“It’s called organized,” I mutter, shoving my notes into a tight stack. Organization is my only defense, the one fortress between me and the chaos of my own life.
“It’s called depressing,” she counters, then claps her hands. “Good thing we’re rescuing you. Elm party. You’re coming.”
“No,” I say, the word automatic. The last thing I need is a crowd, a room full of eyes, the potential of seeing him.
“Yes,” she chirps, already elbow-deep in my closet, tossing out options with ruthless efficiency. “You are not hiding in here and letting him win. Tonight, you show up. You exist loudly. It’s a strategy.”
Genny slides into my chair, crossing her legs. “You’ve had two days to brood about Captain Ice Veins and his wolf pack. Enough. Shoes.”
Zoe shoves a black top and a skirt into my arms, eyes daring me to argue.
I change fast, the fabric clinging unfamiliar against my skin, my fingers fumbling at the zipper while their voices fill the silence.
The air smells of Zoe’s perfume and Genny’s expensive lipstick, like I’m being dressed for battle, not a party.
I tug on boots that feel heavier than usual, the leather biting into my calves, grounding me in a role I never asked for.
My throat tightens. The memory is still too raw. “You don’t understand. Thursday—”
Zoe freezes mid-twirl. Her gaze sharpens, hungry for detail. “Oh my god. Is this about him? Did something else happen?” Her smile is all teeth, more threat than comfort.
I groan, pressing my palms to my eyes. “I am not talking about Adrian Hale.”
Genny folds her hands, surgeon-steady. “You just did.”
So I tell them. The words come out clipped and clinical, scrubbed of all emotion because feeling them is still too much.
I leave out my own hammering heart, and the way I caught myself admiring the precision of his brutality.
Just the facts: marching through the steam and stares, folder clutched like armor, refusing to let my eyes wander from his face.
Zoe gasps when I’m done, one hand to her chest. “You went in there? Alone? Jesus, Clara, that’s not babysitting, that’s gladiator combat.” She wheels on Genny, eyes narrowed. “Wait—how the hell did you know and I didn’t?”
Genny just smirks, crossing one elegant leg. “I’m always in the know. It’s a perk of being a legacy. People talk where I come from; they never bother hiding it from me.”
Zoe groans, throwing herself backward on my bed in mock betrayal. “Unbelievable. I get gossip scraps, and you get the full feast.”
“Exactly,” Genny says, dry as ever. The words are aimed at Zoe, but they land in the hollow of my chest with a familiar sting. Even with my best friends, there are doors I’ll never have the keys to.
“Maybe,” Zoe says brightly, already tugging me toward the door, her nails digging into my wrist hard enough to leave little crescent moons. “But you’re still coming. If we’re going to survive Briarcliff, you need to remind them you exist outside that library.”
“I hate you,” I mutter, grabbing my keys.
Elm House quakes with bass, the walls rattling like a beast waiting to swallow us whole.
The sound vibrates through the soles of my shoes before we even reach the porch—a physical, invasive pulse.
The front lawn is a battlefield of red cups trampled in muddy grass and bodies sprawled across the steps.
The humid night air reeks of beer, sweat, and greasy pizza.
Zoe surveys the carnage and grins. “If this place doesn’t leave scars, it’s a miracle.”
Genny gives her a sidelong glance, already scanning the crowd with her quiet, surgical calm. “The CDC should do field studies here. Or maybe just send a hazmat crew.”
I tighten my grip on my bag, letting Zoe lead the assault. Heads turn as she cuts through the mass. Genny follows, silent and precise, cataloguing faces and threats. I trail behind, shoulders locked, every instinct screaming to keep my back to a wall.
Inside, the living room is a furnace. Bodies press in on every side, a wall of heat and noise that makes my skin feel slick. The floor is sticky under my sneakers. The air is thick with cheap vodka, perfume, and sweat clinging to the walls like smoke.
As we squeeze past the staircase, I see Maya near the edge of the kitchen, notebook in hand, trying to ask Dante a question.
He doesn’t break stride as he moves past her, just shakes his head once in a final, dismissive gesture.
She says something sharp to his back, but he just smirks without turning around.
Cole trails him like a loyal shadow, but his gaze flickers toward Maya for half a second.
There’s something almost sympathetic there, a sibling tether he can’t quite sever, but then it’s gone, buried under the same arrogance Dante wears like armor.
We push deeper. The music pounds, frantic and relentless, making my teeth ache as the old anxieties crawl up my spine.
A familiar, cold poison. The urge to count doors, to measure corners, to map an escape route from a threat I can’t even see.
A memory flickers—a shadow in a dark hallway, the feeling of being small and trapped.
I force it down, digging my nails into my own palm until it stings.
Just a party, Clara. You’re not a target tonight.
Then Genny stops, her hand lightly touching my arm. “Look.”
She nods toward an alcove near the back door where Talia is trapped in a conversation with two guys in letterman jackets. Their laughter is too loud, their bodies angled to close her in. Her expression is polite but strained.
Zoe sees it too, her eyes lighting up with a new mission. “Oh, hell no. The new girl does not get fed to the wolves on our watch. Rescue operation is a go.”
Before I can protest, Zoe is cutting a path toward her. “Talia! There you are! We’ve been looking for you.”
Talia looks up, a wave of surprised relief washing over her face as Zoe hooks an arm through hers, pulling her away. “Sorry boys, she’s with us tonight.”
“Thanks,” Talia murmurs, falling into step with us. “I was about two seconds away from faking a fainting spell.”
“Amateurs,” Zoe scoffs. “Next time, just ‘accidentally’ spill your drink on them. Works every time.”
Talia laughs, a quiet, warm sound. “I’ll keep that in mind. My dad made me come to ‘support the team.’ I think this is more like combat duty.”
“You have my sympathies,” I say. “I’ve seen them in their natural habitat at study hall.”
Talia gives me a look of profound solidarity. “You and me both. We victims of academic enforcement have to stick together.”
The four of us move through the party as a new, more formidable unit.
Then I see them: the Titans, holding court on the far side of the room in an island of arrogant ease.
Calder, Gio, Rylan. Sprawled like kings.
Declan lingers at the edge of their circle, quieter than the rest, watching—a silent observer, but no less dangerous for it.
And Adrian. At the center. His hood is pulled low, but nothing disguises him. His presence is a gravity well.
I freeze, a cold knot tightening low in my stomach.
I feel his gaze before I see it. It’s a physical thing, a sudden pressure change in the room.
His stare carves through smoke and sweat, a blade that finds my skin.
For one raw second, the noise thins, the bass drawn back to a distant heartbeat.
His blue eyes pin me. Recognition. A flare of something dark and possessive.
Then it’s gone, replaced by a mask of cold indifference.
He looks away, the deliberate dismissal a scalpel sliding between my ribs.
Zoe nudges me sharply. “Look at you, already catching the king’s attention.”
I can’t make myself smile. “He looked right through me.”
“Maybe he didn’t like what he saw,” Genny murmurs, her eyes sharp on him. “Or maybe you’re the first thing that’s rattled him all night.”
My cheeks burn with humiliation, but a bitter heat twists under it. I follow the girls toward the kitchen, fighting the urge to look back. We push back into the living room, Zoe spoiling for a fight, leading our group close enough to the Titans’ circle to be noticed.
Calder grins when he spots us. “Look at this—Elm’s chaos gremlin and her ice queen friend.” His gaze lands on me. “Babysitter’s night off?”
Gio tips his chin at my empty hands. “What, too good to drink with the rest of us?”
I meet his gaze, steady. “I don’t take mystery liquids from people I don’t trust.”
Laughter, sharp and hungry. “Hear that, boys? She doesn’t trust us,” Gio says.
And then Adrian finally looks up. The room freezes. His hand twitches once on the arm of his chair; the laughter cuts off, obedience instant. His voice slices through the music. “Maybe she’s worried she can’t keep up.”
The laughter erupts again, vicious now, sanctioned by their king. Something molten and primal ignites in my chest, scorching away the earlier shame until only defiance remains. I lock onto his eyes, refusing to waver. Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare make me small.
“Or maybe I don’t need to drown myself in cheap vodka to prove I belong here.”
The laughter dies instantly. Every head snaps toward Adrian, hungry for blood. His mouth curves with lethal precision, not a smile, but a warning. His thumb drags slowly across the rim of his glass, a promise of sharp edges.
“Careful, Harrington. That kind of mouth makes enemies.”
“Then I guess I’m in the right room,” I hurl back. The silence shatters, jagged edges lodged in my chest.
Adrian’s eyes stay fixed on mine for a beat too long. When he finally turns away, the dismissal feels like a blade cutting me out of existence.
Zoe’s fingers close around my wrist. “We’re leaving.”
I plant my feet for a second, refusing the easy out. Let him see me stand. Then Zoe yanks, and I let them drag me through the crowd.
“We just got here,” I mutter, bitter defiance under my breath.
“No, babe,” she says, breathless. “We made an entrance. Totally different thing.”
Genny and Talia follow, both smooth and unhurried. “You don’t need to stay once they’ve bared their teeth,” Genny says.
The porch air knifes into my lungs, sharp and merciless.
Zoe drops into a lawn chair. “The look on Calder’s face when you stood up to Hale? Worth the price of admission.”
Genny stands, leaning against the rail, assessing me. “You handled it well.”
Talia nods in agreement. “They test everyone,” she says, her voice quiet but firm. “Especially people they see as a threat. You didn’t flinch.”
I let out a short, bitter laugh. “It didn’t feel like a win.”
“Of course it didn’t,” Genny says softly. “They don’t let outsiders feel like they’ve won. That’s the point. Adrian had to dismiss you like that. You challenged him on his turf. To acknowledge you would be to give you power.”
Zoe leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Who cares? You rattled them. And Hale? He only gets that icy when someone actually gets under his skin. Congratulations, scholar—you’re in his head.”
I shake my head, rubbing my arms against the wind. “I don’t want to be in his head.”
“Too late,” Zoe singsongs.
Genny’s tone softens. “Don’t let him set the terms, Clara. That’s what they want. To make you feel small.”
I grip the railing, the wood biting splinters deep into my palm. “Let him try to shrink me—I’d burn before I bent.”
“Exactly,” Zoe says, raising her cup.
Inside, Adrian Hale pretends I don’t exist. Out here, I know better. He saw me. He won’t forget it.