Chapter 2 Vane
VANE
The bass pounds through Jordan's house, vibrating the plastic cup in my hand. I didn't even want to come to this stupid party, but Xavier insisted we make an appearance. Something about maintaining social connections or whatever bullshit he spouts these days.
I scan the crowded living room, pretending I'm not looking for anyone in particular. That's when I spot her—Lia Morgan, leaning against the wall, laughing at something her friend Zoe said.
She's wearing a dark blue top that makes her skin glow. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders instead of the tight ponytail she wears at school. This version of Lia—relaxed, smiling—is rare, and I find myself staring longer than I should.
“Take a picture, it'll last longer,” Xavier mutters.
“Fuck off.” I tear my eyes away from her. “I was just surprised to see Little Miss Perfect at a party. Figured she'd be home alphabetizing her textbooks or something.”
Xavier gives me that knowing look I hate. “Right. That's why you've been searching for her since we walked in.”
“I haven't been—”
“Save it.” He claps me on the shoulder. “I'm getting another drink.”
I down my beer, crushing the cup in my fist. I don't care what Lia Morgan does.
I don't care that she answered every question in AP Chem today while looking at me as if I were something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
I don't care that she's the only girl in this school who doesn't either fear me or try to fuck me.
Our eyes meet across the room, and for a split second, something passes between us before her expression hardens into that familiar look of disdain.
I should walk away. Instead, I find myself moving toward her, drawn by the same magnetic pull I've been fighting since freshman year.
“Didn't expect to see you here, Morgan,” I say, leaning against the wall next to her. “No calculus problems to solve tonight?”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the slight upturn at the corner of her mouth. “Blackwood. Always charming.” Her friend Zoe gives me a look before muttering something about finding the bathroom.
“Someone has to balance out all that perfection you bring to the room.” I lean closer, breathing in her scent—something floral. “Though I've got to say, you clean up nice when you're not raising your hand to correct everyone.”
“You have quite the talent for backhanded compliments,” Lia says, sipping her drink. The music pulses around us, but somehow she creates this bubble where only her voice matters.
“I have many talents,” I smirk, watching her eyes roll again. “Most of which you'd find shocking.”
“I doubt anything about you could shock me anymore.” Something flickers in her expression—not the usual contempt, but something softer.
I lean in closer. “Is that a challenge, Morgan?”
“It's an observation.” She doesn't back away like I expect. “You work so hard at being the bad boy everyone's afraid of.”
“And you work just as hard at being perfect.” I gesture toward her with my empty cup. “We all have our roles to play.”
“Is that what you think I'm doing? Playing a role?” Her amber eyes lock with mine, unexpectedly serious.
“Aren't we all?” The words come out more honest than I intended.
She studies me for a moment. “Maybe. But some of us don't have a choice.”
“Everyone has choices,” I say, but the words taste bitter.
Some choice we had after Mom died, bringing Knox into the world.
Dad was already gone—motorcycle crash two months earlier.
The Blackwood name meant something back then.
Now it's just four brothers fighting to stay together in a system that wants to tear us apart.
Lia's studying me with those sharp eyes of hers, like she's trying to solve the vertex of a quadratic equation in her head. “Is that why you act like you don't care about anything? Because caring hurts too much?”
I laugh, hollow and sharp. “Damn, Morgan. Save the psychoanalysis for your college applications.” I turn away from her probing gaze, uncomfortable with how easily she sees through the armor I've spent years building. Some truths aren't meant to be dissected in the middle of a crowded party.
Her expression softens. “Your brother is eight, right?”
“Good memory.” I'm surprised she retained that detail from our lab conversation. “Little terror. Smart as hell though.”
“Must run in the family,” she says, then looks like she regrets the compliment immediately.
I smirk, but it feels forced. “The Blackwood charm and brains. Only things our parents left us that distant relatives couldn't take.”
“What do you mean?”
I shouldn't be telling her this. But something about the music, the dim lights, the way she's looking at me—not with pity, but genuine curiosity—loosens my tongue.
“Dad had money. Mom too. Family business. But it's all locked in trusts until we're twenty-one.” I take a swig from my empty cup, forgetting there's nothing in it. “Meanwhile, dear Uncle Richard and Aunt Helen were happy to claim everything else while leaving us to foster care.”
“That's awful,” she says, and I hate how sincere she sounds.
“It's whatever.” I shrug, uncomfortable with her sympathy. “Xavier's twenty. In one year, he gets his share. Then things change.”
“And until then?”
Until then, we scrape by. Until then, Xavier works himself to exhaustion. Until then, Landon pretends he doesn't hear Knox crying at night, asking for parents he never knew. Landon was never good with crying. Luckily, I can handle Knox better, after all, I'm not entirely psychotic.
I clamp my mouth shut, suddenly aware I've been spilling my guts to Lia Morgan of all people. First in chemistry, now at this stupid party. What the hell is wrong with me?
She's looking at me with those amber eyes that see too much, and I can't stand it. I need to break this moment before I tell her something I'll really regret.
“Let's dance,” I say abruptly, nodding toward the crowd of bodies moving in the center of the room.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “No freaking way.”
“Why not? Afraid you can't keep up with me on the dance floor either?”
“I can keep up with you anywhere, Blackwood.” Her chin lifts in that defiant way that always makes something tighten in my chest. “I just don't want to dance with you.”
“Bullshit.” I step closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her eyes. “You're scared.”
“Of you?” She laughs, but it sounds forced. “Please.”
“Not of me.” I lean in, my voice dropping. “Of this.” I gesture between us. “Whatever this is.”
She crosses her arms, but I notice the slight tremble in her fingers. “There is no 'this.' There's just you being an ass and me tolerating it.”
“Is that what you're doing? Tolerating me?” I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and notice her sharp intake of breath. “Because it feels like something else entirely.”
“Don't.” She steps back, but not before I catch the flush spreading across her cheeks.
“Don't what, Morgan? Don't notice how you watch me when you think I'm not looking? Don't call you out on the fact that you could've switched lab partners weeks ago, but you didn't?”
“You're delusional.” Her voice lacks conviction.
“Am I?” I move closer again, backing her against the wall. Not touching her, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body. “Tell me to walk away right now, and I will.”
Her breath catches as she looks up at me, lips parted slightly. The music pounds around us, but all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears, all I can see is the way her eyes darken as they flick down to my mouth.
“I...” she starts, then stops.
Her hesitation is all the answer I need. I grab her wrist and pull her through the crowd, ignoring the startled looks from her friends. The pounding music covers her protests as I navigate through sweaty bodies toward the hallway.
“Vane, what are you—”
I find an empty bedroom and yank her inside, kicking the door shut behind us. The music becomes a distant thump, replaced by the sound of our breathing.
“This is what you want,” I say, backing her against the wall. “Stop pretending.”
Before she can argue, I crash my lips against hers, one hand gripping her waist, the other braced against the wall beside her head. For a split second, her body softens against mine, and I feel a rush of triumph.
Then her hands press hard against my chest, shoving me backward.
“What the hell?” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes flashing with anger. “You can't just drag me in here and—”
“Don't act like you weren't into it.” My voice comes out harder than I intended. “I felt you kiss me back.”
“For half a second before I realized what was happening!” Her cheeks flush crimson. “You can't manhandle people because you feel like it, Blackwood.”
The rejection burns through me like acid. Nobody says no to a Blackwood, not to Xavier, not to me.
“So what, you're just a tease?” I spit the words, stepping closer again. “All those looks in chemistry class, all that tension—that's just you getting off on the attention?”
“Get over yourself.” She tries to move past me toward the door. “This was a mistake.”
I block her path, anger surging through my veins. “You don't get to walk away from me.”
“Watch me.” She meets my gaze, unflinching. “And if you touch me again without permission, you'll regret it.”
Something dark twists inside me, a familiar feeling when I don't get my way. A Blackwood legacy of wanting, taking, possessing.
I step back, dropping my arm to let her pass. The fury pulses through me, but I force my face into a mask of indifference.
“Fine.” I wave dismissively toward the door. “Run away, Morgan.”
She narrows her eyes, searching my face for the trap she suspects. Smart girl. But she won't find it—not yet.
“This isn't running away,” she says, hand on the doorknob. “This is setting boundaries.”
I laugh, the sound sharp enough to make her flinch. “Call it whatever helps you sleep at night.”
She hesitates, and I can almost see the wheels turning behind those amber eyes. Part of her wants to stay—to fight, to prove she's not afraid. I've gotten under her skin just as much as she's gotten under mine.
“You know what your problem is?” She says, chin tilted up in defiance. “You think everyone should fall at your feet just because you decided they should.”
“Only the ones worth having.”
Her cheeks flush, and I know I've hit a nerve. Good. Let her carry that with her.
“Goodbye, Vane.”
I don't respond as she slips out, closing the door behind her. The room feels emptier without her fire filling it. I wait, counting breaths until I'm certain she's gone, then slam my fist into the wall.
The pain centers me, clears my head. This isn't over—not by a long shot. Lia Morgan walked away tonight, but she will come back. They always do. Only next time, I'll make sure she's begging for my attention.
I just need to change tactics. The direct approach clearly won't work with her. She needs to think it's her idea, her choice. And once she believes that, once she lets her guard down...
She'll realize Blackwoods always gets what we want. And I want her.