Chapter 26 Loaded Dice （Wren）
LOADED DICE (WREN)
The house hums with color and sound. Music spills from the front door in pulsing pink bass and silver vocals. The night air is cold, but heat rolls off the porch carrying beer and sweat.
Kieran’s hand is warm around mine. That helps.
“Ready, Rules?” he asks, grinning down at me. “You could use it as a field study, observing male specimens in their natural habitat.” The joke softens. “I know this isn’t your scene. But it’ll be fun. I promise.”
“As long as you match my hours in the library,” I deadpan.
His laugh lands low and warm. He squeezes my fingers. “Stay near me. If you want to leave, we leave.”
“Relax,” I say, bumping his shoulder. “I survived freshman orientation mixers. This is just…stickier.”
He barks out a laugh and pushes the door open.
The living room is packed. LED strips cycle from ice blue to club purple, trying to turn a brownstone into a nightclub. Voices layer over the music—gold, orange, turquoise—crowding my head without quite tipping me over.
“Holy shit, O’Connor!” someone yells.
Heads turn. Cheers flash bright red. Whistles cut sharp and yellow.
Kieran grins and soaks it in. He’s the gravity everything orbits.
And he’s holding my hand.
Dalton materializes first, beer in one hand, the other clapping Kieran’s shoulder. “About time. We were taking wagers on whether you got tied up.”
“Not my kink,” Kieran says easily. “Lack of rope skills.”
Dalton snorts, then does a double take when he sees me. “Damn. Didn’t think you’d bring your girlfriend.”
Kieran doesn’t correct him.
He just pulls me a little closer.
Riley slides in, giving me a one-armed hug. “Good to see you, Wren. You keeping him from flunking that baby physics class?”
“Engineering 204,” Kieran mutters. “And it’s not easy.”
“Bro,” Dalton says, “you sent a crying-face emoji about partial derivatives. Just take the L.”
I lift my cup. “Extra sessions are needed, apparently.”
Kieran grins down at me. “See? This is why they like you.”
“Nah.” Riley laughs. “We like her because she hasn’t run screaming yet.”
“Because she’s got excellent taste,” another smooth voice says.
Reed.
He slots in at the edge of the circle, smile warm, posture loose, too easy. “Hey, Marin. Glad you came.”
Kieran rolls his eyes. “Ignore him. He’s been drunk on freshman attention since September.”
Reed lifts his bottle in an easy toast. “If they cheer, am I supposed to stop them?”
He looks completely harmless—loose grin, relaxed shoulders, voice a calm teal. For a moment, I almost don’t recognize him. This Reed doesn’t smirk or sneer like he did outside the locker room on game night.
This Reed feels...normal. Almost friendly.
My shoulders loosen a fraction. Though something cautious in me files the discrepancy away.
Aubrey appears beside me, warm and a little mussed. “There you are,” she says, looping her arm through mine. Her smile flicks to Kieran, then she turns to the guys. “Hi. I’m Aubrey.”
Riley straightens like someone jerked a string. “Hey. Riley.”
She tucks hair behind her ear. “Nice to meet you.”
Dalton elbows him. “Relax. She’s just saying hi.”
Reed chuckles. “Don’t worry. They bark worse than they bite.” He tips his bottle toward the kitchen. “I’m gonna grab fresh drinks. Anybody want anything?”
The guys call out orders.
“I’m good,” Aubrey says.
“A beer would be nice,” I add quietly.
Reed flashes that friendly smile. “Got you.”
He drifts toward the back, swallowed by the crowd. For a minute, it’s simple: noise and color and my hand in Kieran’s.
Then a crash erupts from the kitchen, glass shattering, voices spiking from orange annoyance to jagged red.
Riley winces. “They’re fighting over the blender again.”
Dalton groans. “They’re gonna break another countertop.”
Riley claps Kieran’s shoulder. “Sounds like they need you.”
Kieran sighs. “Can’t you two take care of it?”
“Nope,” Dalton says cheerfully. “They only stop when you yell.”
Kieran turns back to me, jaw set. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “Aubrey’s with me. Go prevent kitchen homicide.”
Aubrey salutes. “I’ve got her.”
He leans in, brushing his thumb over my hand, voice dipping warm. “If I lose you in this crowd, I’ll lose my mind.” He says it lightly, but his hand tightens on mine. “If anything feels off, you grab me.”
“Don’t worry,” I say easily. “I’ll wait for you here.”
His mouth curves. “Good. I’ll be just a minute.” He grins, backing toward the kitchen with Riley and Dalton.
Aubrey exhales, half laugh, half sigh. “Okay. I get the hype.”
I laugh, but my chest gives a small tug, already tracking where he went.
“You should see him on the ice,” I say. “This is the toned-down version.”
“Terrifying,” she murmurs, but she’s smiling.
Movement on the far side of the room catches her eye. Mine too.
Theo is wedged near the end of the couch, red Solo cup in hand, head tipped toward whoever’s talking to him. The sound around him feels muted, steady graphite gray against all the neon noise. There’s a girl practically draped over the armrest beside him, blonde waves and perfect eyeliner.
Isabelle.
She leans in, laughing too hard at something he said, fingertips skating up his forearm in a move so practiced it might as well be choreographed. Theo blinks down at her hand like it’s a piece of equipment he doesn’t remember ordering.
“Here we go,” Aubrey mutters.
“What?” I ask.
“Her Majesty over there.” Aubrey tips her chin toward them. “She’s been trying to breach Theo’s firewall all semester.”
Isabelle says something low and flirty, squeezing his arm. Theo smiles politely, then shifts his elbow just out of reach as he pulls his phone from his pocket, angling the screen toward her—graphs, if I’m seeing it right.
Isabelle’s smile freezes for a split second before she rebuilds it.
“Syntax error.” I chuckle quietly.
“More like permission denied,” Aubrey says, wicked amusement curling her mouth. “It’s honestly my favorite slow-burn tragedy on campus.”
The quad flashes through my mind—her sharp French, the precision of it.
That hadn’t been random.
That had been territorial.
It settles all at once, heavy and sudden. Isabelle isn’t just orbiting Kieran and the hockey team. She’s orbiting Theo. And from the looks of it, with not much to show for it.
“Bathroom,” Aubrey says a beat later, squeezing my arm. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
She disappears down the hall. I lean against the wall, pulling out my phone. A text from Kieran is already waiting.
KIERAN
Kitchen’s a warzone. Miss me yet?
I smile and start typing back.
A shadow shifts at the edge of my vision.
“Marin.”
The voice lands slate-gray with a neon edge, amused and sharp.
I turn.
Reed strolls toward me, two bottles hooked in one hand. He doesn’t sound like the guy from game night anymore. Tonight his hoodie sleeves are pushed up, his grin is easy.
It still throws me.
“Reed,” I say carefully. “You’re back.”
“Yeah. Chaos in the kitchen,” he says, amused. “O’Connor’s playing referee. He’ll make a terrifyingly competent dad someday.”
I smile despite myself, still watching him, trying to reconcile this version with the aggressive one I’d witnessed a few weeks ago. Maybe it was just game day adrenaline, I tell myself.
“Didn’t think you were the house-party type,” he adds, offering one of the bottles. “But hey, look at you. Branching out.”
He twists off his own cap with an easy motion. The hiss of carbonation blooms warm yellow. He takes a slow sip, then taps my bottle once. “Here, opener.”
I hook it under the cap and pop it off. Reed takes another drink, watching me over the rim.
“You and O’Connor,” he says lightly. “Didn’t think you’d actually go for it.”
“Go for what?”
“The whole relationship thing.” He shrugs. “Thought you’d keep him on the hook longer.”
“Interesting hypothesis,” I say dryly. “Shame about the data.”
His mouth twitches. “Guess I miscalculated.” He lifts his bottle again. “Anyway. Welcome to the club. You want to fit in? You’ve got to drink.”
He nods toward my bottle. I take a sip.
The taste hits sweet, metallic, a little off.
I pause, frowning. Something’s wrong with it. Maybe it’s old. Maybe—
A wave of warmth rolls up my neck. Sweat pricks at my hairline even though the hallway is cool.
And that’s when I know. With sudden, crystal clarity that cuts:
He did something to my drink.
The realization hits like ice water.
My eyes snap to Reed. He’s watching me. Assessing.
Like he’s waiting to see how long it takes.
Terror floods through me, sharp and clarifying for one bright second, then the fog rolls in, thick and oppressive.
“Whoa.” I try to set the bottle down but my hand misses the table. It hits the floor with a dull thunk. “Something’s—wrong—”
The lights seem too bright, their warm golds bleeding into each other, smearing across my vision. The music stretches—beats landing a fraction late. The pink bass line drains toward the edges, leaving a weird, washed-out center.
The floor tilts.
“You good?” Reed asks, voice farther away than it should be.
“No.” I try to shake my head but the motion is too loose, too slow. My neck muscles aren’t connected right. “Not—staying here—”
“Hey. You look like you need air.” He steps closer, expression soft with fake concern. “Come on. Just outside for a sec.”
I try to step back. My right foot stutters, ankle wobbling. I grab the wall with both hands to keep from tipping. This can’t be happening. This doesn’t happen to me. I’m careful. I watch my drinks. I—
“Easy,” Reed says, and his hand lands on my elbow. Too firm. “See? You need to sit down.”
Every kata, every sparring drill, every instinct screams no. My body tries to respond—weight dropping, stance widening, elbow coming up to strike. But the signals misfire. My muscles turn to water. The trained movement collapses halfway through.
Move. Fight. Do something.
Nothing works.
“No,” I manage, but it comes out slurred. “I’m waiting—Aubrey—”
“She’ll find you,” he says smoothly. “It’s loud. You’re gonna pass out. Just fresh air.”
He slides an arm around my waist.
This is how it happens, some distant part of my brain whispers. This is how girls disappear at parties. Everyone thinking they’re fine, just drunk, being helped by a friend.
I dig my heels in. They don’t respond. My knees buckle. I have to grab his sleeve to keep from falling.
“See?” His voice goes faux-soothing. “Definitely need to sit.”
He steers me toward the stairs.
“No—” Panic punches through the cotton in my head. “Don’t—upstairs—no—”
“It’s quieter,” he says. “You’re about to face-plant. Do you want everyone to see?”
I twist, trying to catch someone’s eye—anyone’s. But faces blur past, none of them focusing on me. To them, I probably just look drunk.
I’m not drunk. And he’s not helping.
Someone see me. Please.
My phone. I fumble for my pocket. Text Kieran. Get help.
My hand feels like it belongs to someone else, fingers thick and clumsy. I drag the phone out. The screen lights up, searing white.
KIERAN
On my way back. Where are you? I lost you in the crowd.
Here. Help. Something’s wrong.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. The letters blur and multiply, sliding away. I aim for the H, hit J. Try to backspace—nothing registers.
Another try. The cursor blinks. No letters appear.
“Come on,” I whisper, tears pricking hot. “Please—”
My phone buzzes in my useless hand.
KIERAN
Rules?
Wren?
I can’t make my fingers work. Can’t tell him. Can’t—
Kieran, please find me, please—
“Stop,” I say, and it comes out as a whimper. “Need—Kieran—”
“Shh.” His hand slides lower on my hip. “You’re okay. Just lean on me.”
We reach the stairs. The steps stretch up, impossibly steep.
I try to drop my weight, try to make myself heavy, unmovable. My legs buckle. I grab for the railing with numb fingers but miss completely.
He hauls me up the first step anyway, arm locked around my waist, taking my full weight.
No. Not up. Don’t go up.
I try to hook my foot around the banister, try to grab anything, but my body won’t cooperate. My ankle drags uselessly over the edge of the step.
“Come on,” he mutters, and there’s irritation creeping into his voice now. The helpful mask is slipping.
He drags me up another step. My knee hits the wood, sharp pain cutting through the fog.
The bass thuds distant and muffled. The colors that usually dance are gone—no pink, no gold, no silver. Just creeping, encroaching white at the edges, eating everything.
I try to twist out of his grip. My muscles won’t cooperate. It’s like moving through wet sand.
My vision tunnels.
For a split second, I see it in horrible detail: his arm clamped around my waist, my phone clutched uselessly, black swallowing me.