EVANDER #2
He's crouched down in front of the man, speaking quietly, calmly, telling him exactly what's going to happen if he doesn't start talking. Telling him how easy it would be to make him disappear. How no one would even notice he was gone.
The guy is shaking. Crying. Nodding frantically at whatever Tristan is saying.
Tristan's voice never changes. Stays perfectly even. Perfectly controlled.
It's more terrifying than Lucius's violence.
I take another drag of the cigarette and let my eyes drift to Landon.
He's standing by the door.
Not participating. Not helping.
Just watching.
His blazer is still buttoned. His tie is still perfect. His hands are folded neatly in front of him, and his expression is calm. Composed.
But his eyes.
His eyes are empty.
Not bored. Not disinterested.
Empty.
Like he's watching something clinical. Something abstract. Like this is a problem being solved and he's simply observing the process.
Most people look at Landon Ashford and see perfection. See the polished exterior, the flawless reputation, the golden boy who never steps out of line.
I look at him and see something else.
Something colder.
More dangerous.
Because violence you can see coming is predictable. Expected.
But violence wrapped in perfection? Hidden behind a smile?
That's the kind that destroys you before you even know you're bleeding.
Everyone thinks Landon is the saint of the group.
They're wrong.
He's not a saint.
He's just better at hiding what he is.
I watch him for another moment. Watch the way his eyes track the blood pooling on the floor. The way his mouth stays perfectly neutral, not frowning, not smiling, just... still.
And I know.
If it came down to it—if we ever needed someone to do something truly unforgivable—it wouldn't be me. It wouldn't be Tristan or Lucius.
It would be Landon.
Because he wouldn't hesitate.
Wouldn't feel guilt.
He'd just do it.
And then he'd button his blazer, straighten his tie, and walk out like nothing had happened.
That's what makes him the most dangerous one in this room.
Not the violence.
The control.
Lucius finishes with the first guy—three broken fingers, a shattered nose, and enough bruises to make sure he remembers tonight every time he looks in a mirror.
Tristan finishes with the second—no physical damage, but the guy is sobbing so hard he can barely breathe, completely broken by whatever Tristan whispered to him.
The third guy is curled in the corner, untouched but absolutely terrified.
Good.
I stub out my cigarette on the table and walk over to the first guy. Crouch down in front of him.
He flinches.
I grab his chin. Force him to look at me.
"You're going to leave Ardencrest," I say quietly. "You're going to withdraw from the university. You're going to tell your family it was your decision. And you're never going to speak about what happened tonight."
He nods frantically. "Yes. Yes, I swear—"
"If I hear that you've so much as looked at another girl the wrong way," I continue, my voice dropping lower, "I will find you. And what happened tonight will feel like mercy compared to what I do next."
His face is white. Bloodless.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Good."
I let go of his chin. Stand. Turn to Tristan and Lucius.
"We're done here."
They nod.
We leave the three men on the floor and walk out of the room.
The hallway is empty. The club is still loud, still crowded, still moving like nothing happened.
Because nothing did.
Not officially.
Not in any way that matters to the people dancing downstairs.
Lucius is grinning, wiping blood off his knuckles with a handkerchief. "I fucking love Fridays."
Tristan doesn't respond. He's already moved on, his mind already elsewhere.
Landon is silent. Perfect. Unbothered.
I pull out my phone.
My blood is still running hot from the violence. The adrenaline is still buzzing under my skin, sharp and electric, demanding an outlet.
And my mind snaps immediately to her.
Aurora Lane.
I open my messages. Find the contact I need.
A senior Elite girl. Mallory Sinclair. Daddy's money, mediocre grades, desperate to stay in my good graces.
I type quickly.
Me: Corner the scholarship girl in the library tonight. Tear up her things. Make her scared. I'll pay you five grand.
I hit send.
A few seconds later, the reply comes.
Mallory: Which one?
Me: Aurora Lane. Brown hair. Scholarship housing. You'll know her when you see her.
Mallory: Done.
I slide the phone back into my pocket.
Lucius glances at me. "What was that?"
"Nothing," I say.
He doesn't push.
We return to the VIP section. Sit back down in the booth. Pick up our drinks like nothing happened.
Because that's what we do.
We don't play heroes.
We don't make grand gestures.
We just take out the trash when it gets too close.
And then we move on.
But tonight, I can't move on.
Tonight, all I can think about is her.
The way she stood in the courtyard with coffee dripping off her shoes and didn't apologize.
The way she looked at me and didn't flinch.
The way she rejected my money like it was nothing.
I take a long drink of bourbon and let the burn settle in my chest.
Soon.
Very soon, Aurora Lane is going to learn exactly what happens when you catch my attention.
She's going to learn that I don't let go.
And she's going to learn that running from me is pointless.
Because I've already built the cage.
She just hasn't realized she's inside it yet.