Chapter 7
seven
On Sunday morning, my head’s pounding from the bass that blasted through the house until three a.m. Early semester celebration.
I rub my eyes, shove my feet into my slippers, and stumble to my best friend’s door, praying to Vengracurus he’s actually inside for once.
“It’s me.”
Several minutes of silence.
Then, the clattering of metal.
One bolt. Two. Three.
All six of the locks he keeps on his door.
Valen cracks it open enough to confirm it’s me before yanking me inside and slamming it shut. The locks reset like a ritual.
“Hey,” he says, voice muffled under the balaclava. He tugs it off, tosses it onto the desk, and his hair explodes in every direction like a man who hasn’t slept in days.
“Thought you’d be at your mansion with your girl.”
“Had business here late last night,” he says, pointing at the wall of humming monitors.
I squeeze into his club chair, but the thing is too damn small for my body. It groans ominously under me. He collapses into his gaming throne like he hasn’t moved all night and crushes an empty energy drink can in his hand.
His eyes catch on my feet, and he slowly shakes his head.
I rub my palm over the embroidered decorations.
It’s a pair of luxury branded slippers I found at an estate sale of some wealthy businessman.
One of my most prized possessions. It was back in my day when I thought being the owner of Playboy Mansion was the pinnacle of success.
Back when I didn’t know any better. Turned out, they were also comfortable.
“Leave my shoes alone.”
One of his eyebrows arches. “There’s a fireplace downstairs. You could do everyone a favor. Toss them in.”
Ignoring his insult, I take a breath. “Okay, well…I came in here because I haven’t had time to study, and I was—”
“Already took care of it.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
Dimples crater into his cheeks as he smirks, giving me a knowing glance. “I got your first set of grades for this semester ready to upload. Turned in your paper on whatever the fuck that business thing was. And renewed your scholarship paperwork with stellar recommendations.”
Warmth floods my entire chest, heavy and unexpected. He clicks away like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t save my entire final semester.
How I got so lucky to have a gazillionaire hacker as my freshman roommate, then best friend, I’ll never know. As much as he plays icy chill, he deeply cares about a select group of people. And I’m thrilled to be one of them.
“Well, you didn’t have to do all of that.”
He smiles in a way I hadn’t seen until he got with his appointed Olivia. “Yeah, I did. You’re my president.” He winks.
I know he doesn’t give a shit about fraternity life. The only reason he joined was that it was expected he would be head of Delta Pi Alpha, not someone like me. But he never wanted the gig. In fact, his entire plan was to destroy the system.
Me? I just wanted a place to belong.
We were a brilliant match. Maybe the computer knew that when it paired us our freshman year as roommates. When we came up with the plan so he wouldn’t have to take the lead and I could.
I was never expected to even be allowed into a fraternity, let alone become president. But because of the man beside me, here I sit. And I know he’d do more for me. Pay my tuition. Pay for anything I wanted. But there’s no way I would let him.
He thinks I did him a favor by taking over. His patsy.
But he’s done everything for me already. I know what he gave up for me. I know what we did to get me here.
We’re bonded for life—not by ritual, not by fraternity shit.
By that.
That one act I never want anyone else to know. Except, the next year’s candidates will have to…
“Will you come to the meeting this evening? It’s about Thriller Thursday,” I beg, but already know his answer.
“Nope.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. As I pull it out, I drop my voice to a stern reply. “Come to the meeting.”
He takes a bite of pizza that looks as if it’s been there for a week. Chewing slowly, he mumbles, “Nope.”
“Fine, bitch.” I stand and head for the door. “Are you at least going to help us get some points on Thursday?”
He locks in on the monitor in front of him. “Nope. And neither will Olivia.”
I undo his twelve locks by muscle memory. “If we lose, it’s your fault.”
“’Kay.”
Shutting the door behind me, I chuckle under my breath as I finally check my phone.
Shit.
I’m scheduled to meet the new head of Northview University tomorrow. President Damon. Everything about her, from the rumors to the photos, screams dangerous. Powerful. Someone who won’t be impressed by grades I didn’t earn.
No name.
No legacy.
No money.
The cards are stacked against me, as usual. But I know how to win over people like her: Do the jobs nobody else is willing to do. That’s how I’ve survived every system so far.
After a shower, food, and lounging in my room, with the Stallions game playing on my laptop, I feel good. Almost bold enough to text Scout. Thumbs hover over the screen, her number sitting at the top. A hint of that freedom from two nights ago lingers in the back of my mind.
But I don’t hit send.
Because I have no idea what to say to her. I’m terrified I’ll get it wrong.
Scout scares me.
The day gets busy. Handling issues, emails, and phone calls I don’t want to make.
That evening, I snap into winning mode. We took Wicked Wednesday and the guys taste victory. They want another.
Every face of my brothers in front of me grows determined and quiet. I’ve been blessed with the ability to call a room to attention without ever saying a word.
“Thriller Thursday,” I begin, hands clasped behind my back. “Four days out. For the freshmen”—my gaze sweeps the row of nervous faces—“remember, you can tank this entire fraternity if you screw around.”
Beckham Locke raises his hand, and it makes me grind my molars.
“Just ask your question, initiate,” Nicky snaps at him.
I don’t know how many times we’ve told him.
“Cat-and-mouse game, right?” He clears his throat like he’s nervous. “But in the dark?”
“The event takes place in Sanguine Manor next door under the full moon—”
“Fidelitas vindicta!”
“For Vengracurus!”
The brothers roar the chant, fists pounding tables. It’s our sacred moon phase. One for every god for the three fraternities and three sororities here at NU.
“Yes, for retribution. And for the god of our house. The mansion is abandoned—no one owns it, as far as we know. But it’s said to be haunted. Officially, we play the ghosts or spirits that night. The sisters are our vessels, the bodies we need to inhabit to gain life or some shit.”
“I’ll put some life into a few of them,” Lex Lynx, one of the freshman, says, licking his lips. Laughter ripples—nervous, because no one’s sure when Lex is joking. He’s not.
“So that’s the thing. If you get distracted and go for too much prey or spend too long with them? The other fraternities will have a shot.”
“I thought the point was tagging them,” a sophomore asks.
“That’s secondary. The main thing is to get a tagged girl to the basement. Tagging and smearing our color paint on their necks is just how we mark them as Delta’s girls. You can tag them in several ways.”
“Come on their tits!”
“On the face!”
“Bukkake!”
A riot of suggestions erupts about various ways to ejaculate on the women once they’re caught.
I wave my hand, and the conversation stops. “Any way you get come on them, then smear our color paint on them marks the prey as ours for the taking. But the goal, gentlemen, is to capture her and bring her to the basement before she makes it to the attic.”
The looks on the freshmen’s faces seem confident, so I have to warn them. “Seems like a simple game of hide and seek, right? It is. The sisters get a head start to hide. We count down. But the real challenge comes when select officers and alumni judges release smoke bombs.”
Men squirm in their chairs.
“Here’s where most of you screw up: the floors fill with thick clouds at timed intervals. They release it section by section. When the gas hits, the girls bolt. You lose track. You panic. People start fighting, taking precious time away from grabbing the sisters.”
A wide-eyed newbie raises a hand. “So…gas masks?”
“Yes. For us. Not the prey.”
Nicky interrupts me with the specifics. “The mansion has three floors and the basement. Our job? Drag as many girls tagged downstairs before they reach the attic. The fraternity with the most girls in the basement, marked and fucked…in any hole, wins.”
I nod. “Correct. Delta wins by numbers. The sororities win if more of their members survive long enough to make it to the top.”
Beckham bites his lip. “So it is hide and seek.”
“Hide and seek,” I confirm. “In a condemned mansion. Full of blind corners. Smoke. Glass traps from last year still stuck in the walls. Structural hazards. Rival houses with vendettas. And a moon phase that makes every asshole on campus think he’s invincible.”
Silence.
Then Nicky asks, “Any other stupid questions before we pray none of you die?”
I clap my hands together.
“Good. Next agenda item.”
As soon as the meeting ends, Moses Graves hovers behind my shoulder like he’s been rehearsing his approach for hours.
Good. I like the kid. He’s hungry.
I jerk my chin toward my office, and he follows me there.
He obeys instantly. I drop into my beat-up leather chair, the one that squeaks every time I breathe, and lace my fingers together like I actually belong in this job. My trousers are perfectly pressed, expensive as hell. I brush a piece of lint off one leg to keep my hands busy.
Moses stands awkwardly until I nod at the chair across from me.
“Sit.”
He folds into it stiffly, elbows on his knees, dark twists falling across his forehead as he stares at the floor. Kid’s nervous. Not about getting into trouble. About being seen.
I’ve been there. Maybe I still am.
His tongue flicks across his lower lip before he speaks.
“Sir, I was—”
“Spit it out.”
He swallows. Hard. “Okay… How did you become president?”
I’m in.
No matter what this kid tells me now? I want him to be my successor. Above the names, the glitz, the money… Moses Graves should be Delta’s next president.
Not the rich boys. Not the legacies. Moses Graves.
A nobody like me.
A kid who had to fight his way into Delta with grit instead of birthright.
“It wasn’t easy,” I tell him. “And it wasn’t something I ever thought I’d do.”
“I know.” His voice lowers. “I’ve heard rumors—”
“It’s not pretty,” I cut in. “And you’ll need a friend.”
His head lifts, brown eyes shining with hope.
“It can’t be me. Or any upperclassman. You’re on your own there. It’s part of the test of being worthy.”
He nods, the tension in his shoulders relaxing. “So…offing someone? We do that freshman year—”
“No. None of those easy assassination assignments for wayward Seventh Society members. Not accepting an appointment with someone’s daughter you didn’t want, either.”
He leans forward. “So, what’s the ritual for becoming president?”
“What you have to do is…dangerous. And disgusting. And it’ll stick in your head for years.” I scrub a hand over my jaw. “If you really want the presidency, I’ll tell you exactly what I did.”
Moses meets my gaze evenly for the first time.
“I want it,” he says, voice firm.
For a moment, I see myself at eighteen—broke, nameless, furious at the world, and desperate for a crown I had no right to claim.
“Alright,” I murmur.
I take a breath.
“This is the story of how I became president of Delta Pi Alpha.”