“Maybe I’ll go out and find one of Trinity’s pretty friends to flirt with—just to gather intel, of course.” He smiles to soften the blow of the joke, but I know he could, if he wanted to. With his tattoos, that hair, that smile … It wouldn’t be very hard.

I glare at him, but my body is aching; I just want him to touch me.

“I was going to say …” I pause to gather a breath for courage. Like I said, intimacy issues. Lots of them. “That you’re a part of me, and I can’t live without you. That’s it. Seriously not a big deal.”

“Telling someone they’re a fucking part of you isn’t a big deal?” he chokes out with a laugh. “Oh, Bernadette.” Aaron presses his mouth to mine, even as I consider kneeing him in the junk as hard as I can. And then that’s it for me, there’s no more resistance after that. It’s not even worth pretending that I’m not wet and hungry for him. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he whispers as he balances on his forearms and reaches between us to undo his pants. “You’ve always been a fucking part of me.”

Two hours later, we find ourselves sweaty and disheveled and grinning like fools at a table in the dining room. It’s swanky as fuck in here, but it doesn’t feel any safer than a dive in south Prescott. People are still duplicitous; they still covet and crave and desire.

My afterglow only lasts so long as it takes me to spot Victor and Trinity, sitting at a table of their own in the corner of the room. Victor stares at Trinity with that endless dark gaze of his, and she stares back at him like he’s something to be obtained, something to be conquered and consumed. What she doesn't understand is that a man like Victor Channing can never be tamed.

What she doesn't understand … is that he isn't looking at her like he wants to consume her in a carnal sense, he's looking at her like he's planning on how he might kill her one day.

Oscar joins me and Aaron at the table, sliding into the seat beside mine and throwing that sharp silver gaze of his across the room until he spots James Barrasso. It seems that I'm not the only person in the restaurant who’s staring at Vic and Trinity. James can't seem to take his eyes off of them.

“What do you think that's all about?” Oscar asks absently, fingers teasing the edge of an empty wineglass that's upside down on the table. I wonder if the Oak Valley students have their own secret code, something they might say to one of the waiters to get them to actually pour some wine.

If there is, I certainly don’t know it. Instead, I managed to steal a bottle on my way past the bar earlier; this place is obviously not used to the sticky fingers of Prescott students.

“Trinity and James are fucking,” I say, grabbing a piece of bread from the basket on the table and wondering how long it's been since I actually sat down at a restaurant without the Thing present. He liked to take us all out to dinner and then rape my sister afterward. I feel suddenly sad and set the bread aside for a moment.

“You think so?” Aaron asks, looking between the two of them like he isn't quite convinced. “I mean, I guess it would explain why he's here.”

“What does a mobster’s son have to do with an Oak Valley aristocrat?” I query, shrugging my shoulders as Oscar swings his attention my way. “Only one thing: dick.” I finally pick up the piece of bread up and tear into it, earning a raised brow from Oscar and a smile from Aaron.

Hael and Cal are nowhere to be seen, doing their usual sweeps and collecting gossip.

So far, the only interesting bit of gossip I've encountered personally is that Trinity got a boob job when she turned sixteen. Unremarkable except for the smugness I get at knowing Prescott girls keep it real. I mean, we can't afford fake tits anyway. But otherwise, it seems our mystery woman is squeaky clean.

That, or she's just really, really good at keeping her secrets steeped in shadows.

Oscar Montauk

For weeks I've been watching Bernadette and waiting for the right time to move forward. The day of the murder mystery party, I almost did it, spilled everything out into the open for her to hear. Of course, Victor fucked that up when he interrupted.

Truth be told, I probably would’ve backtracked anyway, said something that I regretted. Despite how hard I've tried to keep Bernadette at arm’s length, she just keeps coming. At this point, she's too entangled in our world for me to save her by driving her away.

All I can do now is help her embrace the darkness.

“Where are you going?” she asks when she sees me standing near the door to the hallway, dressed in black jeans and an Oak Valley Prep hoodie. Don’t ask how I got it. Obviously, I stole it. I might not be as skilled in that arena as Callum, but you don’t survive in Prescott without learning how to take what you need.

“One of Trinity’s friends,” I begin, gesturing absently at my face, “has a big mouth. I learned from her that Trinity has plans for tonight.”

Bernadette gives a curt nod.

“Based on the way you were just gesturing, I’m going to guess this is the friend with the fucked-up nose job?”

I stare back at her, but the joke falls flat because I refuse to laugh at it. Because I’m so goddamn worried about staying in control all the time. It’s just force of habit now, something I’ve learned to live with. But it’s a habit I’d quite literally kill to break.

Then again, I kill for all sorts of reasons.

“Okay, never mind then,” Bernie says, standing there in a loose-fitting t-shirt and some borrowed boxers. It takes me a moment to realize that she’s wearing my boxers. My fingers twitch and then curl into fists.

Seeing her in my clothes makes me feel … impossible. As in, I have no idea how to behave. Emotions burn through me like flames, but there’s no outlet for them other than my wicked tongue.

“Why don’t you go join Victor in the shower? I don’t need a companion for this, and your skillsets lie elsewhere.” I blink through the acidity of my own words, the contacts I’m wearing burning my eyes as I hold them open for far too long in between.

“Did you just … call me a whore?” Bernie asks, putting her hands on her hips and looking down at the floor with her green eyes closed for a brief moment. “Because if you did, we’re going to have problems.”

I feel all of that hate and pain inside of me twist into a tight knot, and then a scoff comes out that I barely register.

“Put on some proper clothes and meet me in the hallway.” I step out and slam the door behind me, only to find Cal waiting against the far wall. He’s got one foot up on the paneling behind him, hands tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie. “Don’t start with me today,” I warn him, moving past him and pausing below a terribly unflattering impressionist painting. It’s as if Claude Monet’s Poppies were vomited out the mouth of an amateur.

I sneer at the wall because I sincerely despise the wealthy.

My father was one. He thought of himself as an aristocrat. And then, one day, he found out we’d lost everything, and he snapped. I ended up half-strangled in a hole with my dead mother’s arms wrapped around me. My skin ripples in a shiver that I can’t control; there are many reasons why I hate being touched. Every time those thoughts get so loud that I can’t breathe, I get a new tattoo or a piercing and the pain drives it away like a cross wielded by an exorcist.