“I don’t know. We’ve met a couple of times, and I just wondered if he was into snowball fights.”

“You’ve met Jaxon Vega a couple of times? How exactly did you meet, considering I’ve been with you almost all the time since you got here?”

“I don’t know, just walking around the school. It was only a few times.”

“A few times?” Her eyes almost bug out of her head. “That’s more than a couple. Where? When? How?”

“Why are you being so weird about this?” I’m seriously beginning to regret bringing Jaxon up. I mean, she was freaked out over Flint, but it was a fun kind of freaked out. Right now, it looks more like she’s going to blow a gasket. “He was in the hallway; I was in the hallway. It just kind of happened.”

“Things don’t just happen with Jaxon. He’s not exactly known for being talkative with anyone outside of—” She stops abruptly.

“Outside of what?” I prompt.

“I don’t know. Just…”

“Just?” I ask. She smiles a little sickly but doesn’t say anything else, and it annoys me. Like, seriously annoys me. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“You start sentences and then never finish them. Or you start to say something and halfway through change what you were saying to something else entirely.”

“I don’t—”

“You do. All the time. And honestly, it’s beginning to feel a little weird. Like there’s some kind of secret I’m not supposed to know. What’s going on?”

“That’s ridiculous, Grace.” She looks at me like I’m a few snowflakes short of a snowball. “Katmere is just, you know, full of all kinds of weird cliques and social rules. I didn’t want to bore you with them all.”

“Because you’d rather I commit social suicide?” I arch my brow at her.

She rolls her eyes. “Social suicide is the last thing you need to worry about here.”

It’s the first real thing she’s said since we started this conversation, and I jump on it. “So what do I have to worry about, then?”

Macy sighs, low and long and just a little sad. But then she looks me in the eye and says, “All I was going to say is that Jaxon’s not very friendly with people who aren’t in the Order.”

“The Order? What’s that?”

“It’s nothing, really.” When I keep looking at her, silently pushing her to continue, she sighs again, then adds, “It’s just a nickname we gave the most popular boys at school because they’re always together.”

I think about the guys Jaxon walked into the party with and the ones who were with him in the hall when Flint was carrying me to my room. At the time, I remember thinking that Jaxon looked like the leader, but I didn’t think much of it. I was too busy trying not to stare at him.

Based on my recollections, Macy’s explanation is reasonable. Still, there’s something about the way she says it—and the way she’s looking everywhere but in my eyes—that makes me think there’s more to the story than she’s letting on.

Although, standing in the middle of the hallway doesn’t seem like the best place to keep pushing at her, especially since we really are going to be late if we don’t get moving.

With that in mind, I start walking and Macy does, too, but she sticks close to my side. I give her a weird look, wondering what she’s up to, at least until she asks in a kind of stage whisper, “Have you met the others, too?”

“The other guys in the Order?” I feel a little ridiculous just saying the name out loud. I mean, they’re twelfth-grade students at a boarding school, not running a monastery in Tibet. “No. I’ve only met Jaxon.”

“Only? You mean he was alone?” Now she doesn’t just look worried; she looks downright sick.

“Yeah. So?”

“Oh God! What did he do? Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“Jaxon?” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice.

“Of course Jaxon! That is who we’re talking about, right?”

“No, he didn’t hurt me. Why would you even think that?”

She throws her hands in the air, frustration and fear evident in every line of her body. “Because he’s Jaxon. He’s a one-man demolition crew. It’s what he does!”

“He was…” I shake my head, try to think of the right word to describe our interactions. Then go with generic because I figure Macy won’t get it anyway. “Most of the time he was actually kind of…interesting.”

“Interesting?” This time she looks at me like I just said I wanted to bodysurf the Alaskan tundra. “Okay, I’m confused. Are you sure we’re talking about the same Jaxon?” She pulls me into the nearest alcove, then grabs my hands and squeezes them tightly. “Really tall, really gorgeous, really scary? Black hair, black eyes, black clothes, and a smoking-hot body? Plus the arrogance of a rock star…or the self-proclaimed dictator of a not-so-small country?”

I’ve got to admit, it’s a pretty good description—especially the arrogant part. And the really gorgeous part, even if it doesn’t take into account a lot of the things that make him so attractive. Like his eyes that see way too much and the way his voice gets all dark and growly when he expects things to go his way. Not to mention the thin scar that turns him from merely pretty to sexy af. And also scary af. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“You know you don’t have to lie, right? You can tell me what happened. I swear I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to.”

“You won’t tell anyone what?” I’m thoroughly confused now. Because while it might have been a stretch to call Jaxon interesting, I can’t imagine why the fact that I’ve met him is eliciting this kind of response from my cousin.

“What he did to you?” She starts looking me over, like she’s searching for some proof that I survived a rabid Jaxon attack.

“He didn’t do anything, Macy.” A little impatient now, I pull my hands from hers. “I mean, he wasn’t Gandhi. But he helped me out when I needed it, and he sure as hell didn’t hurt me. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because Jaxon Vega isn’t helpful to anyone. Ever.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Well, you should.” She enunciates each word in an obvious attempt to make sure I listen to—and understand—what she’s saying. “Because he’s dangerous, Grace. Very dangerous, and you should stay as far away from him as you possibly can.”