“Are you sure?” Whistle asks from my right.
She nods immediately, a high giggle bubbling out of her.
He takes her wrist slowly. I watch him watch her as he wraps the tape around and pulls it snug. The red is stark against her pale skin. “There,” he says. “Claimed.”
“Perfect,” she breathes, looking down at it.
“What’s she offering?” I ask quietly as I watch her walk away.
“Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“How generous she feels,” he says, like that’s obvious. “How badly she wants to be noticed.”
I look at the girl. She’s showing it off to her friends.
“It’s just tradition.” I hear she tells them.
Whistle adds, “Keeps it fed.”
“Fed?”
He nods to the pit.
The fire in the cans crackles and more people drift closer to the fence.
“What happens if no one offers?” I ask, the question feeling stupid and naive the moment it’s out.
Whistle shrugs, a dismissive gesture that feels anything but. “Then it gets hungry, and people get unlucky.”
I think of Ivan’s warnings.Don’t go near it.
Whistle tilts his head toward the far edge of the lot. “Come on,” he says, his hand sliding to my lower back. “I’ll show you something better.” He leads me away from the fence, toward a row of trucks parked close together. His is older than most—dented sides, scratched paint, a faded decal peeling from the back window like a sunburnt tattoo.
“You drive this?” I ask.
“Sometimes,” he says, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “When it runs. The Widow is in the shop. My bike, I’m sure you’ve seen it around school.” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. His hand shoots out and pulls me closer. He leans against the tailgate, and I find myself leaning on it next to him. That’s whenI notice it: his smile is a mask, too practiced, too easy. The kind built from years of perfecting the version of himself that gets him what he wants.
He takes a long sip of his cup.
“So, how come you still in school?” I ask, trying to shift his focus. To get him to stop looking at me like I’m something he’s about to eat.
He snorts. “School’s a joke.”
“Really?” I press.
He shrugs, a dismissive roll of his shoulders. “I go when I have to. They keep letting me back, so.” He says it like it’s a loophole he’s proud of, a small rebellion against a world he’s clearly outgrown.
“How old are you?”
He squints, thinking. “Old enough to be out of that shithole this year, though. Thank fuck for that.”
I’m about to ask something else when I glance past him—and the words just die in my throat.
Jax is standing near the edge of the lot, watching. His eyes are locked on me, on Whistle’s hand still resting on my waist. My heart starts hammering against my ribs. Jax takes a single step forward, and I whip around to face Whistle.
“What?” Whistle asks, his gaze already sliding past me to see what I saw.
