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Tucked into the back of the folder, a single sheet of paper with an address printed at the top: 1247 Ravenswood Lane. Final Initiation. March 15th. 11 PM.

March 15th. That's two Fridays from now.

I snap a photo of the address, my mind already racing. If I can get there, if I can see what happens during the final initiation⁠—

The bathroom door creaks.

Shit.

I shove the folder back onto the desk, my hands moving faster than my brain, and spin around just as Wesley stumbles back into the room. His shirt is half-unbuttoned now, hanging open to reveal a chest that's objectively attractive and does absolutely nothing for me. His grin is lopsided, unfocused, and his eyes struggle to land on me.

"Let's get it on, baby," he slurs, taking a step toward me.

And then he falls.

His knees buckle like someone cut the strings holding him upright, and he goes down hard, catching himself on the edge of the bed at the last second. His head lolls forward, and for a moment, I think he might actually pass out right there on the floor.

I stare at him, this drunk, entitled boy who thinks the world owes him everything, who's probably never faced a real consequence in his life, and I feel nothing but pity.

This is what power looks like when it's unearned. Pathetic.

"Yeah, buddy," I say, crossing the room and kneeling beside him. "Let's get you to bed."

He mumbles something unintelligible as I haul him upright, his arm slung over my shoulders, his weight pressing into me. He's heavier than he looks, all dead weight and expensive cologne, and I half-drag, half-guide him toward the bed.

"You're so pretty," he mumbles into my hair.

And you're so drunk you probably think I'm a lamp right now.

I dump him onto the mattress with more force than strictly necessary, and he lands with a soft oof, his limbs sprawling like a marionette with cut strings. His eyes are already closing, his breathing evening out into the deep, rhythmic pattern of someone on the edge of unconsciousness.

I grab the blanket folded at the foot of the bed and throw it over him, not because I care if he's cold, but because it feels like the right thing to do. The human thing.

He's asleep before I even finish tucking it around him, snoring softly, completely oblivious to the fact that I just rifled through his things and stole information that could burn his entire world down.

I stand there for a moment, staring at him, and feel the weight of what I'm doing settle over me like a lead blanket.

This is for Brandon, I remind myself. This is for all the Taylor Jacksons who don't have someone looking out for them.

I pull out my phone, double-checking that the photos saved—Taylor's page, the address, everything I need.

1247 Ravenswood Lane. March 15th. 11 PM.

I'm going to be there.

And I'm going to find out exactly what they did to my brother.

10

ALEXANDER

Three weeks.

Twenty-one days of carefully maintained distance, of averting my gaze when she walks into the classroom, of keeping my responses clinical and brief. Twenty-one days of control so tight it feels like I'm holding my breath underwater.

And now, watching Elara Cross lean into Wesley Carter's space, I realize my control is about to shatter.

The initiation period ended last week. Wesley emerged unscathed, his arrogance inflated to nauseating heights. He's been back in class for exactly four days, and in that time, he's made it his personal mission to sit as close to Elara as physically possible.