The coupe purrs against the curb like it was born to park here, even if half the gawking looks say we weren’t. Sleek black, sunlight sliding off the hood like it knows my name. Our doors shut almost in unison—too close, too practiced. One thud too many for strangers. And of course, the front steps notice.

“The same car?” someone gasps, scandal and delight braided tight.

“Carpool,” another offers, flimsy as tissue.

“Since when do they ride together?” a third cuts in, already sharpening knives.

The voices stack, tumble, multiply until the air hums with teeth.

Salt stains from last week’s snow crunch under my heels, little knives reminding me winter doesn’t care about theatrics. My breath ghosts out in a plume. Cassie’s does too—two twin clouds like they rehearsed it.

I smooth my blazer because it gives my restless hands a job. She tightens her ponytail because ritual is how she claims a room. We don’t look at each other. Looking would be a confession.

The glass doors loom smug and reflective, pretending not to know us while recording every detail. Inside, the lobby hums with disinfectant, wet wool, gossip disguised as chatter. Phones tilt without tilting. Eyes cover mouths without covering. The hallway votes with its stares.

We fall into step, an invisible choreography we never practiced but somehow always knew. Too perfect. Too polished. And the whispers feed on that perfection like wolves.

Poster hearts for Gloamhearts sag under surrendering tape. Someone’s scrawled horns on one, ink still wet. Bring Your Own Drama. Cute. Fitting.

“Captain?” A voice slices through—sweet on the surface, sugared with suspicion underneath. Marcy Lorne, sophomore flyer, ponytail defying physics, peels out of the cheer knot to block our path. Her eyes ping-pong between Cassie and me like she’s caught us sneaking back from a crime scene. “Why are you two coming in together? And why was Fairborn driving Quinveil’s car?”

The hallway stalls, ears cocked.

Cassie doesn’t blink. “Parental tyranny,” she says, crisp as the morning announcements. “Mine and hers decided our rivalry was going to tank the program if we didn’t… work on it.”

“Carpool therapy,” I add, syrupy venom. “One vehicle. One peace treaty. Minimal bloodshed.”

Marcy’s jaw drops. “Wait—you’re serious?”

“Deadly,” Cassie says. Her chin tilts a fraction, sharp enough to cut glass.

“Parental nonsense,” I echo, dripping boredom like ink. “Apparently, we’re supposed to ‘learn to get along’ before we destroy the whole school. Their words, not mine.”

The cheer knot titters, delighted by blood in the water. “Oh my god, it’s, like, punishment carpool.”

“Think of it as community service,” Cassie tosses smoothly, already brushing past.

The whispers spike another octave. Cover story delivered. Plausible enough to eat.

And because the universe hates me, Nate Ashborne chooses that exact moment to peel out of the lacrosse pack like the hallway parted by divine right. Shoulders broad, grin too easy, that unbearable shine of a boy who’s never once had to earn his orbit. His hoodie reeks of lemon-bright detergent, so clean it stings my teeth.

He stations himself directly in Cassie’s gravity, grin dialed gallant. “Gloamhearts. With me.” Not a question. An offering.

My jaw stays loose. My face bored. Boredom is safer than the knife-edge truth gnashing in my chest. The ring under its glamour doesn’t shift, but I do. Jealousy isn’t in the metal—it’s in my blood, hot and unclaimed.

Cassie doesn’t blink. Her chin lifts the barest fraction, captain composure carved in marble. “I’ll let you know.” Smooth as glass. Untouchable.

The squad hears yes because they’re desperate. Onlookers hear maybe because maybe is tastier than certainty.

And me? I feel her tether brush against mine. Not words—just the faint spark under my ribs, her thought sliding against my skin like a fingertip traced inside bone: Easy, Firefly. It’s optics. I’ve got you.

I don’t answer. If I open the link, even silently, I might spill something honest.

Nate’s orbit lingers too long. The squad’s already whispering wedding hashtags when the air shifts again—detergent still in my nose, but under it something sharper, antiseptic, clinical. Wrong. Doesn’t belong in a high school hallway.

Bree Halden.

She doesn’t shove through the crowd. She doesn’t need to. She drifts, posture rehearsed into precision, shoulders squared like someone ironed the confidence into her over winter break.

Her stride is just a notch too precise, eye contact held half a beat longer than any kid our age should manage. Break didn’t just change her polish—she either borrowed it or bought it wholesale.

“Captain’s in high demand,” she says, pitched perfect so half the hallway gets it without anyone accusing her of trying. Her gaze slides over Cassie—lingers—then pivots past me with a lazy cruelty, like I’m not worth the calories. “Vice looks… blindsided.”

Laughter zips down the lockers like a spark on fuse wire.

I smile sharp enough to cut. “Blindsided takes talent. You’ll need practice.”

Her eyes flick once, cool and deliberate, but she doesn’t bite. She lets silence do the work for her, and the squad titters because they mistake it for victory. Bree drifts forward, antiseptic-citrus wrongness trailing like a signature, vanishing into a knot of sophomores who look at her like she invented oxygen.

The ring under its glamour cools against my skin—a flicker of Cassie through the tether: Calm down. I’ve got this.

I keep my expression bored, jaw aching with how hard I’m grinding it. Bree didn’t just show up—she arrived. Different from last term. And I don’t know yet if it’s practice… or power.

We separate along our pre-planned geometry—her to the right bank of lockers, me to the left—because distance sells the lie, even if it tastes like pennies.

Metal bangs open, echoes sharp as cymbals. A girl two down curses when hers jams, then kicks it into submission. The intercom coughs, threatens to speak, thinks better of it.

I spin my combination by feel. Ritual. Anchor. Pretend this is just a locker, not a stage. But the whispers behind my shoulder keep humming:

“They’re still talking.”

“Punishment carpool.”

“Fairborn’s car, not Quinveil’s.”

“Their parents must be desperate.”

“Bet they’ll crack before Gloamhearts.”

The ring stays cool on my hand. Glamour holds its mall-glass lie. Cassie doesn’t look over. I don’t either. Looking would be gasoline.

Bree makes sure the crowd doesn’t forget her. She leans against her locker like it was designed for her bones, posture so polished it squeaks. Sophomores orbit, drinking down her cadence like it’s oxygen. She doesn’t glance my way—but she doesn’t need to. Every line of her body screams she knows she’s in the triangle now.

Homeroom swallows us like tide. Rows. Desks. Fluorescents buzzing penance overhead. We take our assigned estrangement—two rows apart, two desks between. Far enough for adults to believe in maturity, close enough for my peripheral vision to remain a hazard.

I line up my notebook, date in the corner, hands desperate for something safe.

Roll call drones. The teacher’s voice is worn, essays ground down to dust. Names march. Papers shuffle.

“Riley Hart,” she says, and the script arrives thin as tissue. “Extended family leave.”

It lands like a dropped plate.

The room holds its breath, then pretends it didn’t hear the crash. A pen clicks. A chair sighs. Whispers pressed into sleeves: Her Instaveil hasn’t pinged since break. No date. No story. Just gone.

My mouth tastes like copper. I underline the date twice, hard enough to dent the page.

Across the rows, Cassie sits soldier-straight, eyes forward. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t need to. The tether brushes once—steady, like a hand smoothing my sleeve: Breathe.

I obey, because not obeying feels too much like losing.

The doorway claims its last entrant a beat later. Bree Halden. Timed to the second, posture perfect, like she auditioned for “late arrival” and nailed the callback. She scans the room once, casual enough to cut, then chooses the exact seat that triangulates me and Cassie with surgical ease.

That antiseptic-citrus ghost slides through the vents again, gone before anyone else notices.

She opens her notebook with quiet precision, faint smile curling like she knows the script we’re stuck in. Like she’s just waiting for her line.

The bell spits us back into the hall like coins from a cracked machine. Lockers bang, chatter spikes, air thick with paper dust and floor polish. Geometry holds—we peel into the current near each other but never touching, orbiting like parallel storms. Optics, optics, optics.

The whispers multiply anyway:

“Punishment carpool—parents forcing it.”

“They’ll combust before Gloamhearts.”

“Why would Cassie be driving her car?”

“Because they’re practicing not murdering each other.”

“Then why the matching rings?”

“They’re glamours, duh. Fake.”

“Everything about them’s fake.”

“Nate asked her already—she didn’t say no.”

“So she’s holding out.”

“Or waiting for someone better.”

“She’s saving it for the Gloamhearts Dance, I swear. Big reveal.”

“Or they’re secretly together.”

“Don’t be stupid. They hate each other.”

“Not that much.”

The hallway hums with contradictions, every voice a pebble hitting glass. My face stays bored, practiced neutrality. My pulse doesn’t listen.

“Quinveil.”

Michael Sandalwood steps into my lane like the universe put him there on purpose. Peppermint gum. Pressed blazer. The kind of careful kindness that feels rehearsed but not cruel. His eyes are steady, not hunting. Almost too steady.

“Gloamhearts,” he says—my name folded into the offer like a ribbon. “With me.”

Heat claws up my throat, sharp and petty wildfire. The old rumor scratches under my ribs, ugly and loud. My bag strap bites my palm because my fingers need something to hurt.

Cassie doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t have to. The tether cools against my skin, just enough to register—her presence sliding into mine, a pulse I can hold. But underneath her composure, something else bleeds through. Guilt. A shadow of memory that isn’t mine but presses anyway: Michael. Her weapon, once. A rumor she used to wound me.

The chill of it catches me off guard—her regret comes fast, hot on its heels. Then warmth presses in, soft, insistent, like her palm on the bruise she left. An apology without words.

I shouldn’t forgive her this easily. I hate that I want to.

Michael waits, earnest. I meet his eyes because asking with a spine deserves one back. “You deserve a sure answer,” I tell him, sanding the edges until it gleams. “I don’t have one I can give you.”

He takes it without theatrics. No sulk, no push. Just a nod and a half-smile he doesn’t spend. “Fair enough,” he says, and the crowd swallows him back up.

Cassie’s gaze tracks him for exactly one beat—captain optics, damage assessment—and then returns to center. I do the merciful thing and look away first, because if I don’t, the tether might betray me.

The whispers pounce the second he’s gone:

“She turned him down.”

“No, she’s stringing him along.”

“Why else would he even ask if she wasn’t sending signals?”

“Maybe she’s holding out for Nate.”

“Or maybe for Cassie.”

“Did you see the way she looked at her?”

“They hate each other.”

“Not enough to keep from touching.”

“She’s burning up. You can smell it.”

Rumor doesn’t need microphones. It just needs breath. And once it starts, it doesn’t stop—it replicates. My fae ears pick up every strand, sharper than they should, stacking in messy layers until I can’t tell which one’s first. Contradiction doesn’t slow it. Contradiction feeds it. One girl swears I rejected Michael, another swears I’m stringing him, and both stories multiply like wildfire. Patterns, rhythms, repetitions—I can hear the way gossip loops itself, like bad math working toward the same wrong answer. None of them care what’s true. They care about the story sounding good enough to keep.

I walk on, jaw tight, heart a drum. The tether hums at my wrist—quiet, steady. Hers.

The hallway swallows Michael and the rumors he left, but the tether between me and Cassie doesn’t let me forget him. A guilty pang leaks through from her side, threaded under her usual cool composure—sharp as glass but weighted with memory. Michael. The rumor she once fed the squad, painting me like a girl who couldn’t keep her legs shut. It wasn’t true. Still isn’t. And yet here we are, his name ghosting between us like it owns a lease. Her warmth presses through a beat later—apology-soft. I don’t answer. If I open the tether, I’ll say something I can’t take back.

AP History first. Halloway’s voice hums on about institutions and euphemisms, his chalk squeaking across the board while I pretend to care about treaties. Cassie sits two rows ahead, perfect posture, ponytail gleaming like the lesson’s happening for her benefit. I write the date three times in the margin to keep my hands busy. My magic keeps pressing at the glamour under my skin, coiling against the lies in the textbook.

The tether flicks cold once—her subtle warning to hold steady. I inhale, exhale, obey. I hate that she can calm me. I hate that I need it.

Precalc is worse. The fluorescents buzz sharp enough to rattle my teeth while Mr. Raines drones through sine curves. My pencil nearly snaps in my grip before the tether glides cool-warm again—her silent hand on mine, forcing the tension out. I drum a three-beat tap against my notebook anyway until I smother it by tracing waveforms instead. Across the aisle, Cassie doesn’t look at me once, but her knee bounces under the desk. Same rhythm. Same burn. We don’t touch, but we might as well.

Physics blurs by in dust and radiator heat, equations written like stone tablets we’re meant to worship. My notes are clean, but my pulse is messy, pacing every breath Cassie takes three seats over. She doesn’t speak to me, doesn’t glance once, but I feel her. Always. The tether hums steady between us—her warmth sliding across whenever my chest tightens too much, as if she’s smoothing wrinkles only she can see. It feels like a leash and a gift all at once, and I don’t know which one makes me angrier.

Between bells, Bree appears. Never in our classes—she’s a sophomore, orbiting the wrong track—but always in the halls. Shoulders squared, stride rehearsed, eye contact too sharp for sixteen. Something in her polish feels borrowed. Wrong. Detergent clean, but laced with that thin, clinical citrus that doesn’t belong in a human hallway. She doesn’t look at me exactly. She looks through me, like she’s already filed me under “weakness.” I file her under later.

By the time the lunch bell sets the school loose, the day already tastes like fryer oil and citrus cleaner. The cafeteria yawns wide, swallowing a thousand voices, trays rattling like loose teeth.

We split at the doors, as choreographed as any routine—Cassie veering right to the cheer table by the windows, me left to the debate kids and their brittle sarcasm. Separate laughter. Separate orbit. Same gravity.

Phones tilt without tilting. Rumors chew on the air.

“She shut Michael down.”

“She didn’t say no—she’s holding out.”

“She’s saving it for Nate.”

“Or she’s saving it for Cassie.”

“Don’t be stupid, they hate each other.”

“Nobody wears matching rings unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless.”

And of course, Bree already has her stage set near the trophy case. A bench of sophomores gathered like disciples, her voice pitched perfectly to carry. “Leadership’s brutal on friendships,” she says, sweet as venom.

A boy tosses her a grape without warning. She catches it midair without looking. Reflex too smooth for last semester. She eats it like she owns the script.

The act begins.

The act begins.

Cassie’s already got the cheer table orbiting her like she’s their private sun—backs straight, faces tilted to catch her light. Even across the cafeteria I can hear her cadence: clipped, assured, captain through and through. She was born to command, and she knows it.

I should ignore it. I don’t.

A junior pipes up about fundraising, and I watch Cassie’s hand slice the air—dismissive, polished, final. She doesn’t even need words to say she’s decided.

“No coupon books,” she says, loud enough to cut through the cafeteria’s hum. “We’re not pawning ourselves like door-to-door salesmen.”

My fork hits my tray hard enough the tines squeal. Heat climbs my throat before I can swallow it. The debate kids at my table groan because they know that sound. They know I’m already moving.

I push off from the bench, cross the aisle. Gravity shifts with me. Phones tilt without tilting. The fryer spits behind the line, sharp and greasy, and the smell of burnt oil clings to the air like smoke.

“Not all of us have parents ready to bankroll your banquets, Captain,” I say, leaning one hip against the condiment bar like I own it. “Coupon books actually raise money. You know—fundraising?”

The cafeteria stills and leans closer, like a hundred heads just remembered they have ears.

Cassie doesn’t blink. Her ponytail gleams under the fluorescents, and her eyes are as cold as steel just sharpened. Her scent cuts through fryer oil and body spray—frosted citrus, clipped camellia, clean vanilla under strain. Sharp enough to cage me.

“Banquets get us sponsors,” she says. “Visibility. Real numbers. Optics matter.”

I smile like a blade. “Optics, sure. As long as we’re selling our souls with the hors d’oeuvres.”

Laughter cracks through the tables—harsh, nervous, delighted. Someone mutters oof loud enough to echo.

Cassie tilts her chin, that imperious captain line. “Better than washing cars like it’s still 20220. This is a team, Quinveil, not a strip show for pocket change.”

Gasps. Phones lift higher.

My blood sings. I can feel my glamour thrum, heat blooming under my skin, my scent edging darker—burnt sugar, ozone, something dangerous I hope no one here understands.

“It would work,” I say, sweet and venomous, leaning just close enough that if I reached an inch more I’d brush her arm. The air between us sharpens into glass. “Half the school would line up to see you in shorts.”

And they would. All of them. Sex sells—it always has, whether Cassie wants to admit it or not. If I were ruthless about it, I’d rope in the lacrosse boys too. Shirts off, buckets in hand, let the gawkers pay for the show. Empowerment and profit in one. But I don’t say that part out loud. Let her think this is just a jab, not strategy.

Her mouth almost betrays her. Almost. The faintest twitch like she’s holding back a smile—or a snarl—or both. And then she delivers the kill with surgical sweetness:

“Please,” Cassie says, voice smooth enough to skate on. “Half the school would pay double just to watch you soaked through, Quinveil. One bucket of water, a white t-shirt, and you’d bankrupt the entire senior class in an afternoon.”

Gasps. A shrieked oh my god.

Phones tilt higher.

My blood roars. Heat flushes my neck, my glamour thrumming like it wants to split. Because she meant it as a strike—but gods, she knows exactly what she’s saying. And so does everyone else. The whispers tear at the edges of the silence: Did you hear that? She called Mira hot.

Easy, her thought brushes mine, a flicker through the tether. Don’t bite unless you want to give them teeth.

The cafeteria splits—half laughing because they think she gutted me clean, half whispering the truth they don’t dare say too loud: no two people fight like this unless they’re already standing too close to the fire.

And then Bree slides in. Perfect timing. Tray balanced, posture rehearsed. Her voice rides the silence, pitched exactly to carry: “If Captain and Vice can’t agree on fundraising, maybe the squad needs new leadership.”

A sharper gasp. Even sharper silence.

Cassie doesn’t give her the glance she wants. Her tone is clipped neat as a ribbon. “Unity isn’t uniformity.”

I let my smile curl into something sweet enough to rot teeth. “And some of us don’t need to borrow polish to shine.”

Bree’s eyes spark too long before she looks away. The grape she’s been rolling between her fingers splits with a wet pop, juice bright on her nails.

The cafeteria hums louder. Rumors chew the air raw:

“They’re tearing each other apart.”

“They’re into each other, look at that.”

“Vice is gunning for Captain’s spot.”

“No—look, they’re performing.”

“Why does it look like foreplay?”

The tether hums hot under my skin again, Cassie’s thought sliding against mine like a palm steadying me: Play it right, Firefly. We’re winning the room.

And gods help me, she’s right.

I take a step closer, not enough to touch but enough to make the distance between us part of the act. “Banquet plus car wash,” I say, voice pitched to carry. “You get your optics. I get actual money. Compromise. The squad wins both ways.”

Cassie’s gaze locks mine, and in that icy-blue there’s a flicker of pride, approval, something sharp and bright enough to burn. Across the tether: Good. That’s how you lead without losing the fire.

She turns to the cafeteria at large and says, “Vice Captain Quinveil and I agree. Dual fundraiser. Consider it decided.”

Murmurs ripple like a wave. Unity. Strategy. Power. The story rewrites itself before my eyes.

And Bree? Bree sits there with grape juice staining her nails, watching the crowd shift to our side again, her smile carved a little too tight.

The cafeteria roars back to life, but I’m still thrumming, every inch of me singing with post-battle adrenaline. Cassie’s words echo in my head—white t-shirt, soaked through—and gods help me, I’m not sure which part stings worse: the burn of the strike or the heat curling low because she meant every syllable.

She doesn’t look at me now, not directly. Captain composure, haloed in winter light at her table. But the tether hums once across my ribs: We won that, Firefly.

I press my carton of milk to my cheek until the chill cuts. If I keep replaying her voice in my head, I’ll combust. The milk smells faintly sour, cafeteria-standard, and my nose wrinkles before I force myself to sip anyway. Something normal. Something grounding.

A shift beside me makes me glance up. Naomi slides her tray down like it belongs—because it does—and settles into the chair at my right. Ravenrest blazer immaculate, white shirt pressed, ribbon neat at her throat. Nobody looks twice. They never do.

“You’re loud today,” she says, soft enough that it could be about the fundraiser spat, soft enough that anyone overhearing thinks she’s teasing. But her eyes flick sideways, sharp as ice. “Riley’s locker. There’s a flyer inside. Silverrow Wellness.”

My fork stills mid-air, squealing faintly against the tray. The sound skates sharp down my spine, overstim too sudden. I bite the inside of my cheek, copper tang blooming as I set the fork down before I snap it.

Across the table, Kess has already sat—hood down, tie loose, posture lazy as ever. Perfect camouflage. She spears a grape off my tray like it’s hers. “And another one on the bulletin board by admin,” she says, chewing around the edges of a grin. “Same glossy print. Same logo. Little too polished to be student-club junk.”

My pulse skips. Two flyers, two places. Riley missing. A desk that still echoes empty when roll is called. And the whispers I half-caught this morning slide sharper now: She hasn’t posted since break.No Instaveil pings.Grounded, maybe? They don’t sound like gossip anymore. They sound like static, like smoke curling under a locked door.

The tether stirs again—Cassie, of course. She’s not near enough to hear the words, but the spike in me must have carried. A brush against my chest, quick and questioning: What is it? The brush feels warmer than it should, like she slipped and let want bleed through professionalism.

I don’t answer. Not here. Not yet. If I open that tether, the words won’t stop.

I keep my face smooth, lift a slice of pizza like I care more about grease than dread, and murmur to Naomi and Kess without moving my lips: “After school. Somewhere clean.”

Naomi dips her head like she’s tasting agreement. Kess kicks my shin under the table in approval, casual as breathing.

The cafeteria spins on, phones still angled like mirrors, rumors still snapping at Cassie and me like wolves. They’re faking it. They’re in love. They hate each other. They’ll combust by Gloamhearts. But under it all, there’s the sharp bite of copper on my tongue and Naomi’s word like a hook: Silverrow.

Riley Hart’s absence isn’t just absence. It’s bait. And I’m starting to feel the line tighten.

The cafeteria breaks apart in waves, trays slamming, laughter spilling back like nothing happened. But the air around me still hums, scorched with rumor and ring-warmth. Post-battle adrenaline crackles under my skin. My fork hasn’t even cooled, and already I want to pace, to burn it out.

Cassie doesn’t look at me when the squad pulls her into orbit again, but the tether between us glows steady. Compromise landed. Room won. The thought brushes mine, even, professional. I don’t answer—because if I do, I’ll tell her what the heat in my ribs really feels like.

The bell saves us. Metal legs scrape, voices climb, and we scatter back into the current.

Organic chem smells like acetone and burnt sugar, the whole lab hot with Bunsen flame and teenage panic. My notes are neat, my titration exact, but my mind is still in the cafeteria—still hearing the gasp when Cassie said one bucket of water, Quinveil. Still replaying Bree’s smile too sharp to be real.

Gym doesn’t help. Sneakers squeak, whistles shriek, bodies collide, and my ears prickle with every layered sound until it feels like my skull is too small to hold them. Cassie runs drills on the other side of the room, ponytail slicing gold through the air, her precision making half the squad glance between us like they’re waiting for round two. The tether glides cool-warm again, subtle, a reminder she knows I’m buzzing too high.

Study hall is worse. Silence should steady me, but it just leaves space for Riley’s absence to scrape bone. Naomi’s across the room, white hair catching the light, posture too still to be casual. She doesn’t look at me long. Doesn’t need to. Message delivered.

By the time AP lit drones through Whitman’s verses, my body is still in the desk but my mind is in Riley’s locker. The scratch of my pen is steady, dutiful, while my chest aches with the weight of something stolen, something flaunted.

The final bell cuts through the hall like steel.

Naomi waits by the lockers, spine straight as a blade. Kess sprawls nearby, too casual to be innocent. Cassie falls into step beside me, blazer crisp, tether brushing mine with that unbearable steadiness that keeps me from cracking in public.

We duck into the east stairwell alcove—the kind of corner that eats sound, where secrets survive. It always smells faintly of radiator heat and chalk dust, like the building hides its bones here. Footsteps fade before they reach us. A perfect corner for secrets.

Cassie drops her bag against the wall, blazer half-unbuttoned, head tipping back against the cinderblock like she’s finally allowed to breathe. No audience. No eyes, her tether hums, warm against my ribs.

I want to say something clever. Something sharp. What slips out is closer to confession. “You realize you basically told the entire cafeteria you’d pay to see me wet.”

Her head tilts, slow, deliberate, the kind of move that should be outlawed in confined spaces. “Don’t flatter yourself, Quinveil.” But her mouth curves the barest degree, like she knows exactly what she said.

My glamour prickles, heat sparking along my skin. My scent slips traitorous—burnt sugar, ozone, the faint scorch of caramel at the edge of breaking. Cassie inhales once, lashes flicking, and the tether between us tightens until it feels like she’s standing inside my ribcage.

Naomi groans, dragging a palm down her face. “Saints above, if I have to watch you two flirt-bicker one more time—”

“We don’t flirt,” Cassie and I say in the same breath. Mine comes out too fast, too guilty. Hers comes out like fact.

Kess snorts from her perch two steps up, hood hanging loose, amber eyes bright with amusement. “If that wasn’t flirting, then I’m a choirgirl. And trust me—nobody’s ever accused me of being pure.”

I open my mouth to argue—Naomi cuts in first, voice sharp enough to shear steel. “Riley.”

The air drops. My humor shrivels.

Naomi’s pale hair catches the fluorescents, her gaze steady. “Her locker hasn’t been touched. Not since before break. She never came back.”

It lands in my gut like a stone. Of course she didn’t. Because she couldn’t.

Kess leans her shoulder against the rail, casual as smoke. “And somebody wants us to think she did. That Silverrow Lake Wellness flyer—same bland slogan, same sterile glamour. One in her locker, one on the bulletin by the gym. Official enough to look boring. Wrong enough to itch if you stare too long.”

The word Shroud hums under my skin without anyone needing to say it. The tether jumps; Cassie steadies me before I tip into the spiral. Easy, Firefly. We’ll follow the threads. Together.

My throat’s tight. “So Riley’s not absent. She’s gone. And somebody wrapped it in a field trip pamphlet.”

Naomi’s jaw locks. “Exactly. And the longer the school buys that story, the colder the trail gets.”

Kess’s grin is all teeth, too sharp for a hallway. “Then maybe it’s time we heat it back up.”

The door creaks open before I can answer.

Bree.

Balancing a stack of books like it’s a stage prop, gaze sliding across us with that polished-too-fast confidence. She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t smile. Just lingers a half-beat too long, citrus-clinical scent slicing through chalk dust and radiator heat.

“Busy little conference,” she says lightly, and then she’s gone, the door sighing shut behind her.

I exhale too late.

Cassie’s shoulder brushes mine, deliberate, steady. Her thought threads mine like a blade wrapped in silk: Don’t let her smell blood.

I nod, even as my pulse betrays me. Because maybe Bree heard everything. Maybe she heard nothing. And either way—the game just tilted.

Naomi’s the first to break it. “We split. Cassie, Mira—you two chase the Wellness Center. Get inside, see what it’s covering. Kess and I will look bigger. Disappearances aren’t just here—three girls from Silverrow, two from Briarfield. We’ll cross-check schools, track the pattern.”

Cassie folds her arms, captain-sharp. “So we’re the infiltration team while you two play archivists?”

Naomi’s eyes flash like cut ice. “While we hunt the why. You want to win the game? Someone has to read the board.”

Kess leans back on the rail, wolf-grin easy. “Besides, I don’t blend well at a wellness spa. I’d bite someone before yoga.”

My laugh escapes before I can stop it. “You’d still pull off the leggings.”

Cassie groans, pressing a palm over her face. Focus, the tether hums, warm under my ribs.

“Tomorrow,” Naomi says firmly. “You two take the Wellness Center. Kess and I work the outer web. We regroup after school with whatever we dig up.”

Cassie inclines her head like she’s sealing a treaty. “Done.”

“Done,” I echo, though my stomach’s already a storm.

Masks back on. We file out, peel apart into our roles. Naomi and Kess vanish into the crowd; Cassie and I cut for the front doors, already sparring before we’re halfway down the hall.

“You’re not driving,” she declares, voice pitched to carry. “You can’t even park straight.”

“That lamppost attacked me,” I shoot back. “And it’s my car, Captain Control.”

“You say that like I didn’t save us from a mailbox yesterday.”

Gasps and laughter ripple along the lockers. Rumor sharks smell blood. Phones angle without angling.

“You’re just mad you don’t look good in leather seats,” I toss over my shoulder.

Cassie’s eyes flash, icy and amused. The tether between us sparks hotter—keep playing, Firefly, they’re watching.

The winter air cuts sharp as we spill into the lot, chatter trailing behind us like a tail. My coupe waits sleek and black, sunlight skating off its hood, smug as a cat among sedans.

Cassie holds out her hand. Not asking. Demanding. “Keys.”

A few heads turn. Phones tilt. They hear the command, not the pulse beneath it.

I arch a brow, dangling them just out of reach. “Princess drives her own car.”

Her eyes narrow, blue sharpened to ice. “Princess doesn’t know how to merge without nearly killing us. Keys.”

A ripple of laughter rides the air around us. My glamour hums, my pride bristles—Fae instinct screaming mine. The coupe is mine, the choice is mine, the road should be mine.

But the tether thrums low and steady under my ribs, warm where it anchors into me, and I hear what no one else can: let me protect you.

I could win. I always could. I could fold her with a smile, with a spark, with the weight of who I am. But gods, I love the way she stands there, spine straight, hand out like it’s her right as my wife to take what she’s decided is hers.

So I drop the keys into her palm.

Phones catch the motion, murmurs crackle like static. To them it looks like surrender. To me it tastes like victory—because I chose to give.

“Don’t scratch her,” I mutter, sulking just enough to sell it.

Cassie’s smirk is razor-smooth as she rounds to the driver’s side. “Buckle up, Firefly.”

And when the engine purrs to life under her hand, the tether hums warm again, a secret pulse that says what I don’t: mine, too.

The city blurs past in streaks of light and concrete, Cassie’s hands sure on the wheel, her jaw locked in that captain’s tension that means she’s holding more than she’ll say out loud. The tether hums between us, warmer every mile. I should ask where she’s taking us, but I already know.

Ravenrest Overlook.

The coupe curls into the gravel lot like it belongs here, headlights catching the edge of the cliff, the sprawl of Dominveil glittering beneath us like a thousand secrets refusing to stay buried. Couples are already parked along the rim—windows fogged, laughter muffled. Everyone knows what this place is. Everyone knows the risk.

The engine cuts, the silence rushes in—and then Cassie is on me.

Her mouth finds mine before I can even breathe, sharp with hunger, with the need she’s been swallowing all day. I answer with teeth and heat, my fingers tangling in her perfect ponytail until it finally, finally slips. Her gasp against my lips is a victory I’ll never stop craving.

Her hands roam my waist, my thighs, too hot, too desperate, pulling me across the console until I’m in her lap, knees braced against leather. The coupe rocks under us, windows fogging in seconds. My glamour strains, scent spilling sharp and sweet into the small space—burnt sugar, ozone, citrus bright off her skin—and she moans low in her throat like it’s her undoing.

Gods, she tastes like frost and defiance and every dare I’ve ever wanted to take. Every kiss is a claim. Every brush of her tongue is a promise.

“Mira,” she breathes between kisses, her hands sliding under the hem of my blazer, fingertips skating my ribs like she wants to memorize me. “I can’t—gods, I can’t do this for a whole month.”

My laugh comes out wrecked, tangled with a whimper when her mouth trails down my jaw. “You think I can? Pretending not to want you every second? It’s torture.”

Her grip tightens, pulling me flush against her. “Then we don’t hide.”

“We have to,” I groan, biting her lip before pulling back just enough to see her eyes—blue fire in the dark. “The dance. The reveal. That’s the plan.”

Her expression wavers—frustration, want, love—all crashing together. “I don’t care about plans. I care about this.” She drags my hand to her chest, lets me feel the frantic hammer of her heart. “About you.”

My throat burns. The tether flares, bright and hot, wrapping us both in a cocoon no mask could pierce. “Cassie…”

We don’t stop. We can’t. Her mouth drags back to mine, hungry, unyielding, until my lips are swollen, my body trembling with the effort it takes not to cross that final line. The air in the car is thick with steam, our breaths ragged, and the whole lot beyond us feels like a stage we’re seconds from being caught on.

I want her. Gods, I want her. But I also want… more.

My forehead presses to hers, sweat and breath mingling. “We can’t just build this on sex,” I whisper, the words scraping out like confession. “If all we do is burn, we’ll never last.”

Cassie’s eyes flash, furious with want but steady too. “So we wait.”

My chest tightens. “Not just until the dance. Longer. We set a line neither of us can cross until we’re ready.”

Her lips part, still damp from mine. “How long?”

My breath stutters. “Infernalight. Our birthday. Eight months.”

She freezes, chest rising hard against mine. I can feel the protest building in her bones—but then it shifts. Her hands cup my jaw, trembling now for a different reason. “Eight months,” she repeats, voice low, like she’s tasting the weight of it. Her gaze searches mine, steady even as her breath shudders. “Mira… I know what that means for you. For the fae. Once you say it, it’s not just a promise. It’s binding.”

My throat tightens. She gets it.

Her thumb brushes my cheek, tender even through the storm. “Even without magic—I know you. Once you commit, you don’t let go. Not with your vows. Not with your people. Not with me.”

Something inside me fractures, rebuilt in the same heartbeat. No one’s ever seen it that clearly, not even Naomi.

Cassie swallows, words catching like she’s afraid to let them out, but she does anyway. “And I don’t want to just be the girl who rescued you from Daevan, or the name you clung to so you wouldn’t be cornered. I want to earn this. Earn you. I want us to be real—not just because you needed a way out, but because you chose me, and I chose you back.”

The air deserts my lungs. My fire flares anyway. Gods, if she only knew how much I already chose her.

“Eight months,” she says again, slower this time, deliberate. “We give ourselves that long to figure out who we are. To learn each other as… us.”

“Not rivals,” I whisper.

“Not just consorts.” Her thumb lingers. “Partners.”

The vow burns between us hotter than the kisses. I feel it thrum through my blood, through marrow and magic. My scent shifts—burnt sugar sharpened with ozone, then mellowing into something golden, steady. Cassie inhales, lashes fluttering; she feels it, even if she doesn’t have the word for it. The tether hums like a struck chord, binding, final.

“Eight months,” I say again, sealing it. The words slip from my mouth like iron into flame, and I know—I know—I couldn’t break it if I tried.

Her forehead presses to mine, her breath ragged. “We’ll make it. Even if it kills us.”

I laugh, trembling, ruined. “Then we’ll burn alive together trying.”

And when her mouth claims mine again—slower this time, lingering, aching with the vow we’ve just forged—the whole car feels like it might catch fire. Windows fog thicker. The leather creaks under us. Every kiss is sharper now, more dangerous, because the line is drawn and binding. And gods help me, I want her more for it.