It was just an act.
That was what Brandon told himself as he sat next to Beth, her shoulder brushing lightly against his, her hand resting on his thigh like they were just another couple in the background noise of campus life.
An act.
A performance to keep the Deadfast Club's attention deflected, to avoid questions, to stay under the radar. She'd said it herself—if they suddenly acted like they didn't know each other again, it'd look weird.
Weird drew eyes. Eyes meant risk.
And Brandon hated risk.
He watched Liv out of the corner of his eye. She was watching them, trying not to look like she was. She wasn't subtle. None of them were, really. Even Deion—still clinging to his "Marcus" mask—had shot him a few skeptical glances since they'd walked in.
They didn't trust him. Or maybe they didn't trust her.
Or maybe they didn't trust the idea of them.
Smart.
Brandon knew he wouldn't trust the version of himself sitting here either.
He leaned back in his chair and glanced sideways at Beth. She was saying something to Manny now, smirking as she leaned forward on the table, black-painted nails tapping out a rhythm like she was amused by her own private joke.
She was in her element. Comfortable.
Too comfortable.
So why was he?
He shifted in his seat slightly, trying to create space without making it look like he was pulling away. Beth noticed, of course. Her eyes flicked to his face, reading him in an instant, and then she just leaned in closer—like a challenge.
She whispered under her breath, just for him.
"Relax. You're supposed to like me, remember?"
Brandon didn't answer. He just stared at the table, thoughts clicking too fast to hold down.
It was just a cover.
A lie they were both telling.
But something about the way she said it—half playful, half daring—sent a ripple of unease through him.
Beth was dangerous. Not just with knives or plans, but in the way she got under his skin, settled in like a splinter too deep to pull out.
She had no walls with him anymore. Not after everything. Not after he saved her. Not after she confessed why she killed—to feel something. Anything.
And she had felt something.
She'd told him that too, later, when they were walking back after the Shane kill. Quietly.
Almost like she hadn't meant to say it aloud.
"I didn't feel nothing this time," she had murmured. "Weird, right?"
He hadn't responded.
Because what the hell was he supposed to say?
Good job not being a full-blown psychopath tonight, proud of you?
No. That wasn't his role.
His role was to watch her, judge her, stop her if she slipped. It wasn't supposed to be anything more.
And yet—
Here he was.
Sitting next to her like they were something close to a couple.
He was watching her smile at Amir's dumb jokes, watching how she always knew exactly how far to go with the flirtation without tipping over into full manipulation. Watching how, even now, when he knew what she was, she still felt real in a way no one else did.
Like someone who saw the world through a cracked lens just like he did.
Brandon looked down at his hands. His knuckles had healed, the bruises faint now. A few more days and the evidence of what he did to those frat boys would be gone completely.
But Beth had seen it.
She knew.
And worse—he knew she remembered how it had felt when he pulled those bastards off her. Not just because he stopped them, but how efficient, how violent he'd been about it.
She hadn't been scared.
She'd looked at him like she understood.
That scared him more than anything else.
He clenched his hands and told himself again, It's just a role. A mask. Like Ghostface, only this one's smiling instead of stabbing.
But there was a whisper in the back of his mind.
Quiet. Insistent.
What if it's not?
What if he liked this? The companionship. The rhythm. The quiet comfort of someone who knew, who didn't flinch away from the monster behind his eyes?
What if—God help him—he liked her?
That voice got louder every time she smirked at him.
Every time she called him out and wasn't wrong.
Every time Ashes curled up on her lap like she belonged there.
Brandon swallowed that thought like poison and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
He couldn't afford this.
Caring was dangerous.
Caring made you hesitate.
And hesitation got people killed.
He thought of Jamal—not in guilt, but in calculation. The way Beth still didn't know how to feel about it. The way she hadn't tried to kill him afterward. That should've been the end of this strange arrangement between them. But it hadn't been.
If anything, it had solidified it.
Because Beth wasn't like Jamal.
And neither was he.
That should've made them enemies.
Instead… here they were.
Playing house in the middle of a murder mystery no one else knew was still happening.
Brandon exhaled slowly and sat back again.
Beth glanced at him, caught the storm in his eyes, and raised a brow.
"What?" she mouthed silently.
He shook his head.
"Nothing," he said.
But it wasn't nothing.
It was everything.
And deep down, he knew—this was going to end badly.
The only question was who would end up bleeding first.