The night air tasted like rebellion.
Silver breathed it in, sharp and cold against her lungs, as the heavy oak doors of the Yale Winter Gala closed behind her with a resonant thud that seemed to echo off the Gothic stone walls. The sudden silence was jarring after the pulsing music and chatter of the ballroom. Her ears rang in the absence of sound, like stepping out of a concert into the quiet night.
Carroway's hand was light at the small of her back, his touch warm through the silk of her dress, guiding her away from the golden glow of chandeliers and the suffocating weight of whispered judgments into the winter dark. His fingers were steady, confident, like he'd done this a thousand times before—led beautiful, broken girls away from places where they didn't quite belong.
