People at Blackthorn thought I was untouchable.
They weren't entirely wrong.
But being untouchable came with a price—blood on my hands, knives in my back, and a father who expected me to run an empire before I even graduated.
And now, a dead queen rotting in the ground with my name tangled in the whispers.
"Vale's gonna crack," Damien muttered, leaning against the lockers beside me. He popped a stick of gum into his mouth, chewing like we weren't talking about a murder investigation. "Detective's crawling up her ass. Won't be long before she breaks and spills whatever she's hiding."
"She's not hiding anything," I said flatly.
Damien arched a brow. "Funny. You sure sound like you care."
I shot him a look sharp enough to slice. "I don't give a fuck about Lyra Vale."
Liar.
Because the truth was—Vale got under my skin in ways I couldn't shake. Most people cowered when I leaned in, when I pressed, when I showed teeth. But her? She fucking barked back. Called me a spoiled asshole with a God complex like she wasn't one wrong move from getting buried six feet under.
And instead of pissing me off, it lit me up.
Damien smirked. "You've got that look again."
"What look?" I snapped.
"The *I want to kill her or fuck her, maybe both* look. Dangerous combo, brother."
I didn't answer. Mostly because he was right.
---
Later, in the parking lot, Damien lit a cigarette and tossed me a manila folder.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Something you should see."
I opened it. Photos. Grainy security footage. Celeste, in her red dress the night she died—leaving the gym, texting someone. A shadow trailing behind her.
Not anyone I recognized.
The figure was smaller. Slighter. Could've been anyone.
My grip tightened on the photos. "Where the fuck did you get this?"
"Contacts," Damien said with a shrug. "You're not the only Draven with eyes on the street. Cops don't have it yet, but they will. And when they do? Whoever that shadow is—game over."
My jaw clenched. Because the image stuck in my head like a splinter. Someone had been there that night. Close enough to follow. Close enough to kill.
And the one thing I hated most in this world was not knowing who.
"Do we tell Vale?" Damien asked, exhaling smoke.
"No," I said quickly. Too quickly.
"Why the fuck not?"
"Because it won't help her."
And because part of me wanted to keep this power. Wanted to see her unravel on her own. Wanted her to need me before she even realized it.
Damien studied me for a long beat, then laughed low. "You're fucking twisted, man."
"Probably," I muttered, sliding the folder under my arm.
Across the lot, Vale appeared—books clutched to her chest, hoodie pulled tight, pretending like the stares didn't cut her. She didn't look my way. Not once.
But I looked at her.
And in my head, one truth solidified like blood drying on concrete:
If Lyra Vale wasn't careful, she was going to end up just like Celeste.
And maybe… maybe that's exactly what I wanted.