The door of the library slammed shut behind her, but the name still echoed.
> Selene
Not in a memory. Not in a whisper. But in his voice, now. Present. Real.
Emory Vale walked fast, arms wrapped around herself like armor. The cold night air stung her cheeks, but she didn't slow down.
She'd held it together in front of Nick. In front of Skye.
But her heartbeat betrayed her.
Louder than her footsteps. Louder than her silence.
---
When she returned to her suite, she didn't speak. Not to Mariah. Not to Jessie.
She just shut the bathroom door, locked it, and stood in front of the mirror.
And stared.
Her reflection didn't look broken. It didn't look shaken.
It looked composed. Cold.
But her fingers trembled as she pulled pins from her hair. As she unzipped her jacket. As she peeled off the layers of the day.
The mask of Emory Vale remained.
But underneath it… Selene still breathed.
And he had touched that part of her again.
---
She returned to her room just as Jessie finished pouring wine.
"Rough day?" Jessie said carefully.
Emory didn't answer.
Mariah handed her a black envelope, grinning. "Look what came for you."
No address. No name. Just a silver wax seal and one line of text.
> Midnight. West Wing. Noctem awaits.
Her breath caught.
Jessie leaned in. "You're going."
"I'm not."
"Liar."
"I'm not dressing up just to let Skye Thorne breathe on me."
Mariah grinned. "Who said anything about dressing up for him?"
Jessie popped the cork on another bottle. "Let me be real, babe. You are not skipping the most powerful party at Braxton because a boy with cheekbones and trauma said your secret name."
Emory blinked. "That's exactly why I should skip it."
"Correction," Jessie said, winking. "That's why you should wear your tightest corset and make him wish he never left that library."
---
By midnight, Emory stood in front of the mirror, dressed in danger.
Black satin hugged her curves, cinched at the waist with silver ribbon. A high slit revealed long legs wrapped in lace stockings. Her mask was silver, thorned, resting just beneath perfectly curled lashes. Red lipstick. Black gloves.
A vision.
Not for him.
For her.
---
The Noctem Society had turned the west wing into something wicked.
Candlelight shimmered across chandeliers. Music pulsed low and sensual. Masked figures danced and drank beneath murals of gods and devils. Power moved in whispers. Lust dripped from every corner.
And she felt him before she saw him.
Skye Thorne.
All black.
Dark mask.
Wrist tattoo peeking from under a sleeve.
He didn't approach immediately.
He watched.
Always watching.
Until the slowest song of the night began to play.
---
She tried to turn away.
He reached her first.
Gloved fingers slipped around her wrist — not forceful, but claiming.
> "Dance with me, Selene."
The name cracked through her like lightning.
"You don't get to call me that."
> "I just did."
"Skye—"
> "I'll only ask once."
And she hated how her body said yes before her mouth did.
---
He pulled her to the floor.
Slow. Intentional.
He didn't move like a boy with a past.
He moved like a man with a purpose.
One hand at her back. One at her waist. Pressed close.
Too close.
Emory's breath caught as his thigh brushed hers.
He leaned in.
> "Do you remember what I used to say to you?" he murmured near her ear.
"I try not to."
> "Liar."
He turned her slowly, gliding them across the marble.
> "You used to say you'd never beg," he whispered. "But you did."
Her lips parted, fury blooming in her chest.
> "You begged when I touched you here," he said.
His hand slid lower.
Just above her ass.
> "And here."
Fingers brushed the inside of her thigh through the slit in her dress.
She inhaled sharply.
> "You want me to stop?"
"Yes," she breathed.
> "Say it louder."
She didn't.
> "Didn't think so."
---
His palm shifted.
Between her legs now.
Just pressure.
No one could see.
But her body reacted like it remembered everything.
> "Still wet for me," he whispered. "You never forgot what you sounded like when I—"
She shoved him.
Hard.
The music didn't stop.
But the moment did.
Gasps followed her as she stalked off the floor, heels clicking, throat tight.
Behind her, Skye watched her go.
And he smiled.
Not like a boy who'd lost.
But a man who'd tasted blood.
> "We're not done, Selene