Emory opened the door. Nick stood there, hoodie slightly damp from the night chill, his ever-present bag of sour candy crushed in one hand, concern flickering behind his easy smile. "You okay?" he asked, tone soft, familiar, a tether to reality. Emory tightened her robe across her chest, trying not to look like someone who had just been kissed without being kissed, touched without permission and somehow liked it. "I'm fine," she said too quickly. "You look flushed," Nick pressed, peering past her shoulder. "Did I catch you mid anxiety spiral?" "No," she replied, planting herself in the doorway. "Just tired." "You always get 'tired' when something's wrong." "Nick—" "You don't have to lie to me, Em." He dropped his voice. "Is it your mom? Another call?" She paused. For a moment, she wanted to let that be the excuse. Let him believe the familiar lie. But it wasn't her mother this time. It was worse. "No call," she murmured. "I just didn't sleep." Nick studied her for a second longer, then offered a lopsided smile. "Want me to hang around? I'll bring my laptop. You won't even notice me." "Not tonight," she said. "I need to reset." "Tomorrow, then," he replied. "We're doing waffles. You promised." "I did not." "Then I'm holding you emotionally hostage." He stepped back, still watching her like she was a code he didn't quite know how to break. "I'll check on you in the morning." "Goodnight, Nick." She closed the door gently. Then locked it. Then slid down onto the carpet, heart thudding like a traitor against her ribs. Skye's scent still lingered in the air—like fire and storm and expensive danger. And the name... Selene. It still rang in her ears, like something sacred and filthy all at once.
She barely slept. When she did, she dreamt of stained glass windows and silver rings, of thunder and hands at her waist, of a voice that said her name like a promise no one else was allowed to hear. In the morning, she forced herself to act normal. To move with purpose. Hair sleek, blouse tucked, skirt sharp, everything fastened and cold. The walls were up again, just like they'd always been. But something inside them had cracked.
Nick was already waiting for her in the Commons when she arrived. He held out a steaming cup of coffee like it was penance. "You look like you haven't blinked since last night." "Insomnia. Not a crisis." "Liar," he said fondly. "You've got that whole haunted heiress thing going." "You say that like it's new." "Fair," he grinned. "But this time, it's not your usual brand of brooding. It's personal." Emory didn't answer. Instead, she stared down at her toast, picking at the edge of the crust like it had wronged her. "So you're just going to make me guess," Nick said. "Classic Vale behavior." "There's nothing to guess." "Not even about why you left the party like someone lit a match under your dress?" She glanced at him. "I just didn't want to be there anymore." "And what about Skye Thorne?" Her hand froze halfway to her coffee. "What about him?" "He was there. And you were gone. And then suddenly, he's gone too." "Coincidence." "Emory..." Nick's voice dropped. "You told me once he hurt you. Are you—are you okay?" She nodded quickly. Too quickly. "He didn't hurt me." "But he's messing with you again, isn't he?" She looked away. "I can handle it." "You shouldn't have to," Nick said, his voice rougher than usual. "He doesn't get to worm his way back in." "He hasn't." "Then why won't you look at me?" She met his eyes, and for a moment, everything in her wanted to tell him. About the way Skye stood behind her in the ballroom. The whispered name. The heat in his voice. The way her body answered before her mind could fight it. But Nick was safe. Nick was hers. Nick was the part of her untouched by bloodlines and secrets and sin. And she couldn't risk losing that.
Later that day, she sat in Ethics, pen in hand, eyes locked on her notebook even though she wasn't writing a word. The lecture had begun without her. She'd come early to avoid seeing Skye. To keep distance. Control. But the seat behind her remained empty. And somehow, that unsettled her more. Until a shadow fell over her desk. She looked up. Not Skye. A stranger. Quiet. He dropped a folded piece of paper onto her notebook, then sat behind her without a glance. Her breath caught. She opened it.
You still shake when I whisper your name. What will you do when I say it out loud?
—S.
Her fingers curled around the paper. She didn't turn around. Didn't breathe for a second too long. Behind her, the seat remained silent. But she knew he was watching. Even when he wasn't there. Especially then.
That evening, she didn't go out. Jessie texted. Mariah sent a voice memo titled "Is Emory Dead or Just Avoiding Us Again?" She ignored both. Instead, she lit a candle on her windowsill and sat on the edge of her bed, staring out at the spires of Braxton as dusk pulled its cloak around the school. The buildings loomed like secrets. Like guardians of stories that should've stayed buried. Her phone buzzed again. Unknown number.
Still wearing my name, Selene?
She didn't respond. But she didn't delete it either.