The Langstons don't throw parties. They host kingdoms.
At least that's what it feels like when I step through the arched stone entryway of the Whitmore estate, one of the sprawling mansions perched just outside town where the Blackridge elite gather to gorge themselves on excess. Music thunders through the walls, bass rattling the polished floors. Every chandelier drips crystal light across velvet curtains and marble staircases. The air smells like money and champagne and the faint trace of something burning.
I don't belong here. Which, apparently, is exactly why Liam insisted I come.
"It's practically mandatory," he'd said earlier that day, bouncing on his sneakers while I frowned at my locker. "Everyone goes. Even the ghosts."
"Lucky for me, I'm not a fan of crowded rooms and overpriced cologne."
But he'd given me that pleading look—the one I hadn't known he was capable of—and I caved. Because disappearing on party night would have been just as suspicious as showing up.
Now I weave through a sea of glittering dresses and pressed blazers, clutching a soda that someone shoved into my hand. My borrowed dress clings too tight around my ribs, the heels Liam's sister loaned me already digging into my ankles. I keep my chin high, though, forcing my body into a kind of armor. Blend in. Survive. Watch.
It doesn't take long to find the center of gravity. The living room has been stripped of furniture, transformed into a pulsing arena of students packed shoulder to shoulder. In the middle, Victoria and her crew sit in a circle on the floor, drinks in hand, grins sharp as knives. Their audience perches around them, hungry for entertainment.
Truth or Dare.
I know the setup before I hear the words. The bottle gleams under the chandelier, spinning lazy circles on the hardwood.
I try to slide past, invisible, but of course someone spots me.
"Eva!"
Victoria's voice rings out above the music, dripping honey and venom. Heads swivel. Suddenly the spotlight is on me, even though there's no spotlight at all.
"Come join us," she calls, patting the empty space beside her like it's an invitation I'd be insane to refuse.
Dozens of eyes fix on me. Backing away now would be suicide. So I plaster on a smile, force my legs to move, and sink into the circle. The floor is cold against my skin, the heat of bodies pressing close.
The game is already in motion. A boy dares his friend to drink from the punch bowl like a dog. Laughter explodes when he does it, red liquid dripping down his chin. Someone else chooses truth and admits they cheated on their girlfriend. More laughter. Gasps. Whispers.
The bottle spins again, clinking against the floorboards, until it slows and stops—pointed straight at me.
My throat tightens.
Victoria leans in, smile sharp enough to cut. "Truth or dare, Eva?"
Every eye in the room burns into me.
"Truth," I say quickly. Safe. Controlled.
The smile widens. "Coward's choice. But fine. Truth." She tilts her head, eyes gleaming. "Tell us, where did you come from? Nobody seems to know."
A low murmur ripples around the circle.
Heat rushes to my face, but I force a laugh. "Wow. Going straight for the existential stuff, huh?"
"Answer the question," someone jeers.
I rattle off the name of a small town two states over, one I memorized for this exact scenario. My voice is steady, but inside my pulse thrashes.
Victoria studies me, unconvinced. "Funny. Nobody's heard of you there, either."
The circle hums with tension. I smile tighter. "Guess I'm not as memorable as I thought."
The bottle spins again, whirling across the floor, slowing, slowing—until it points back at me.
Of course.
Victoria's grin sharpens. "This time, dare."
The crowd hoots, the chant rising: "Dare! Dare! Dare!"
My stomach knots. I can't refuse again. So I nod.
Victoria's eyes glitter. "I dare you to kiss—" She pauses, savoring it. Her gaze slides across the circle before locking onto him.
Jace Langston.
He's lounging against the wall, detached from the game until this moment, his eyes hooded, stormy.
Her smile is cruel. "—Jace."
The room erupts. Cheers, laughter, whistles.
My blood runs cold.
This is the trap. The public spectacle. If I refuse, I look weak. If I accept, I risk everything.
The chant grows louder. "Kiss him! Kiss him!"
I want to melt into the floor.
Then Jace moves. Slowly, deliberately, he stands, the crowd parting like water around him. His presence sucks the air from the room.
He steps into the circle, eyes locked on mine. The noise dims, fading until it's just the thud of my heart.
He crouches, his face inches from mine, close enough that I can see the faint bruise along his jaw, the flecks of gray in his storm-colored eyes. His voice is low, meant only for me.
"You don't have to."
The words shock me.
Before I can answer, he leans closer, brushing his lips near my ear. "But if you don't, they'll eat you alive."
The crowd is screaming now, chanting his name, my name, begging for the spectacle.
And then he does it.
He kisses me.
Not soft. Not sweet. But deliberate, rough, a claiming. The room explodes in cheers. Heat surges through me—anger, humiliation, something else I can't name. My body stiffens, but he holds the moment just long enough for everyone to see.
Then he pulls back, eyes burning into mine.
The crowd roars, satisfied, already spinning the bottle again, already moving on. But I can't. I'm frozen, skin burning, chest heaving.
He leans in one last time, his whisper threading through the noise.
"Consider yourself saved."
Saved.
The word tastes bitter. Because it doesn't feel like salvation. It feels like exposure. Like humiliation. Like he just made me a pawn in a game I swore I'd never play.
Before I can say anything, the bottle clinks again, laughter spilling over me like poison. The circle closes in, hungry for the next victim.
But I can still feel his mouth on mine, his whisper in my ear, his eyes warning, daring, promising all at once.
And I realize something that chills me more than the dare itself.
Jace Langston didn't kiss me to save me.
He kissed me to remind me who holds the power here.