7

Blair

Present

Forever.

Yeah, right.

Seeing Asher again makes me remember the promise we made years ago, back when we were just kids.

But forever is just a word. A word shared between teenagers means nothing at all. I force myself not to look at him as his vow rings in my ears, clear as the day he first spoke it.

The creepy leader of the Collective has finished the initiation. It makes me sick to admit it—even to myself—but I’m terrified that Asher was right. I’m standing in a circle of twenty, surrounded by a howling mob of onlookers.

What the heck have I got myself into?

My heart hammers in my chest. Every instinct is screaming at me to run. But it’s too late, and I need this money.

My gaze drifts across the circle to where Asher stands. He towers over the others, his aura pulsing with an animalistic confidence that honestly terrifies me. I try to ignore the rush of memories as my stare reaches his inked-up arms: I used to know the story behind every one of his tattoos. His body used to make sense to me. It was like my favorite book, something I could read every word of.

There’s the moon for his mom, who died when he was little.

There’s the lyrics from the heavy metal band he worshiped at fifteen.

And—my stomach twists-the little black outline of a bow on his wrist.

A shiver touches me. It’s still there. He hasn’t had it removed or covered over with new ink. Does that mean there’s a part of him that doesn’t hate me?

But now there are new tattoos, ones I don’t recognize. Maybe they mean something to some other girl now. Maybe his skin is some other girl’s favorite book.

Asher’s dark eyes meet mine, narrowing. All I see in them is pure, burning hate. A chill runs over my body, despite the heat of the heaving room.

There’s no time to react more. A siren suddenly pierces the air, roaring over the crowd. The digital screen flares to life with the word sanguis , casting an eerie glow over us.

“The Collective dares you to reach the top.” The speakers crackle with a distorted, mechanical voice that sends chills down my spine. “There are ten pendants hanging at the pinnacle of this structure. Claim one and win. A siren will sound with each pendant captured.”

I tilt my head back, nearly dizzy from the sight of the towering scaffold.

“Darers, do you accept?”

The crowd buzzes, the tension thick and electric. A countdown begins on the screen. Isn’t there more to this? Don’t we get to ask questions? A final chance to back out?

The countdown ticks down to one.

“ Begin ,” the voice commands.

The air explodes with the blaring siren, a primal cry that drowns out the crowd.

The group around me bursts forward, and I gasp in protest as the tall bald guy next to me shoves aside. I stumble after them, reaching the edge of the tower. I take a deep breath and begin the climb, gripping the cold metal rungs, trying to ignore the growing drop below. The other players race ahead, moving with terrifying ease.

Against my better instincts, I glance up at Asher. I can still feel it buried within me, the bittersweet memory of all those times I fell, and he caught me.

Until the last time, anyway.

But Asher isn’t looking back. He’s scaling the scaffolding with effortless grace. The muscles in his arms flex under the harsh lighting, his movements powerful, sure. Powerful enough to break me without breaking a sweat.

I feel a lurch of heat deep inside me. Something sleeping that just woke up.

I grit my teeth, pushing higher. As I climb, a familiar burn settles into my muscles, almost comforting. After so many years of ballet training, the pain is almost comforting, like an old friend.

The pain in my right ankle, though? Not so comforting.

Thanks to the big bald guy, I’m the furthest behind. They said there were ten pendants, which means half of us will be cut right away. In some ways, going home would be a relief, but I can’t surrender to my family’s control. I just can’t.

Then it hits me: maybe I need to play smarter, not harder. Most of these guys are too big to squeeze through the narrow gaps in the scaffolding. But I can.

Cautiously, I push my head through an opening, twisting my body to grab the rungs on the other side. I have speed on my side, if nothing else.

Suddenly, a hand closes around my ankle, yanking me down.

“Hey!” I scream, clinging to the rungs.

I take a terrified glance down; a guy with a spiky blond mohawk and a scary face tattoo is gripping my left ankle in his thick fingers.

His expression darkens. “Who the fuck do you think you are, little girl?”

I’m shaking as I cling to the rungs. Oh my god. I’m going to fall to my death in this hellish warehouse, and Asher is going to be the one laughing over my body.

“Let go!” I thrash my leg, breaking his grip, and scramble up as fast as I can.

“Careful,” Mohawk yells after me. “You wouldn’t want to fall and break your fucking neck.”

After another minute of climbing, I think I’m back on track, passing by most of the players on the other side who are breaking out into fights.

But then I hear it—Asher cursing. I glance down and feel the distance from the ground spin my stomach. Mohawk is below him, grabbing at his ankle.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Axel,” Asher snarls.

He easily shakes off Mohawk’s grip. For a second, he looks just like the boy I once knew and loved.

Then, I watch as Asher’s eyes go dark.

Feral. Like a wild animal that’s hungry for fresh blood.

Asher powerfully pushes off from the scaffolding, swinging by the strong muscles of his arms. His black sneakers cut through the air to connect with Mohawk’s chest and—

A scream tears from Mohawk’s mouth. I grip the rungs so hard that my knuckles ache.

Mohawk’s scream echoes up as he loses his grip and plummets, his body flailing before it hits the ground with a sickening crunch.

For a moment, the air in the room stills, the bass droning on in eerie silence. I brace myself, thinking it’s over—that they’re going to stop the game, call the police, do something .

But then the crowd erupts.

It takes a moment for me to realize that it’s not in anger or outrage at what Asher just did.

It’s in celebration.

Asher just freaking killed a man, and the crowd is screaming for more.

I turn to look at him, horrified, but he’s already speeding past me, his face unreadable.

I try to concentrate through the terror. The top of the platform is just within reach. Suddenly, everyone else around me is fighting, scrambling to reach the pendants.

I grit my teeth. I didn’t endure all this to lose now. Faster, faster.

Buzz.

The siren sounds. One pendant has been claimed.

My right ankle throbs, my arms burn, my chest heaves with the effort of each pull. My body is running on adrenaline alone as I climb, barely conscious of the bruises I’ll wake up to.

Buzz.

At least four pendants have been claimed. Desperation flares up as I push myself, each muscle screaming in protest.

Finally, I reach the platform. With the last scraps of strength, I pull myself up onto the deck, lungs searing, heart pounding. I grab one of the pendants and thrust my closed fist into the air, the pendant dangling from my fingers, and the siren echoes around the room over the speakers. It must be the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.

I’m still panting, but I can’t help but grin. I’ve made it through the first round.

Then I see Asher. He’s standing there, watching me, dark flames in his eyes. Is he angry that I made it, or impressed? Is he remembering the Blair he used to know—the Blair who’d jump off buildings just for a thrill?

Years ago, the boy who terrified me turned into my closest friend. Now, he’s transformed again—into a cold-blooded killer who looks hotter than hell.

I look past him, smoothing down my white tennis skirt. The other darers are staring at me, too.

My hand drops to my side. The night is still young, and now I’ve accidentally got everyone’s attention.

Oh, sugar .