18. Brielle

My fingers wrap around the tiny plastic cup, the jiggly crimson shot promising a sweet burn. I toss it back with a practiced flick of my wrist, and the crowd's roar sets my pulse to race.

"Queen Pong Bri!" someone chants, and I smirk, feeling the sticky residue of victory on my lips. With a swish of my arm, I launch the ping-pong ball, watching it sail through the air—a perfect arc, a flawless descent. It kisses the rim, teases gravity, and then plunks! Right into the last standing cup.

"That's another win!" someone announces, handing me another shot which I quickly down, my vision blurring in the corners. But amidst the cheers and the clamor, there's a whisper in my head—Callie. Where is she?

"Hold the fort," I tell my teammate, winking. "The queen needs to find her lady-in-waiting."

The room spins slightly as I push through the bodies, laughter and conversations meshing. "Callie?" I call out, my voice barely punching through the music's throb. No sign of her, no echo of her high-pitched giggle. She's not at the bar, not draped over a couch, not lost in a sea of grinding bodies.

I stumble slightly, steadying myself against the wall, the coolness of the paint a balm to my heated skin. The night air brushes against my damp skin as I weave through the clusters of partygoers, my senses on high alert. The bass from the speakers is a distant rumble now, and the laughter fades into a hush as I step out onto the patio. Moonlight spills across the pool, casting rippling shadows that dance with a hypnotic grace.

There she is, by the water's edge, her laughter mingling with the gentle lapping of the pool. As I approach, the tall silhouette next to her takes form—a guy, all long limbs and casual poise, with a smile that's both easygoing and somehow intense. They're sitting side by side, feet skimming the water's surface, wrapped up in their own bubble of connection.

"Hey, stranger," Callie says, her voice tinged with a tease. "Meet Elijah."

"Nice to meet you," I say, extending a hand.

"Elijah, this is my best friend, Brielle."

Elijah's handshake is firm but warm. "So you're the infamous beer pong queen," he says.

"Infamous? I prefer legendary," I quip back, feeling that familiar thrill of banter. Our smiles mirror each other, an unspoken challenge lingering in the air between us.

"Legendary, then," Elijah concedes, though his smirk suggests he's not giving away the title easily. "I'm impressed."

"Should be," I retort, cocking a brow.

Callie's eyes dance with mischief. "Feel like going swimming?" she proposes, her voice a mix of dare and adventure.

"Now?" I echo, raising an eyebrow, but the idea sends a thrill through me. The promise of cool water against hot skin is too much to resist. "Hell yes."

We exchange wicked grins, and in a fluid motion that feels like a shared secret, we shed our clothes. Laughter spills from us, uninhibited, as we strip down to our bras and panties—lace and silk.

"Last one in buys breakfast in the morning!" Callie shouts, already sprinting toward the pool's edge. I'm at her heels.

We leap together. Water encases us in its embrace, shockingly cold. We emerge gasping, shrieking, alive.

"Join us!" Callie calls out. And like moths to a flame, they come.

One by one, they dive in. Bodies move around us, close but not touching.

I swim, my hair fanning out around me, every fiber of my being alert and alight.

"I'll be right back," I announce to Callie.

"Where are you going?"

"Pee."

"Should I come with?"

"No! Enjoy the pool."

She smiles at me as I get up. Water drips from my skin. The party roars behind me, but I manage to slip away, unnoticed. My feet pad against the stone tiles as I make my way to the bathroom.

The door locks with a satisfying click, and it's just me, reflected in the mirror—cheeks flushed, eyes bright with adrenaline. A queen crowned in disarray, hair clinging to my shoulders, underwear sticking to my curves like a second skin.

I pee quickly before going back to the mirror to wash my hands.

I fix myself quickly, splashing cold water on my face, trying to calm the racing of my pulse.

Ready.

I open the door and start my way back to the pool.

But I don't get far.

"Hey, there she is! The beer pong queen!"

I freeze. A guy stands swaying before me, his eyes glazed over from one too many shots. He's got that look—the hungry, predatory kind that sees a target, not a person.

"Looks like you ditched your kingdom, huh?" His voice is a drawl, thick with liquor and unwelcome intention.

My stomach tightens and annoyance prickles like thorns under my skin. "Just taking a break," I reply, keeping my tone light, nonconfrontational. My instincts scream at me to move, to escape this unwanted encounter.

"Come on, don't be like that." He steps closer, the smell of alcohol wafting off him like a toxic perfume. "How about a private celebration?"

I sidestep, aiming for casual evasion, my heart pounding a war drum rhythm. "No thanks. I was just going to get back to the pool."

"Aw, don't be shy." He reaches out, his hand brushing my bare arm, and it's all wrong?—

"Really—I should be getting back." I dodge again, but he's persistent, cornering me with a confidence that's bolstered by booze and ego.

"Come on, I saw those shots you made. Bet you're a hell of a lot of fun."

I am fun. Wild, fierce, unstoppable. But I'm not his—or anyone's—to claim with such smug assurance.

"Sorry to disappoint," I say, feigning regret, but my patience wears thin, a thread about to snap. "But I'm not interested."

"Feisty, I like?—"

"Excuse me." I cut him off, my voice sharp as a blade, and attempt to slip past him, but he reaches out and grabs ahold of my wrist.

I twist away, his grip like iron on my wrist. "Back off," I hiss, adrenaline spiking.

"Come on, Brielle. Don't be like that," he slurs, breath hot and heavy. He shoves me against the wall, his body pressing close.

Panic flares, a wild thing in my chest. His hand snakes toward the hem of my soaked underwear, the only barrier left. "I said no!"

He doesn't listen; they never do when they think they're entitled to a taste of something sweet. My knee jerks up instinctively, aiming for a painful halt to his advances, but he's quick for a drunk, catching my thigh mid-air.

"Feisty," he murmurs, a smirk twisting his lips, thinking he's got the upper hand.

"Get the fuck off me!" The words tear from my throat, raw and desperate. But he leans in, his intentions written clear across his lecherous gaze.

Then, suddenly, the weight is gone. Air rushes back into my lungs as he's ripped away, his presence torn from me like a Band-aid from skin.

"Touch her again, and you'll regret it," a voice growls—a thunderstorm wrapped in human flesh.

I blink, vision clearing, and there they are. Levi's jaw clenches, his eyes dark storms of fury. Conrad looms beside him, silent but radiating a menace that makes the drunkard wilt.

"Fuck," I breathe, not sure if it's from relief or the sudden, dangerous thrill that comes from being the focal point of their intense protectiveness.

"You touch her again, and I'll rip your hands off. Do I make myself clear?"

The man swallows before stumbling away, not even throwing another look at me.