5. Vogue

Having hadan hour to nip to the supermarket to buy some more groceries that could form a half-decent meal and drop them off at home, I'm now back on campus and weaving through the sea of students in Crestmont's hallways, my gaze flicking up to each sign I pass.

Where is it?

The fear of being late gnaws at my gut, and I dodge past a group of laughing first-year students without an apology. It's almost like they think time stands still for them. Not for me.

Around the corner, the hallway narrows, and the students disappear.

"Is this right?" I ask, frowning and looking around for Room 203B. I'm hustling to make up time when a slightly ajar door catches my eye. I aim for it, thinking this must be it. Voices, a low murmur, slip through the gap, and I keep moving towards it.

As I push the door wider, my hand trembling, I'm met with a sight that freezes me in my tracks. A group stands in a tight circle, their postures tense, heads bowed together. My heart lurches into my throat when I recognise them.

The Crowned Syndicate.

Their power is in the way they hold themselves too still, like predators mid-pounce.

Callum is facing me but hasn't seen me yet, so I can back up and move on if I could just get my feet to work. But I remain rooted to the spot.

My breath catches, and for a second, I'm entranced by the sight. Power like that is magnetic, even if it's the last thing you should be drawn to. Callum seems to be the kind of guy who doesn't just inherit power—he wears it and owns it like he was born to dictate the fates of everyone around him.

I'm playing with fire, and I know it. This knowledge finally gets my feet moving, and I take a slow, silent step back.

Then, I freeze mid-step.

Callum's gaze cuts through the sunlit room, finding mine with an eerie precision. It's as if he senses my presence before I even fully register his. A slow, sinister smile curls the corners of his mouth, and it's like a cold hand wraps around my soul.

"Vogue," he says, his voice low and playful but with an edge that sends a clear message: You shouldn't be here.

Panic squeezes my chest. My breath hitches. I should bolt, make a break for the hallway, but my legs don't cooperate; they're jelly, unresponsive, betraying every instinct screaming at me to run.

"Something we can do for you?" His voice is a velvet threat that coils in the air.

I need to think fast, talk my way out of this, but all I manage is a strangled, "I was just..."

"Looking for something?" His smile never reaches his eyes—those cold, calculating pools that seem to strip away any pretence of courage I have left.

The distance between us feels charged, each second stretching out as I struggle to regain control over my traitorous body. Fear has me in its grip, tight and unforgiving, and I hate how it makes me feel small, vulnerable. I don't like it. I'm tougher than this.

Usually.

"Lost," I finally choke out, my voice steadier than I feel. "It's easy to get turned around in this building."

"Is that so?" Callum tilts his head, regarding me with a curiosity that's far from innocent.

"Yeah," I insist, trying to infuse a hint of anger into my tone to claw back some semblance of control. "I'm late for a lecture, so if you'll excuse me..."

But the words hang there, hollow, because we both understand the game that's started—a game I've unwittingly walked into, and Callum's the one holding all the cards.

The smirk on Callum's lips doesn't falter as he closes the distance between us. His steps are deliberate, each one a silent assertion of his authority. Before I can even process my next move, his hand snaps out, vice-like, around my wrist, and he yanks me across the threshold into the room.

"Hey!" I protest, but it comes out more like a gasp. The door swings shut with an ominous click behind us, sealing away any hope of a quick escape. I tug against his grip, but it's like trying to uproot a tree with bare hands.

"Let go of me," I say, voice stronger this time, but his smile goes darker as if he appreciates the fight.

"Not yet," he murmurs. "You trespassed, and now you'll pay." His fingers trail up my arm in a mock caress that makes my skin crawl with unwanted sensations as his other hand tightens on my wrist.

"Let me go." I struggle to get free, but he is a lot stronger than I am.

"Vogue Jameson," he murmurs.

My free hand shoves at his chest, but it's like pushing against stone. His body doesn't give an inch, and his touch remains unwavering on my arm. Frustration and fear mingle inside me.

"Enough games," I spit out, mustering all the defiance I can. "I won't be intimidated by you."

A chuckle rips from Callum's throat, low and laced with shadows, when the air shifts behind me—Thayer moves in silently, circling like a shark that's scented blood. His arms slide around my waist, an iron band trapping me against him, solid and unmoveable.

"Pretty petal," he whispers.

I stiffen at his touch, every muscle coiled tight. This isn't a game to me—it's a nightmare unfolding in real-time. The others close ranks, their smiles dangerous, eyes glinting with a cruel sort of excitement.

"Isn't she just perfect?" the blonde one, whose name I still don't know, muses, circling me like a prized object on display. His words cut through the tense air, sharp enough to draw mental blood.

"Looks can be deceiving," Quentin murmurs, stepping closer until I can feel his breath on my cheek. "But let's see if she's got the guts to handle our world." He slowly and lewdly licks my cheek all the way up from my jaw to the corner of my eye as Thayer's hands slide under my tee, his hands hot on my skin.

"No," I say, shaking my head.

"You won't say no next time," Callum whispers, twisting my arm enough to cause a sharp pain to shoot up it.

Pain flares bright and hot, a clear message that this is just a taste of what they're capable of. I bite down on my lip, holding back the words teetering on my tongue. It's a delicate balance — show too much fear, and predators like these will tear you apart; show too much fire, and they'll make sure to snuff it out.

Thayer's hands are relentless as they continue their exploration, his fingertips igniting a trail of unwanted heat against my skin as his fingers dip past the waistband of my jeans. I hate the way my body betrays a response, the way it trembles under the contact. It's wrong on all levels, but I'm frighteningly aware of the fact that deep down, some twisted part of me resonates with the danger they embody.

"There won't be a next time," I hiss between clenched teeth, my heart pounding.

Thayer flicks the button on my jeans, and I stifle the whimper as I fight against their hold on me, but all it does is press me closer to him, feeling his rock-hard cock digging into me.

"Don't be so sure, sweetheart." His voice is slick with dark promise, and I feel sick to my stomach with the reality of my situation.

Callum leans in, his face inches from mine. "A word of advice," he says softly, his eyes penetrating mine deep enough to hit my soul. "Be careful where you wander in the future. You never know what you might run into."

With a final squeeze of my wrist that makes me wince, he releases me, and so does Thayer. I stumble backwards, nearly tripping over my own feet as I race for the door, yanking it open and bursting through it without looking back. My heartbeat echoes in my ears.

Once I'm clear and down the hall, I allow myself to breathe again. But even the air feels tainted with threat. The encounter leaves a residue of terror that clings to me. This was more than just an intimidating brush with power—it was a warning. With trembling hands, I do up the button on my jeans, relief flooding me and making me dizzy that he stopped there.

As I find my way to the lecture hall, still shaken and disoriented by fear, my knees buckle, and I grab the wall, its coldness seeping into my palm. It's not enough to steady the whirlwind in my head.

I shuffle forward, forcing myself to move away toward the open door that reveals a couple of students entering from the opposite side of the corridor. What started as an ordinary day has flipped on its axis, throwing me into a game where the stakes aren't ten grand anymore but life and death—and I don't even know the rules which will keep me alive.

The drone of voices inside the room draws me toward their safety. I feel a gaze burn into my back. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms it's not paranoia—Quentin is watching me, his presence like a shadow that chills the air.

His gaze locks onto mine, and something unspoken passes between us. It's a silent acknowledgement of the new reality. His eyes, just like Callum's, yet filled with a different intensity, serve as a reminder that I'm monitored and that my every move might be watched.

He puts his finger to his lips in a shushing gesture before ducking back into the room down the hall.

I slip into the lecture hall, sliding into a seat at the back where The Crowned Syndicate can't reach me without a hall full of students in their way. My hands tremble slightly as I pull out my notebook, the blank pages mocking the chaos of my thoughts. I force myself to focus on the professor, to pretend that everything is normal.

But it's far from it. I've stepped onto a minefield, and every step I take now could blow my entire life to kingdom come if I'm not careful.