6. Thayer

Her soft skinunder my hands stirred something unfamiliar within me, something deep and compelling.

Vogue

She is something special. Something we hoped she would be but couldn't be certain until we had cause to interact with her and drift into her orbit. Strangely, though, she keeps drifting into ours. Or, more likely, crashing in like it's fate or some other bullshit.

She doesn't hide behind masks like the rest of us; there's an authenticity to her that's as rare as it is captivating. I watch her from a distance, not close enough to draw attention but never too far to lose sight of her. She moves with purpose, strides confident. Throughout the day, Vogue is this blaze of light on campus. Her laugh turns heads, genuine and unrefined.

She's magnetic, drawing people to her without trying. They sweep around her like she's got her own gravitational pull, but she stands apart, not one to follow the crowd. She's smart, smarter than most here, and she's got this way of looking at things differently.

The desire to really know her bites at me. It's more than just attraction; it's this need to understand what makes her tick, to unravel the mystery. The determination to bridge the gap between her world and ours grows stronger with every observation, every stolen moment of watching her navigate the day.

As I lean against the trunk of an old oak on this warm late afternoon, my eyes stay fixed on Vogue as she moves through the quad. She's unaware I'm here—a ghost in plain sight. She doesn't appear to be too shaken by the way we intimidated her earlier. She isn't easy to push around. That is something that both impresses me and irritates me. I'd like her to be more pliable, easier to manipulate, but I'll get used to her strength once I can figure out how to navigate it. It's not something I'm used to.

Students buzz around me, a blur of chatter and laughter, while I stand still, watching her glide between clusters of her peers, a lone wolf among sheep.

She stops to pick up a fallen book for someone, and her smile, unforced and genuine, lights up her face. Even at this distance, it strikes something inside me, a chord I didn't know was there to be struck. I push off from the tree, timing my steps and keeping pace with the rhythm of campus life, but always with an eye on her.

Vogue turns onto a path that leads away from the manicured lawns and historic buildings. I trail behind, careful to weave through groups of students, never too close. My footsteps are silent, a skill honed by necessity in a world where being heard can mean being caught.

Theft is my speciality. Art mostly. It is what I was trained to do since I could walk. There aren't many places I can't get into. White-collar crimes that are high-end, high stakes and extremely risky. But the parents don't run a legit Art Gallery underneath the glossy surface, so the black market stuff has to come from somewhere. I'm all about stealth, blending into the shadows. It's been ingrained in me to never stand out unless you're meant to.

Right now, I need to be the shadows.

Vogue possibly knows now we're watching her. But she hasn't been trained to spot a tail nor lose one, it would appear. Makes my job easier, but that is something that will have to change. She stands out like a nun at a piss-up.

She reaches a part of campus most of the snobs here try to avoid, where the brickwork is older and less cared for, and the buildings are more uniform as opposed to grand. It's a place that doesn't match the glossy brochures Crestmont likes to flaunt, but it's real, and it's hers.

The building she enters is stark, the exterior paintwork chipped, the windows old. The door shuts behind her with a finality that echoes down the street. I hang back, finding a shadow to slip into. This isn't my usual scene, but for Vogue, I'm willing to be anywhere, become anything, just to keep eyes on her.

My heart beats steadily, anticipation like a live wire under my skin. There's something about this girl that pulls me, something more than just the way she looks or the sound of her voice. It's in the way she carries herself, like she's got secrets of her own—secrets I intend to uncover.

I slip around the corner, sticking close to the side of the building. The back of the block of flats is even more rundown than the front—if that's possible. It's the place where Jones learned the hard way that you don't cross The Crowned Syndicate. I can still see it, feel the tension, hear the muffled grunts. But today's not about retribution or power plays; it's about Vogue.

Stepping back as I look up, carefully treading over the grass that, despite the rougher surroundings, has been neatly kept. My pulse kicks up a notch as I scan the windows above. Which one is hers? Each frame seems to hold a secret, a life I'm itching to invade. I need to know where she retreats after the world has its fill of her. My fingers twitch, my body coiled tight, always ready to leap into whatever chaos awaits, where every breath feels like I'm sucking in the potential of what tonight could bring.

There's a hunger in me, nipping at my control. It's not just lust—though fuck, that's there too—it's this fierce drive to peel back her layers, to see if she has that darkness in her that her blood demands but that her upbringing has squashed. The anticipation is a drug, hot and potent in my veins.

In this game of cat and mouse, I'm poised, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

I inch further back, each step calculated, silent. My eyes scan the building's face, stopping at a window sliding open on the first floor. It's her. Vogue steps out onto a balcony that's seen better days. The paint is peeling off the railing, and a rusty chair needs to be thrown out. The dead plant adds an ambience that screams despair, but Vogue lights it all up with her presence.

She moves with a grace that doesn't belong in this run-down place. Her fingers curl around a mug, steam swirling up into the cooling air. She lifts the mug to her lips and blows on it before taking a small sip.

She is right above the spot where Jones took his beating yesterday. She must've heard. We weren't exactly quiet about the entire thing, but that was planned to show idiots not to mess with us.

Then she looks down. Our gazes meet, and something shifts in the space between us. Time slows, narrows down to just this moment. Her eyes are wide, dark, pulling me in. There's an electric charge, a live wire connecting us, sparking with possibilities.

The world could be falling apart around us, but in this second, nothing else exists. Just her gaze holding mine, intense, unflinching. We're suspended in it, two potential storms colliding without a word spoken.

Heat coils in my gut, a primal urge that demands I climb up to her balcony and claim what a part of me feels is already mine. But I can't. Not yet. The Crowned Syndicate has plans for Vogue, and I'm not one to cross the line—not when there's more at stake than my own desires.

The air hangs heavy between us, thick with something like anticipation, or maybe it's just raw need. It's the kind of tension that could ignite with a single spark, no words necessary. She doesn't back down from my stare, and I respect that. There's something about her, something more than the fa?ade of an ordinary college girl. She's got this fire, and it makes me want to stoke it until it rages out of control.

But I have to wait. Play the long game. It's all about strategy, positioning. With every second that ticks by, the atmosphere charges up even more, crackling with the silent questions we're both asking. What are you doing here? Who are you really?

She's curious about me, too. She has to be, or she would've ducked scared back into her haven. Her gaze is incisive, trying to peel back my layers and figure out the man lurking in the shadows.

I watch, and she watches back.

The air around us seems to hum with the force of what's unsaid, and it takes every ounce of strength I have to turn away. It's a move full of reluctance, every step heavy with the weight of leaving her there, surrounded by the dying plant and the rusty chair, a queen in her not-so-ivory tower.

With every step, the distance between us grows, but the connection doesn't fade—it lingers, a thread stretched tight, vibrating with potential energy. But that one thought bounces around my head and will not be pushed aside.

She isn't afraid of me.

I had my hands on her without her consent, I violated her boundaries, tried to push her past her limit, and yet, somehow, she isn't scared.

There's a mutual curiosity, a shared fascination that neither of us can deny. But we leave it unexplored. For now.

Walking further away, I leave her there, with the dying light and the ghost of our connection lingering in the air.

As I make my way back to the safety of anonymity, I've started down a path that could lead to destruction or ecstasy, and I'm not sure which I'm headed for. But one thing is clear: Vogue isn't someone I can simply walk away from, even if instructed to by people bigger and badder than me. Not now, not ever.