7. Vogue

All nightI dreamt of Thayer, Callum, Quentin and that other fucker whose name I still don't know. Not good dreams either. Running, sweating, panting, chasing… hunting.

I was their prey, and they were as relentless as a wolf on a rabbit.

Thayer must've followed me home, or maybe I'm being paranoid, not to mention arrogant, and he was only there to make sure there was no evidence left from the beating up of that poor Jones fellow.

The weird thing was, I didn't feel scared that he was looking up at me, knowing where I live. My rational brain tells me that if he were there to hurt me, he would've. Instead, he walked away.

Now, this morning, I walk towards the campus, more intrigued by these guys than ever. What is their end game? They're obviously running some kind of game here, but there is more to it. I know there his. I can feel it. Autumn leaves crunch under my boots as I walk across the campus, ready to get another day under my belt where, hopefully, I don't run into The Crowned Syndicate. The air is crisp, so I zip up my jacket and adjust the strap of my backpack. I hurry along the path to the main buildings, my mind on the mountain of reading I've got waiting for me before my first class in an hour. Students are milling about, some eager to start, others still half asleep.

As I get closer, a sharp crack splits the air. My steps falter. Another crack, and then chaos erupts. Screams slice through the morning calm. Students run in all directions, their faces twisted with terror. I stand frozen for a split second, trying to make sense of it all.

Gunshots?

My heart kicks into high gear, pounding against my ribs, and I break into a run, dodging people left and right as we swarm like bees but with no clear path, unsure where to go but knowing we need to move. There's no time to think about anything else, only the urgent need to stay alive.

My legs pump furiously as I race towards the main building, a strange mix of robotic movement and raw panic. Echoes of terror that ricochet through the campus. I can't think; there's no room for anything but the primal urge to survive.

A shadow darts from my right. Too late, I try to swerve. My shoulder slams into a solid body, and we hit the deck. Hard. The impact drives the breath from my lungs, and for a blinding second, everything stops as something whistles over my head to slam into the wall right where we had just been standing, right where his head just was, showering us with debris.

"Fuck," I wheeze, scrambling to get purchase to keep moving, but I'm sprawled on top of someone, his hands planted firmly on my ass in a grip that's probably meant to be stabilising but feels way too personal under any other circumstance.

"Get off!" I gasp, struggling to stand, but the guy beneath me doesn't budge.

"Stay down," he growls, an order of steel and delivered with the calm of someone who isn't having their head shot at. I freeze, the reality of how close he came to being killed settling in my stomach like lead. "Thanks." His voice is rough but composed. "Looks like you just saved my life."

"What?" I gasp and turn my face to his, too close for comfort.

Quentin.

His unbelievably azure eyes fix on mine, fierce and unflinching. It's unsettling, this sudden closeness with a stranger who licked my face in an effort to intimidate me.

"It wasn't exactly on purpose," I huff out as he rolls us over, so he is on top of me now, my backpack digging into my back, my sandwich probably flattened. But in his gaze, there's something like recognition, as if by saving him, I've crossed an invisible line.

"Regardless," he says, sliding his hands from my ass when I lift up and wiggle to press down on my hips. He is settled between my legs like we're about to fuck right here in the middle of the campus while bullets fly at us overhead.

Sexy? Fuck, yeah.

Terrifying? Oh, my fucking God, I want to cry I'm so scared right now.

Quentin pushes himself up slightly. His nonchalance is almost surreal, like getting shot at is just another Tuesday for him. "We need to move. Stay close, I'll keep you safe," he murmurs as he lithely manoeuvres into a crouch, leaving me to flounder like a beached whale with my backpack swinging wildly, my aching bones and the grace of a duck.

"Safe?" I snort, though there's nothing funny about it. "From what? Being used as target practice?"

"Something like that." Quentin's lips twitch in what might be a smile if we weren't sitting ducks in a shooting gallery.

Why do I keep thinking about ducks?

Because it rhymes with fucks, maybe?

And fucks is something that is bouncing around my head whenever I stare into Quentin's eyes. Lots of fucks. Plenty of them. All night long kind of fucks. Bet he doesn't tire easily.

Get a fucking grip and stop thinking about fucks.

"You okay?" he asks, frowning at me as my face heats up at my rampant thoughts.

"Great," I mumble. An accidental hero in a mess too big to understand, with a mafia guy who now feels like he has a debt to repay.

What else does this day want to throw at me?

Jinx.

Fuck off.

"Stop talking to yourself," I mutter, and Quentin frowns at me some more as he draws his gaze away from scanning the landscape, which seems to have quietened down. Or are we being lulled into a false sense of security? Or worse, are we being herded into what we think is a safe space to be gunned down?

"Uhm," I stammer as he stands up and grabs my hand, not even looking at me as he hauls me to my feet.

"Looks clear," he mutters.

"Says you," I grouse but run after him as he drags me along to seek shelter, hopefully, in the main building where everyone else has converged, and the faculty are instructing everyone on what to do and not do through a loudspeaker.

"Vogue," Quentin says, squeezing my hand tightly. "Are you hurt?"

I shake my head, trying to catch my breath, my other hand pressed against the cool concrete wall. He leans close, checking me over like I might've caught a stray bullet and just not noticed yet, brushing my wayward hair from my face, his body close to mine. I look up at him, so much taller than me, and my lips part.

He stares at them for a moment before bringing his gaze back to mine. His eyes are sharp, alert; mine must look wild, scared. He doesn't look away, doesn't blink. He just watches me with this intensity that feels like it's peeling back layers I didn't know I had.

"Good." He's too calm like he's done this before. He probably has.

The main doors to the building swing open, scaring the shit out of everyone except Quentin, to let in Callum, Thayer and Blondie, who stares at mine and Quentin's still joined hands with a questioning glare.

Callum is all business, all urgency.

"Ideas?" Quentin demands, voice dropping an octave.

"Forsaken sent them," Thayer spits out with distaste. "Looks like they want you back."

"Fuck that," Quentin mutters. "They tried to remove my face from my head. Vogue saved me."

Three pairs of eyes swivel on their stalks to me as my face goes warm again.

"Really?" Callum drawls, his curiosity piqued.

"It was an accident," I mutter.

"Doesn't matter," Quentin says. "A save is a save."

"Good girl," Callum murmurs, his gorgeous eyes boring into mine. "We owe you a debt of gratitude, it seems."

"Nope, it's nothing." I hold my free hand up, drawing even more attention to the one Quentin is still gripping tightly.

"We don't back away from debts," Callum says tightly, his fierce glare on Quentin before he turns back to me with a forced smile. "We pay up."

So this is what it means to be tied up with the Crowned Syndicate. University suddenly feels like a battlefield, one almost exactly the same as the one I left and was hoping to leave in the past.

"Any casualties?" Quentin asks, glancing around while I struggle to keep up with the gravity of the conversation happening inches away.

"Two injured, no fatalities. Security's locking the place down," Callum responds.

"Quentin, we need to move," Blondie interrupts, glancing at his watch like time's about to expire.

"What's your name then?" I blurt out suddenly, getting pissed with calling him Blondie.

He snorts in disbelief at my apparent rudeness. "Harrison Bennet. Charmed to make your acquaintance."

"Fuck off," I growl, getting my anger now that the shock is wearing off a bit. "You're all a bunch of assholes." I drag my hand out of Quentin's and cross my arms, pushing my hands under my armpits for safekeeping.

"Feisty," Harrison says. "Figured you would be."

"You don't know me."

"Ah, well?—"

"Let's move out," Callum barks, almost as if he wanted to interrupt whatever Harrison was going to say.

"Right." Quentin turns back to me, his face hardening. "Stay close to me. It might not be over."

"Wonderful," I mutter, the words tasting bitter. My life was complicated enough without dodging bullets. Now, I'm in the eye of the storm with these dicks who want to keep me close for reasons I've yet to discover. It could go either way, but I'm betting on ‘the talk' happening fairly soon - a reiteration of ‘you didn't see anything'.

"We need to keep you safe now. You're involved, whether you like it or not."

"Involved?" I shake my head, trying to dislodge the fear that's setting in like quick-dry cement. "I didn't sign up for this. I came here for an education, not a death wish."

"Nobody signs up for this," Callum interjects, his voice laced with something that sounds like regret. "But sometimes, trouble chooses you."

Trouble chose me alright, with a capital T. I press my back against the wall, refusing to move, using it to prop me up as my knees feel like they might give out any minute. My mother worked so hard so I could get away from Westfield, away from the life she feared would swallow me if I'd stayed and got a routine job in the town. Now I feel like I'm throwing all that back in her face if I take even one step more with these guys.

"Listen," Quentin's hand finds my shoulder, a steadying presence. "You're not alone in this. We will protect you."

"Protect me," I scoff, a humourless sound, but the look in Quentin's eyes tells me I don't have much choice in the matter anymore.

"Fine," I sigh and muster the strength to stand straighter, facing the men who speak about danger as if it's an old friend. "Okay. So, what do we do?"

The Crowned Syndicate exchanges glances, a silent conversation passing between them before Quentin steps forward.

"We survive," he states simply. "We strategize, and we survive."

Survive. I can do that. I've been doing it all my life, scrapping and clawing my way through each day. Maybe I'm not as out of my depth as I thought. Fear still coils in my belly, but alongside it grows a flicker of something else—a spark of defiance, a will to stand my ground.

"Can you do that, sweetheart?" he whispers in my ear as he moves closer.

Tilting my head back to look him in the eye, I nod, face grim. "Yeah, I can do that."

He nods and takes my hand, taking responsibility for me on this shitshow of a day.

Heat prickles down my spine as we push through a side door, away from the chaos in the foyer.

As we move deeper into the building, the other guys right behind us, I can't shake the feeling that this is just the beginning, and as much as Quentin vows to protect me, I know that in this world of shadows and bloodshed, nobody's truly safe. Especially not from the dangers lurking just out of sight, waiting to strike when you least expect it.

The last thought leaves me cold, the realisation that this is far from over hanging above me like a guillotine blade. We disappear into the bowels of Crestmont, and I can't help but wonder just how deep into darkness this path will lead us.