8. Vogue

"Where are we going?"I ask, still being hustled along by Quentin through more doors and corridors than I can count.

"Somewhere safe where we can think," Callum says, falling in beside me and placing his hand on the small of my back under my backpack.

"Okay," I whisper, not really knowing what else to say.

Harrison takes the lead as we push open a fire door that opens up to the back of the campus and a large car park. He aims for a black SUV that looks like it cost more than my mother's house and zaps the central locking before opening the door and sliding in.

Quentin, being absurdly chivalrous, opens the door for me and helps me inside before sliding in next to me. Callum takes shotgun, and Thayer climbs in on my other side with a slow, sexy smile that speaks of our lingering whatever the fuck it was last night.

Harrison sets off, and soon we are headed away from the sleepy town of Crestmont towards the city a few miles away.

The car pulls up to a hotel, and the building looms over us like it's reaching straight for the sky.

"What is this place?" I ask, looking up at the sleek, expensive-looking building.

"My family owns it," Harrison says, cutting the engine and we climb out.

"Oh," I murmur, eyes wide.

"We'll be safe here," Callum says, his hand firm on my back as he guides me through the lobby.

Quentin hangs back now, letting Callum take the lead. My hand feels cold without his gripping it tightly, so I shove it into my jacket pocket.

The elevator ride up to the room is silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts. When the doors open, we step directly into luxury that's beyond anything I've ever seen. Plush carpets, gleaming surfaces, and windows that offer a view of the city that seems endless.

I should feel comforted here, in this fortress in the sky, but instead, I feel more lost than ever. The guys are talking now, voices low and urgent. They're making plans to strike back at whoever did this, whoever dared to disrupt the order they believe in.

Thayer's pacing, his fingers tapping against his leg with every step. Quentin's sitting at the table, his eyes sharp and calculating. Harrison has a hard set to his jaw, and Callum, stands with the air of someone who has been given every inch of ground he's walked on. He catches my eye, and for a moment, there's a flicker of something that looks like understanding.

"Vogue, you can sit down," Quentin says, motioning to a chair next to him. "You don't have to stand there like you're waiting for another bullet."

His words are blunt, but there's no malice behind them. Just a statement of fact. I remove my backpack, but keep it close and take the seat quietly, folding my hands in my lap. I watch them, these men who've been born into a life of power and hidden wars, wondering how I fit into their world now.

"Quen, get her something to drink," Callum murmurs, staring out of the window thoughtfully.

"Water or something stronger?" Quentin asks, looking at me again with those intense eyes that seem to see right through me.

"Water's fine," I say, my voice steady even if nothing else is.

As Quentin moves to the bar area, I watch his movements, sharp and sure. In this room surrounded by men who talk of retribution and loyalty, I'm not just lost, I'm adrift, and I have to wonder if there's any shore that will welcome someone like me—a girl from Westfield who somehow found herself caught in the crossfire of a world she never asked to be a part of.

I need space—a breath of air to clear my head and figure out my next move in this high-stakes game where I don't know the rules. I push back from the table, where the guys are huddled, whispering in low tones while they plot.

"Excuse me," I mumble, but I'm not sure anyone hears. Thayer's gaze flicks in my direction, but he doesn't say a word.

I walk across the plush carpet, my feet sinking slightly with each step, a luxury so far removed from the linoleum floors and threadbare carpet of my childhood home.

Sliding open the balcony door, the cool morning breeze brushes against my skin like an old friend offering comfort without questions. The city sprawls below me, chrome and glass glinting in the sun. I lean on the railing, sucking in deep lungfuls of air that taste of freedom and fear.

"Vogue, you shouldn't be out here," Callum's voice comes from behind me, a touch concerned, a whole lot commanding.

I turn to face him. "And why's that? Because of snipers or because you think I'll leap over the balcony like some sort of spy and run?"

He steps closer, his presence insistent as he narrows his eyes at my sass. "It's not safe."

"Feels like it's not safe anywhere these days, especially not with you guys." My words hang between us, heavy and true.

Callum's jaw tightens, and for a moment, I see something flash in his eyes before it's quickly masked. "We're trying to protect you."

"By dragging me deeper into your world?" I challenge. "I'm not sure that's protection, Callum. It feels more like a life sentence."

"Vogue..."

"No, let me be clear. What happened today, those bullets weren't meant for me, but they could've been my end all the same. And now, hiding out in some fancy hotel room isn't going to change the fact that I'm just collateral damage waiting to happen."

"For starters, we don't know they weren't aiming at you, and secondly, is that what you think you are to us? Collateral damage?" His tone is low, almost a growl.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I ask, my voice shrill. "Why would they be trying to kill me? I don't even know who these people are!"

"We can't rule anything out," he states and that, according to his tone, is the end of that.

Choosing not to go down the path he has closed off, I inhale sharply. "Why should I think I'm not dispensable?" I ask, my heart racing but not from fear of him—more from the realisation of how tangled our lives have become.

"Believe it or not, we care about what happens to you." He leans on the railing beside me, looking out at the view I had been lost in moments ago.

"Care is a loaded word in our situation," I retort, crossing my arms to ward off the chill or maybe his scrutiny.

"Everything is loaded in our situation, Vogue. But we're in the line of fire together." He turns to face me, his expression hard to read.

"Who are you? Really?"

"Callum Wakefield, Earl of Woodhurst."

My mouth drops open in shock. "Earl?"

"Yep."

"Well, look at you, aren't you fancy." Then I frown. "Wait. Why is Quentin's surname different to yours?"

He cocks his head to the side with an inquisitive stare. "How do you know it is?"

"Ravenscroft. He's in one of my lectures, which is weird. You're undergrads, right?"

"Third-years. But Quen fancies himself as a bit of a swot."

The unladylike snort that erupts from my face is horrifying, but I can't help it. Quentin, with his snake neck tattoo, bullets flying past his head and all-black combat-type attire, is the least likely person I'd call a swot ever. But then I sober up. I guess it just shows you how judging a book by its cover is so wrong. He speaks with eloquence, knowledge and confidence. So I nod and look back over the city wondering what the fuck I've got myself into, with no answer on why the twins have different last names. I guess it doesn't really matter.