9. Vogue

The weightof Callum's gaze is hard to ignore. Turning my head to face him again, his eyes bore into mine, heavy with things unsaid. His eyes are like two shards of ice as he narrows them, almost willing me to understand, to see the layers beneath all this muscle and mafia. But I can't unravel Callum Wakefield, not now, not with my pulse still beating wildly from the day's terror.

He steps back, disappearing into the suite without another word, leaving me in the cool air that does nothing to soothe the heat in my cheeks.

Quentin emerges then, bringing with him the scent of aged scotch and something indefinably dangerous. He extends the glass towards me, his movements smooth, controlled. "Here, try this. Might help."

I take it, my fingers brushing against his. The warmth from his hand lingers like a promise, or maybe a warning. My lips touch the rim, and I take a tentative sip. I don't mind a glass of wine or two, but usually, hard spirits are my limit. Today though, that can get fucked. The scotch is fire down my throat, and I cough, the sound harsher than I intend.

"Easy," Quen says, reclaiming the glass with a slow smile that does funny things to my stomach. "It's an acquired taste."

"No shit." My voice is raspier than usual, raw from the cough and the emotions scratching at my insides.

Quentin doesn't have the same polish as the others, but he's got an edge—sharper and somehow more real. I feel we're alike—him and me—two people who found their way into a world that isn't quite ours. There's a bond simmering, one that formed under gunfire and adrenaline, and it pulls me towards him, gravity in human form.

"Thanks, anyway," I mutter.

"Anytime." His voice is low, a beat that seems to vibrate right through me.

We stand there, side by side, watching the city going about its business while we are up in the clouds planning a war, feeling the chasm between our worlds and the bridge we've built over it with shared secrets and survival.

"Today has been a lot. Even for me. Where do you go when everything gets too much?" I venture, not wanting him to leave, but finding the silence will push him away.

He leans against the balcony railing, his profile to me as he watches the city below, considering the question. Then, without turning, he says, "Away from all this, usually." He gestures vaguely with his hand, encompassing the gilded luxury around us.

"Where's that, though?" I press on, needing to understand this enigmatic man who stands beside me.

"Doesn't matter." He finally looks at me, eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Tell me about Westfield instead."

I hesitate, but then words come out, and I can't stop them. "My mum worked two jobs so that I could focus completely on my studies and not have to worry about chipping in. Right up until I left for Westfield University. It's all she ever wanted for me was to get away from that place, so she did what she could to make it happen. I feel guilty, you know. It drives me to succeed so that it wasn't all for nothing." The words come easier than I expected, and Quentin listens with an intensity that makes me feel heard for the first time in, well, ever.

"Sounds like you're made of tough stuff, Vogue," he says after I come to a stop, not really wanting to go further without some sort of reciprocation. His voice is soft, respectful.

"Guess I have to be," I reply, shrugging off the compliment.

There's a pause, then Quentin pushes away from the railing with a fluid motion. "We should head back in, figure out what's next."

"Yeah." I follow him, but as we enter the hotel room, I drift to a sofa in a corner far from where Callum, Thayer, and Harrison huddle over drinks and secrets. Their voices are low, intense, discussing payback with cold professionalism.

I watch them, feeling the weight of the situation settle into my bones. This isn't some campus drama; it's life or death.

As they talk strategy, my mind wanders back to the balcony and Quentin's guarded answers. It's that connection that sticks with me, a thread pulling me towards him even as I sit here quietly, wrapped in shadows and uncertainty.

As the minutes wear on, my eyelids are heavy, and the voices around me fade into a low hum. The sofa is soft and comfortable, like a warm hug. The plush carpet under my feet might as well be clouds, and the murmur of strategy is like distant thunder, rolling through my consciousness without meaning.

I curl up as I fight the pull of sleep, but it's a losing battle. The exhaustion wraps around me, thick and suffocating, dragging me down into darkness. My body gives in, muscles relaxing for the first time since bullets shattered the quiet of campus life.

I'm somewhere between awake and asleep when I feel a blanket drape over me. I don't bother opening my eyes, too far gone to acknowledge the gesture or the person behind it. A part of me whispers that I should stay alert, that danger is a constant companion now, but physical weariness overpowers mental vigilance. These men laid their hands on me without my consent, and somehow, through the terror of the day, that seems to be forgotten.

But right now, I just don't care.

The sounds of plotting fade entirely as I slip under, surrendering to the need for rest. In this stolen moment of peace, there's no gunfire, no fear, no need to be strong. There's just darkness and the soft whisper of breath as I drift away, succumbing to the silence of sleep.