After the interaction with Alyssa in the hallway, school pretty much slipped back into its usual madness.
It was almost insulting, really, how quickly the world moved on.
One moment, your heart could be beating so hard it felt like it wanted to rip itself out through your ribs, and the next, the bell would ring, students would shove past you in noisy waves, teachers would bark at people to get to class, and life would continue as if humiliation, cruelty, and quiet desperation weren't happening in the same corridors people laughed in.
That was high school, I guessed.
A whole building full of hormones, fake friendships, whispered rumors, expensive perfume, cheap insults, unfinished homework, and people trying very hard to look like they had themselves figured out.
I didn't.
Not even close.
So I kept my head down and did what I had gotten very good at doing over the years—I survived the day.
I attended classes. I took notes when I could focus. I pretended not to hear some of the comments that floated my way. I ignored a few people who clearly wanted a reaction from me and seemed almost offended when they didn't get one. Some students spent more time skipping class than actually learning anything. Others treated school like a fashion show or a stage play. A few teachers looked like they had long given up on trying to control anybody.
And through all of it, I just tried to remain invisible.
It should have been easy. I had years of practice.
Still, every now and then, I would catch myself drifting.
Thinking about the estate.
About Bridget.
About Nana Rose.
About Malakai.
And every single time his name crossed my mind, something in me would tighten.
It was impossible not to think about him after the past two days. Impossible not to remember the way he looked at people, like he could see beneath skin and bone and straight into the ugliest, most hidden parts of them. Impossible not to remember the cold way he spoke, the dangerous quiet of him, the sense that violence sat just beneath the surface of his skin like a second pulse.
He frightened me.
And somehow, that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was that he had also confused me.
A man like that should have been easy to hate.
Instead, he had brought me into his home.
Fed me.
Left me untouched.
Sent Bridget to get me clothes.
Nothing about that felt simple, and I had lived long enough to know that when things weren't simple, they were usually dangerous.
By the time the final bell rang, I was more than ready to leave.
I packed my things quickly, slung my bag over my shoulder, and hurried out of the classroom before anyone could stop me. The halls were crowded with students spilling out in clumps, voices bouncing off lockers, laughter rising and breaking in sharp bursts. I kept moving, not wanting to look back, not wanting to give anyone the chance to draw me into any conversation I didn't ask for.
At one point, I passed Alyssa again.
She was half-hidden near one of the outer walkways, pressed against one of the football jocks as though the entire school belonged to them and the rest of us were just background decoration. His hand was shoved directly under her shirt, brazen and disgusting, while she laughed like she didn't have a care in the world.
I looked away so fast my face almost twisted on its own.
God.
Some people really had no shame.
I tightened my grip on my bag and kept walking, down the block toward the place the driver had told me earlier he would be waiting. He had been very specific about it that morning, calm and polite in that professional way all the staff around Malakai seemed to possess.
Sure enough, when I reached the spot, the car was already there.
Black. Sleek. Tinted windows.
Waiting for me.
A strange feeling moved through me then—one I almost didn't recognize at first.
Being expected.
Being picked up.
It was such a small thing, probably nothing to anyone else, but to me it felt oddly unreal.
The driver stepped out the moment he saw me approaching and opened the door for me.
"Good afternoon, miss."
I paused, half-bent toward the seat. "Please don't call me miss."
He blinked, clearly not expecting that. "My apologies."
I slipped into the car and looked up at him with an awkward little smile. "Kiara is fine."
That seemed to soften him slightly. "All right, Kiara."
Once he got back behind the wheel, I settled into the seat and adjusted my bag on my lap. The leather was soft beneath my fingers. The air inside smelled clean, expensive, faintly of cologne and polished interior.
I still wasn't used to any of it.
After a moment, I looked toward the front. "I'm sorry. Did I waste your time? Were you waiting long?"
He glanced at me through the mirror and shook his head. "Not at all. I only just got here."
"Oh." I looked down at my hands. "Okay. Thank you."
He gave a small nod and started the car.
For a little while, the only sound in the vehicle was the low hum of the engine and the distant city noise beyond the tinted glass. Then he asked, "How was school?"
I stared out the window. "School was... well, school."
He let out a soft chuckle at that.
"Nothing interesting," I added. "Nothing serious to talk about."
He nodded as though he understood more than I'd said aloud. "We'll pick up Miss Bridget now."
There was that title again, attached to Bridget this time, and I found myself fighting the urge to smile.
As we drove, I watched the city pass by in flashes of movement and color. Because the windows were tinted, I could see people without them really seeing me. Students poured out of buildings in noisy groups, friends hooking arms together, laughing, shoving one another, sharing snacks, sharing secrets, sharing the kind of easy closeness I used to think everyone except me had been taught at birth.
For a moment, I watched a group of girls walking with their hands linked, their heads bent close together as they laughed about something only they understood.
And I wondered why I had never had that.
Not really.
Not without fear attached to it. Not without conditions. Not without the constant need to be careful.
But strangely, the thought didn't ache as much as it might have once.
Maybe because there were too many newer, stranger things to think about now.
Maybe because part of me was still trying to understand Bridget.
Eventually, we turned toward her school.
Even from outside, it looked expensive.
Elegant gates, pristine grounds, students spilling out in immaculate uniforms that made everyone look polished and preppy and just a little too put together to be real. It was the kind of school that looked like it belonged in glossy magazines or movies where everyone had perfect hair and family money and futures waiting neatly for them.
The driver slowed.
I scanned the crowd until I spotted her.
Bridget stood near the steps talking animatedly to two people, one hand moving so much as she spoke that even from a distance I could tell she was in the middle of some dramatic retelling. She looked bright against the late afternoon light—alive in that effortless way some people simply were.
Before I could second-guess myself, I leaned forward and pushed open the door enough to step partly out.
"Bridget!"
She turned at once.
The second she saw me, her whole face lit up.
It was one of those smiles that happened fast and fully, like sunrise breaking through cloud.
"Oh my God, bitch, you came!"
I laughed before I could stop myself.
She immediately abandoned the friends she'd been speaking to and jogged over to me, grabbing my arm as if I might disappear if she didn't physically claim me.
"How was school?" she demanded. "Did anybody annoy you? Because if somebody annoyed you, I swear I will ruin their life tomorrow."
I smiled faintly. "No. Don't worry about it."
She narrowed her eyes as if she didn't believe me, but before she could interrogate me properly, the two people she had been talking with came over.
I straightened a little, that old shyness rising up in me again like a reflex I couldn't shake.
The girl was beautiful in a way that felt almost unreal. She had blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and a petite but graceful figure that made her look like she belonged in a perfume ad. The boy beside her had light brown hair, freckles scattered across his face, and dark green eyes with a softness to them that made him seem instantly friendly.
Bridget swept a hand toward them dramatically. "Okay, introductions. This is Stacy."
The blonde girl smiled. "Hi."
"And this," Bridget said, pointing at the boy, "is Brandon."
He lifted a hand in an easy wave. "Hey."
"Hi"
Brandon added. "Nice to meet you."
Before I could answer, Bridget clapped once and announced, "And this is Kiera. My best friend. So you both have to get along with her."
I blinked. Best friend?
The words landed so suddenly and so casually that for a second I didn't know what to do with them.
Stacy and Brandon, however, accepted it without question.
"Well," Stacy said with a smile, "if Bridget likes you, then you're automatically approved."
"That's brave of you," Brandon said dryly. "Bridget has terrible judgment."
Bridget gasped. "Excuse you?"
They all laughed, and I found myself smiling again despite the strange warmth pressing into my chest.
Brandon looked at me. "Why don't you come here? To our school, I mean?"
The question was simple enough, but it still made me pause.
"Oh." I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "It's... not really up to me."
There was a brief silence after that. Not awkward exactly, but careful.
Then Stacy smiled again, kind enough not to push. "Well, maybe one day."
"Maybe," I said softly.
Bridget, sensing the shift and refusing to let anything stay serious for too long, linked her arm through mine again. "Okay, enough socialization. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and if we stand here any longer, I might die."
"You say that every day," Brandon said.
"And one day I'll mean it," Bridget shot back.
Everyone said their goodbyes, and then Bridget pulled me toward the car.
The moment we were inside, she groaned dramatically and slumped into the seat beside me. "I hate people."
I glanced at her. "You were literally just laughing with them."
"Exactly," she said. "Exhausting."
That made me laugh.
Then, as the driver pulled away, she launched straight into a full recounting of her day—how one teacher almost got his ass verbally handed to him by half the class, how somebody tried to cheat on a test and got caught in the stupidest way possible, how one girl wore shoes so ugly they should be legally investigated.
I listened, smiled, laughed where I was meant to, and quietly realized that somewhere along the line, I had begun looking forward to her voice.
By the time we got home, the estate had settled into that strange hour between afternoon and evening where the house looked even more beautiful than it did in full daylight. Warm lights glowed behind tall windows. Shadows stretched across polished floors and staircases. Everything felt elegant and distant and slightly unreal.
We stepped inside.
And there, in the living room, was Raphael.
He was sprawled comfortably on one of the sofas as if he had every right to be there—which, considering the way everyone seemed to treat him, he probably did.
The moment he saw Bridget, his face lit with mischief.
"Oh, hey, baby sis."
Bridget stopped walking. "I told you not to call me that."
Raphael put a hand to his chest. "But you are basically my little sister."
She folded her arms. "Yeah, basically. But you are not my other brother, and I am not your other sister. So carry whatever ego you have and stick it up your ass."
I stared.
Then I looked at Bridget. "That was really rude."
Raphael barked out a laugh. "No, don't worry. I'm used to it. I practically grew up with this girl."
Bridget gave him a saccharine, deeply sarcastic smile. "And somehow you still turned out annoying."
He grinned wider.
She turned to me. "Anyways, I'm going to freshen up. When you're done with whatever you want to do, want to watch a movie?"
Something in me immediately brightened.
It was probably embarrassingly obvious.
"Okay," I said, maybe a little too quickly. "No problem."
Because the truth was, back home, watching television had never been a normal thing. It wasn't some cozy everyday privilege. It was rare. Distant. One of those small ordinary things that somehow felt reserved for other people.
So yes, the thought of sitting down and watching a movie like it was nothing made me more excited than it probably should have.
Bridget left with a lazy wave, heading upstairs.
I went to my room too, changed, washed up, and took a little longer than necessary just standing in front of the mirror and adjusting myself for no reason at all. Then I made my way back down.
Raphael was still there.
Bridget, however, wasn't.
I hesitated near the doorway before sitting carefully on the far end of the couch.
Raphael glanced over. "So. How are you enjoying Black Hood Estate so far?"
I looked around the living room instinctively, as if the answer might be written somewhere in the walls. "It's okay."
He stared at me. "Wow. Just okay?"
I looked back at him, unsure.
He gestured around dramatically. "You're living in a villa that looks like a billionaire vampire designed it, and your review is it's okay?"
That made me smile a little.
"I mean," I said, "it's very beautiful. And... okay."
He laughed. "That is the most cautious compliment I've ever heard."
I tucked my feet slightly beneath me. "The people are really nice."
"Are they?"
"Yes," I said quietly. "Actually... really caring. And comforting."
Raphael's expression changed just a little then. Not dramatically. Just enough to show he was paying closer attention.
"Oh," he said. "Okay."
There was a beat of silence.
Then, because apparently he enjoyed throwing himself into danger for entertainment, he said lightly, "And what's the verdict on Malakai?"
I blinked at him.
He wiggled his brows. "Come on. Everyone has one."
I stared for a second longer, not sure whether he was joking.
"I don't really have one," I said carefully. "He's... cool, I guess. But we don't really interact."
Raphael's mouth twitched. "Mm."
"And," I added, "I would like to keep it that way."
That earned a small chuckle from him.
"I'm serious," I said.
"I know," he replied, still smiling. "Don't worry. I'm used to him. Malakai is not exactly what I'd call socially nourishing."
I looked at Raphael, a little confused by how easy he seemed around someone like Malakai.
Before I could ask anything else, Bridget reappeared and flopped dramatically between us.
"Time for the movie."
She grabbed the remote and took complete control without discussion, eventually landing on Ballerina with John Wick —all action, violence, tension, and the kind of stylish bloodshed that made me realize Bridget's taste in movies was apparently just as chaotic as the rest of her personality.
Halfway through, I was actually invested.
The world on screen was sharp and dangerous and dramatic, and though parts of it made me flinch, I found myself paying close attention anyway.
Then Raphael's phone rang.
He glanced at the screen and sighed. "I have to take this."
A few minutes later, he stood. "I need to leave."
Bridget groaned, but she waved him off anyway, and he left after tossing one last joke over his shoulder about how we'd better not finish all the snacks without him.
After Ballerina ended, Bridget immediately queued up one of those glossy preppy high school movies full of rich teenagers, messy romances, over-decorated bedrooms, and the kind of problems only people with too much money and not enough supervision could possibly have.
Honestly, I didn't care much for it at first.
It was too bright. Too artificial. Too polished.
But then, somewhere in the middle, it actually got interesting.
So I stayed.
Bridget, on the other hand, slowly melted into the couch beside me until she was half-asleep, then fully asleep, one arm sprawled over a cushion and her breathing evening out as if she had personally fought in battle instead of just gone to school. I woke her up telling her to go to her room and she lest sluggishly.
I smiled faintly and lowered the volume a little.
By the time I checked the time, it was almost eleven.
The house had gone quiet around me. Not completely silent—big houses were never silent. They creaked softly. Air moved through vents. Somewhere far off, a clock ticked. But it was the kind of quiet that made the television glow feel even brighter in the dim room.
For a while, it was just me and the screen.
Then I heard something.
A rustle.
The faint metallic jingle of keys.
A low sound—like someone swallowing back pain.
My whole body went alert.
I straightened slowly, turning my head toward the front entrance.
For one strange second, I thought maybe I had imagined it.
Then the main door opened.
And I froze.
Malakai stepped inside.
At first, my mind didn't fully understand what I was seeing. It was too abrupt, too wrong, too unlike the controlled, untouchable man I had come to know over the past few days.
He was pale.
Not dramatically. Not enough that anyone else might notice first. But I noticed. Against his skin, beneath the dim light, there was a strain in his face that made something cold move through me.
One hand was pressed hard against his lower abdomen.
And through his clothes—through the dark fabric already soaked and clinging—I saw it.
Blood.
So much blood.
It covered his hand. It was slipping between his fingers. Thick and dark and horrifyingly real, gushing through the space he was trying and failing to contain.
He made a low sound in his throat, almost like a grunt, as if he was trying to force the pain down by sheer will alone.
My heartbeat slammed against my ribs.
For a second, all I could do was stare.
Malakai—cold, composed, impossible Malakai—was stumbling.
Weak.
Bleeding.
Looking like a man who had already lost too much blood and was still trying to pretend his body hadn't noticed.
Every thought in my head crashed into the next one.
What happened?
Who did this?
How is he even standing?
Oh my God—
I shot to my feet so fast the blanket slid from my lap onto the floor.
"What the fuck?"