The days after Aaron's party settle into something dangerously close to normal. Rhys walks me to class, his hand on the small of my back. We train at the cottage twice a week. He sleeps in my dorm more nights than not, his arm locked around my waist, his face pressed into my hair.
I almost convince myself to relax.
Then Grayson corners me outside the science building.
Not his usual ambush—no vicious grip, no hissed threats. He falls into step beside me with his hands in his pockets and an expression I've never seen on him before. Something careful. Almost gentle.
"We need to talk." He nods toward an empty bench. "Sit down."
"Since when do you want to talk to me?"
"Since I found something you need to see." He pulls out his phone, and the look on his face stops me cold. Not smug. Not triumphant. Concerned—or a devastatingly good imitation of it. "I didn't want to be the one to show you this, Sloane. But no one else will."
He turns the phone toward me. Screenshots fill the screen—text conversations, group chats, timestamps from weeks ago. I recognize the interface immediately. Vampire messaging app, silver-themed, the kind only Fangs use.
The first screenshot is a conversation between Rhys and Aaron.
Rhys: The coach's daughter is perfect. Grayson can't stand seeing her with me. Every time we walk into a room together, he loses another piece of his mind.
Aaron: You're really doing this? Using the halfblood to get to him?
Rhys: She's useful. Willing. And too desperate for attention to question why I picked her. By the time the season ends, Grayson will be so rattled he'll lose the captaincy on his own.
I scroll down. More messages. More conversations. Each one worse than the last.
Rhys: She thinks it's real. That's what makes it work. The more she falls, the more public we become, the harder it hits her brother.
Aaron: Cold, man. Even for you.
Rhys: She's a halfblood. She should be grateful anyone's paying attention to her at all.
My vision blurs. The words swim on the screen, rearranging themselves into shapes that feel like blades. Too desperate for attention to question why I picked her.
"There's audio too." Grayson's voice has gone quiet. Almost kind. "A vampire brought it to me. Said he couldn't watch it happen to you anymore."
He presses play. Rhys's voice fills the space between us—unmistakable, that low smooth cadence I've memorized against my will.
"Grayson's sister is the easiest target I've ever had. She practically threw herself at me. All I had to do was show her a little kindness in that elevator and she was mine."
Laughter in the background. Multiple voices.
"By the end of the season, Grayson Imler will be destroyed. And his halfblood sister will have done all the work for me."
Grayson stops the recording. His golden eyes search my face, and for the first time in my life, my brother looks at me like I'm someone worth protecting.
"I verified the screenshots myself." He pockets the phone. "Two sources. They're real."
I stare at the bench between us. The wood grain blurs and sharpens, blurs and sharpens.
"I tried to warn you." No venom in his voice. Just exhaustion. "From the very beginning, I tried to tell you what he was."
I find Rhys in the training facility, reviewing game footage in the film room. The blue light from the screen casts shadows across his face, and when he looks up at me, he smiles—that real smile, the one I thought belonged only to me.
"Hey." He reaches for my hand. "I was about to text you—"
I pull up the screenshots on my phone and hold the screen in front of his face.
The smile dies. His hand drops. I watch the color drain from his expression in real time—recognition, then shock, then something cold settling over his features.
"Where did you get these?"
"Does it matter?" My voice is steady. Impressively, impossibly steady. "Is it true?"
"No." He stands, reaching for me. "Sloane, this isn't—I didn't write these—"
"That's your account. Your profile picture. Your conversation with Aaron." I step back, out of reach. "And the audio, Rhys. I heard your voice. Your exact voice saying I was the easiest target you've ever had."
"Someone faked it. This is a setup—"
"A setup." I laugh, and it sounds nothing like me. "Celeste told me you were using me. Your own friends joked about you getting bored and dropping me. And now this."
"Listen to me." He moves closer, and for the first time his proximity doesn't make my pulse race—it makes my stomach turn. "I don't know who made these, but they're not real. You know me. You know what's between us—"
"Do I?" The question scrapes out of me raw. "Because the Rhys I know told me this was a business arrangement. Told me I was going to be his weapon against my brother. Told me dating me would make Grayson lose his mind." I hold up the phone. "These messages say the exact same thing. The only difference is you said them to my face and meant them."
His jaw works. His hands open and close at his sides, searching for words that aren't coming fast enough.
"I can prove it." He pulls out his own phone, fingers shaking as he scrolls through his messages. "Look—my conversation with Aaron. Right here. None of those messages exist. I never wrote them."
He holds the screen toward me. The chat history is there—short exchanges about practice times, party logistics, game strategy. Nothing damning. Nothing about me at all.
"You deleted them." The words come out flat. "You saw this coming and you cleaned your phone."
"I didn't delete anything because there was nothing to delete—"
"How convenient." I step back, out of reach. "A perfect blank history. No trace. Just your word against screenshots and audio with your exact voice."
"You're not stupid. And it's not an act—"
"Then explain the audio." I hold his gaze. "Right now. Explain how your voice ended up on a recording calling me the easiest target you've ever had."
Silence. The film footage plays behind him—players moving in slow motion, frozen mid-collision. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
Nothing comes out.
"That's what I thought." I pocket my phone. "Don't text me. Don't come to my dorm. Don't touch me in the hallways."
"Sloane—"
"We're done performing."
I walk out of the film room and make it all the way to my dorm before my legs give out. The door locks behind me and I slide down it, sitting on the floor with my knees pulled to my chest.
His pillow is still on my bed. His scent is still in my sheets—cold winter and something darker, something I now associate with safety, which makes it so much worse. I should strip the bed. Wash everything. Scrub him out of every surface he's touched.
Instead I press my face into his pillow and breathe him in one last time, hating myself for how much it still feels like home.
A knock at midnight. Grayson again—softer this time, his voice low through the door.
"I know tonight was hard." A pause. "Come home, Sloane. End this before he destroys you completely. You're still my sister. That still means something."
I press my forehead against the door. His footsteps retreat down the hallway, and the silence he leaves behind is worse than anything he's ever shouted at me.
Because for the first time, I almost believe him.