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I laughed. “I said more or less the same thing to the girls last night.”

“They Marked too?”

I winced. “Oh, yeah. I should’ve led with that earlier.”

“That only makes our chances better.”

I shot him a skeptical look. “How do you figure?”

He slung his arm casually over my shoulder. “If the Huntsmen can team up, why wouldn’t we? Winning in numbers, Sanj.”

I wasn’t sure numbers would matter much when we were dealing with personalized stalkers, but a little optimism wouldn’t kill me, right?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

SANJANA

The professor was speaking about how cultural systems masked control under the guise of tradition, and it hit a little too close to home. I took a few notes, my handwriting losing consistency the longer I stared at the page. Words likesubmission,fear-based compliance, andgenerational sacrificejumped out at me. I needed to stop freaking myself out.

I placed my pencil down, shifting in my chair to get more comfortable. It was midafternoon now, and I was more convinced than ever that the guys knew we’d been Marked. Yet, there were still crickets on the topic. If they were waiting for us to admit it first, Roxxi would make sure they waited until the death of the universe. I wanted to know iftheywere part of it too, but I refused to be the first to get this conversation rolling. Though the more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed. I wouldn’t just need to stomach the Hunt, then. I’d have to pray the boys we trusted learned the damn rules and tried to abide by them.

I could vividly remember the absolute chaos those five and a few of their more unhinged friends I barely knew caused back in high school. They always got away with it. Their surnames and status bought freedom, and nearly half the town adored them. I could see them being thrilled to join The Hunt. They’d turn the entire tradition on its head with the same twisted confidence they always carried. I couldn’t imagine all those Huntsmen who paid for the privilege just bowing to them, though. This had all the makings of blood and lacquer warfare.

Because of that, I was honestly glad I didn’t know who had been behind the wheel of that black sedan yesterday.

Since no cars had gone up in flames near campus, I could only assume that particular Huntsman was keeping a low profile. They were still a complete dick for coming at me and Layla with a whole ass car. The classroom door creaked open, and half the heads in the room turned to look, including mine. A delivery guy stepped inside wearing a plain blue polo, holding a round glass vase filled with flowers. At the front of the room, Professor Prescott paused her speech, one brow lifting with polite curiosity.

“I’m looking for Sanjana Marino?”

Cue every pair of eyes swinging my way.

My face went warm. I cleared my throat and raised my hand, trying not to shrink into my seat. “That’s me.”

The guy smiled and walked over to where I was sitting, careful with the vase. I stood to take it, murmured a quick thanks, and sat back down like it was no big deal.

“Have a good one,” he called over his shoulder, already out the door.

The flowers were stunning. Soft pink lilies nestled between ivory and blue roses, trailing pale greenery. A few students around me whispered and side-eyed, their curiosity practically humming. I ignored them, reaching for the attached card, my heart already kicking into a faster rhythm.

Hope this brightens your day, Sassy.

It would’ve taken some drastic measures for me to hold my smile back.

Kellan leaned over, “Voss?” There was amusement in his voice, like he didn’t even need confirmation.

I nodded, my cheeks still flushed.

The fact that Ashton’s name didn’t come up as a possibility said more than I was ready to unpack. Especially since our textswere far and few since the night before. Was I a horrible person for not caring as much as I probably should’ve?

Miss Prescott chuckled at the interruption. “Ah, young love,” she mused, pushing her glasses up and shaking her head of dark hair.

She wasn’t old enough to be speaking about age. Not to mention, she was effortlessly beautiful, one of the only professors at Crowsfell who could deliver a lecture about cultural morality while looking like she belonged on the cover of Architectural Digest. Half the campus took her class for the view. The rest stayed for her brutal honesty and the fact that she graded like she’d seen the world fall apart and was desperate to make us smarter than whoever had broken it.

As the class settled back into the flow of her lecture, I slid my phone halfway out of my bag and typed a quick message.

These are beautiful, but why?

The reply came before I could even lock the screen.

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