REYNA

<><><>

SLAP!

I regain my senses, and my hand flies before I can stop it.

The sharp slap echoes in the hallway, ringing louder than the blood rushing to my cheeks.

Evander freezes, his head snapping to the side, a red mark blooming across his perfect cheekbone.

I feel my heart hammering, my breath panting.

He holds his cheek.

My own hand stings. But my chest stings worse. Because damn it—I kissed him back.

For half a second, I had wanted it.

That second was betrayal enough.

And that made me hate him—and myself—even more.

“You… You think this is a game?” My voice cracks.

Evander straightens slowly. His hand falls down to his side, his eyes glinting like winter glass. For once, the smug smile is gone.

He exhales. “That wasn’t—” His jaw tightens. “That wasn’t about you.”

I scoff. “Excuse me?”

“She was watching.” He jerks his chin toward the corner where the girl with the sing-song voice and revealing clothes had stormed off angrily in the middle of our kiss.

“She’s been following me around like a ghost all week. I wanted her to back off.”

“You used me.”

He flinches, like I burned him, then steadies. “I didn’t think it would hurt you… not like that.”

A rumble stirs in my chest. “You don’t know me.”

He gulps, glancing down, then up at me again.

In a quiet voice, he says, “I’m sorry, Reyna.”

He apologizes, yet the air between us is tight, tense, like a hell that has frozen over all of a sudden. I know I should walk away.

But instead, I blurt, “What have you heard about me?”

Evander’s gaze sharpens. His fingers drum against his thighs once, then go still. Like he’s studying me, like he's reading moves on a chessboard.

He finally speaks, in a serious tone. “That the new girl with the ginger hair and blonde streak doesn’t blend in. People notice you whether you try or not, Reyna. Your features stand out.”

His eyes are locked on mine. There’s no tilted head, no smirk, no lowered voice.

He's not flirting. He's been honest. And for some reason, it feels… unsettling.

“And during the kiss,” I press, “when you said I’m a good liar but not better than you?”

He shrugs, a ghost of a smirk curling his lip. “I meant the kiss. You pretended not to want it. I called your bluff.”

I feel heat crawl up my neck. My fists clench as relief and humiliation settle inside me.

He doesn't know my real motive. Phew!

I turn to leave, when out of the blue, he catches a few strands of my hair between his fingers.

My eyes bulge. My feet freeze in place.

His voice dips low.

“Reyna,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

I clamp my teeth on my lower lip. The way he says my name… it shouldn’t matter.

But it rattles me more than the kiss.

I yank my hair free and bolt.

~~~

The next morning, golden sunlight stabs my eyes, instantly jolting me awake.

I reach for my phone. The screen mocks me: 8:32 AM

Cac!

That's “shit” in Irish Gaelic and exactly what I’m in right now.

I tumble out of bed, my hair a wild mess of ginger and blonde, legs tangling in my blanket, and somehow remembering my Irish roots at this dire time.

My stomach churns with panic.

I dive for the bathroom. Turn on the faucet. Nothing.

A dhiabhail! There's no water.

I slam the tap shut, my chest heaving, my heart threatening to spill forth. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Quickly, I yank on jeans and a crumpled shirt, drench myself in perfume, and shove random notebooks into my tote bag.

My phone buzzes.

Professor Willard’s group chat: Paper due 9 AM.

The air leaves my lungs. The room tilts. I bite my lips to stop another curse from escaping.

I never finished the paper.

My heartbeat drums like thunder in my ears. This isn’t just undone assignment.

This is Professor Willard's. The human equivalent of an angry pot of boiling oil.

Basically academic suicide for a second-year transfer student.

If I mess this up, I risk probation.

Images flash through my head: Varna. Her strapped wrist. Her screams. The way she smelled of disinfectant and drugs.

I have to stay to make that bastard pay. I can’t lose this chance. I can’t fail her.

Swiftly, I get on my knees and dig through old folders, my hands shaking as I scatter my sketches and notes across the floor.

My fingers brush a stapled pile. An old paper. The same topic as the assignment. But not mine.

I freeze as guilt tears at my chest. What I’m thinking of doing is wrong. Plagiarism is wrong.

But Varna’s screams flood my head, and I give in.

Survival doesn’t wait for morals.

I rip the front page with the original name and shove the rest into my bag.

My eyes fall on the tattoo inked on the inside of my left wrist.

A small tat in cursive: Survive.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Survive.”

I sprint out the door.

And on impulse, I pound on Evander’s. “Hey, do you have running water—”

The door swings open.

A girl leans against the frame, holding a handbag in one hand and a pair of heels in the other.

Her hair is a tangled mess, lips swollen, lipstick smudged, and she's wearing nothing but Evander’s hoodie.

My stomach drops. My chest feels tight. Why does my chest feel tight?

Behind her, Evander appears. Bare-chested, jeans unzipped, and belt unbuckled and hanging loose.

Oblivious to my presence, he holds up a big, white, lacy bra, smirking. “You forgot this.”

The girl and I look at the bra, then down at her small boobs.

Her voice is flat. “That’s not mine.”

A beat passes.

Evander freezes.

The bra dangles in his hand, absurdly oversized.

He scratches the back of his neck. “Oh, uh… laundry?”

Then he spots me. And freezes again.

He hurriedly shoves the bra behind his back.

The girl struts out.

Disgust twists on my face before I can hide it. After ruining my best friend’s life, here he is, half naked with a woman, like she doesn't exist.

He notices my expression. And of course, he grins.

“Good morning to you too, my sweet neighbor.”

I mutter under my breath. “Amadán!”

That's Gaelic for “idiot.”

“What was that?” His grin widens as he steps closer.

Then he sniffs. Actually sniffs me.

My jaw drops. Rude!

“Wait. Did you shower?” He says.

“I… what... no!” My hands fly up defensively. “The water isn’t running, and I’m late, so—”

His laughter cuts me off, deep and obnoxiously rude. “So you went with hide-and-scent.”

I feel my cheeks burn. I want to strangle him.

“At least I’m not sleeping with a different girl every night,” I snap.

His grin sharpens. “Jealous much?”

“Ha! You wish. The day I’m jealous of your bench rotation is the day pigs ice-skate.”

With that, I turn around, holding back the exasperated groan bubbling in my chest, and storm down the hall.

“Use more perfume next time!” he calls after me, guffawing in laughter.

Amadán!

~~~

One Week Later.

Every eye in the room zeroes in on me, and I regret ever being born on Earth.

Mars sounds way better than this conference room filled with disciplinary officials who want to bite my head off and, worse, revoke my admission.

The paper I turned in for Professor Willard's assignment sits on the long table, damning me.

Words like “plagiarism” and “academic dishonesty” fall out of their lips and slice through the air.

I want to disappear. Turn into an ant, crawl into a hole, and hide.

My palms are moist with sweat. My ears ring like highschool bells.

If they revoke my admission, it’s over. My revenge. My promise to Varna. All of it.

Survive, I remind myself, as my fingers tremble against my inner wrist.

The door creaks open, and my eyes snap to it.

Evander strides in confidently. Composed. Ice-blue eyes scanning the room like he’s the puppet master.

What is he doing here?

He shakes the dean’s hand, that golden-boy, pearly-white smile dazzling.

The officials shower him with praises. Words ripple around me. Words like Grentwood’s pride. Captain of the Icewolves. Exceptional character.

I almost scoff out loud. Exceptional character, my left foot.

But then the next group of words is absolute betrayal.

They say I should be grateful to Evander. It was his idea.

Instead of expulsion, I’ll work on a probationary project.

Of course. The golden boy saves the troubled girl. Story of his life.

Professor Willard's stern, deep voice booms through the room, as he strokes his long, white beards.

"Reyna Mae Davidson, in order to keep your admission, you must conduct a field research project on group behavior and team dynamics. Case study assigned to… the hockey team.”

Assigned to him?!

"But Sir—"

Professor Willard raises a hand, immediately shutting me down. "No buts."

My stomach twists into a pit of fire.

Evander's done this. He’s trapped me.

My gaze finds his. His is calm, calculated and… smug.

Mine is livid, burning, and murderous.

My teeth clench so hard my jaw aches.

A slow smirk curves his lips.

The boardroom dissolves into buzzing voices. But all I see are his eyes and the cold war that has just begun.

Fine, Evander Gabriel. You want a game? Then I’ll play.

On my own terms.