Crack.
Pain bloomed at the base of my skull, a flash of white behind my eyes. My balance tilted. I staggered back, disoriented, mouth parting in a shocked exhale.
“What the f?—”
Everything went black.
I woke up on the floor.
Not in bed. Not on the couch.
The floor.
My head pounded like a war drum. I groaned and sat up, the left side of my face screaming as if it had tried to take on a brick wall and lost.
Something cold brushed my palm.
A vial.
Bright green this time.
And a note, tucked neatly beneath it, written in blocky handwriting I recognized but hated instantly.
You weren’t the only one given instructions. Sorry about the bruise. Also: trust no one. Not even me.
My fingers curled tight around the paper.
“Tempest,” I muttered, fury and betrayal twisting inside me like storm ready to rage cross the sea.
The vial winked at me in the early morning light.
One step closer. Another test. Another secret.
And this time?
She played me.
I stared at the note again.
Not even me.
I laughed.
Then I stopped.
Because I wasn't sure which part hurt worse: the bruise on my face—or the fact that I’d started to believe she might actually care after last night, after our words, after our moment.
Joke’s on me.
This was all a business transaction—kisses included.
How depressing.
Bottoms up.
12
TEMPEST