When I stopped by Luke’s hockey practice, Logan hadn’t taunted. He’d just watched, and somehow that was worse.
Blackwood held its breath. So did we.
By the time we returned to campus, the heaviness of Blackwood had resettled on our shoulders.
The courtyard buzzed with post-break energy. Laughter spilled across the brick walkways. It seemed normal. Except it wasn’t.
I stepped through the gates and felt it immediately. The quiet underneath the noise.
Avery walked beside me, mid-story about something Jax had done the night before. I nodded at the right moments, but my focus drifted.
The wind caught my hair, lifting it briefly before dropping it back against my shoulders. I slowed.
“Hey,” Avery murmured. “You good?”
“Yeah.” A lie.
I felt it before I saw him. That pull. That pressure at the back of my neck. Logan stood near the lockers at the far edge of the courtyard. Still. Just watching us. No smirk curved his mouth. No mocking glint in his eyes. The laughter around me dulled, muffled beneath the rush of blood in my ears.
Avery followed my line of sight. Her grip firmed around my wrist.
Luke was across the courtyard near the steps, talking to Jax and Theo. His posture remained loose, but I saw the exact second he noticed the change in my stance.
His gaze tracked and found Logan, his expression hardening with anger. Logan’s eyes never left mine.
The mountains hadn’t been safety. It had been distance. And distance had given whoever was planning something time to reposition.
For the first time since that night, understanding locked into place, cold and precise in my chest. The quiet hadn’t been peace. It had been a warning.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LUKE
Returning to Blackwood felt predictable. The confrontation at home did not.
By Tuesday evening, I didn’t even make it past the foyer before a staff member informed me my father was waiting in his study. That always meant he’d already decided I was wrong.
The study doors were open, and I stepped inside. Dad stood near the fireplace, sleeves rolled up in controlled agitation. Mom sat in one of the leather chairs, ankles crossed, posture immaculate. No one invited me to sit.
“You’ve lost your mind.”
I didn’t flinch. “What are you talking about?”
“The mountain house,” he replied. “You turned a private residence into a tagged location you and your girlfriend were at while we’re navigating delicate negotiations. Scrutiny on any of our executives and board members is a problem.”
Now we were in the right territory. “It was locked down before it spread,” I answered.
“It spread enough.”
Mom stepped forward. “Do you understand what happens when Edwardo Ruiz’s name intersects publicly with ours?”
There it was. It wasn’t about the party. No, this was about the association.
“He owns a gym,” I replied evenly.
Dad’s expression hardened. “And his mother married into the Ferraro family. Mafia.”
Mom’s tone stayed precise. “Dominick Ferraro may not share blood with his stepbrother, Edwardo Ruiz, but proximity is all anyone needs to construct a narrative.”