The granite stone walls of the shower room stretched from the floor to the mahogany beams. There were cubbies built into the lefthand wall and limestone benches below them. Along the righthand side, there were sixteen shower stalls sectioned off with frosted glass doors. Crystal chandeliers swung from tiny chains fifteen feet above, and Rayne wondered how they kept a place like this sparkling clean.

Stepping barefoot onto the white granite floor, Rayne was surprised by how cold and clammy it was. She had yet to turn the faucet but slipped a little as she hopped into the fourth stall and closed the frosted glass behind her. The light flickered just before a chilled cascade of water crashed over her. Her hands rubbed a creamy shea butter body wash up her arms and over her shoulders. She couldn't remember the last time she took a shower that smelled this lovely: coconuts, butter, and sea salt, like some tropical island where the sun was so bright, it could wipe out any shadows that dared slither in the sand. At Aurora Psychiatric, all of the soaps and shampoos were a cheap pine-scent. Although the aromas were an upgrade, Rayne still would have preferred showering at home. 

Behind her, a dark mass grazed the frosted glass. 

Rayne didn't notice.

She was still washing her hair when two stalls down, someone shouted, "Hey, you the new girl?"

Rayne switched off the faucet. "That depends," she hollered, shampoo dripping down the side of her face. "Who's asking?"

"You might not want to leave your towel unattended."

Quickly, Rayne opened the stall and searched the cubbies along the back wall. Her uniform and towel were already gone. "Are you kidding me?" she snapped. "What did you do with my stuff?"

"I didn't do anything," the voice said, seeming to emanate from the walls. "But if I were you, I'd check the stalls."

Sure enough, Rayne found her clothes and towel drenched in the stall at the end of the row, a heavy stream of water still raining down on them. She twisted the faucet and stared at the pile. "Figures," she muttered. "Tell me who did it and maybe I won't kick your ass!"

"Whoa, wait!" A blonde head popped out of the sixth stall. As far as Rayne could tell, they were the only two girls in the room. "It was Bianca. Bianca Hawthorne. She pulls this crap with all the newbies, I swear."

"Where can I find Bianca?" Rayne asked. She was not insecure by any means, but the way this girl eyed her skinny, nude figure made her suddenly self-conscious.

"Long gone by now," the girl said, tossing Rayne a red towel that she'd hidden in her stall. "I had a feeling she'd pull this. Here's an extra. I'm Nikki."

Reluctantly, Rayne wrapped the towel around her bony figure. "Thanks. I'm Rayne. I'm making so many friends today," she mumbled sarcastically.

Nikki laughed, and Rayne noticed her blonde waves looked strangely put together for having just stepped out of the shower. The girl had already changed into her uniform, too—a white blouse, a fitted-gray sweater vest, a black blazer, and matching slacks. The attire somehow managed to compliment her curvy figure. Rayne, who had not yet seen the uniform, was pleased to discover there was no mini-skirt-and-high-socks combo involved.

"I'm not too great at making friends either," Nikki confessed, but Rayne didn't really believe her. "If you see me around, feel free to say 'hey'."

Rayne stepped back into her stall. "Yeah, I'll think about it."

◢✥◣

Sneaking smokes in the dormitory stairwell, Cole Bradford and his friends were still arguing over the new girl. Cole had since changed into his school uniform. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled to his elbows, a black designer watch-and-leather bracelet set looped his left wrist. The scent of smoke lingered as he exhaled a slow, deliberate puff, watching it curl toward the ceiling.

Across from him, Lucas Abbott stood tense, the golden hues of his skin and hair catching the morning light that filtered through the windows. His frustration was barely palpable, but Cole knew that boy inside and out—he could see the anger churning beneath the surface of his otherwise calm demeanor. 

"I can't believe you let her walk away," Lucas murmured.

Cole flicked his cigarette, ashes dusting the windowsill. "And?"

"And you know what I'm talking about," said Lucas. "Three years. The things we've had to do to uphold this reputation, and now you're just—" He shook his head. "You never let things go."

Another flurry of smoke whirled over Cole's eyes. He wasn't blind; he had seen the way Lucas looked at that girl in the stairwell—especially when she stumbled into him—the way he had caught her, his hands steadying her as though she were something fragile, something that needed saving. Lucas hesitated, like always, reluctant to push when it mattered most.

That had never been Cole's style. No retreat, no weakness, no mercy—that was how they maintained their reputation in this godforsaken place. 

Yet, Lucas had wanted to let that girl go just as much as Cole did. Their motivations couldn't have been more different: Lucas just struggled with the idea of hurting people, and Cole . . . well, he had his own reasons for showing a little mercy today. But even with that understanding, he couldn't quite grasp what Luke's problem was exactly. He got what he wanted, didn't he?

Cole glanced over his shoulder, regarding him with a cool indifference. "Try not to ruffle your feathers, Lucas. It looks ridiculous."

Lucas's jaw tightened, but he held his ground. "You never make exceptions, Cole. Not for anyone . . . Not even for me."

Cole forced himself to stay still, resisting the urge to flinch at the truth behind Lucas's words. Because he wasn't wrong. At one point in time, he and Lucas had been inseparable. As wide-eyed freshman at Maria J. Westwood, they used to think of Lucas as the yin to Cole's yang: Lucas, with his sun-kissed locks and easy warmth, contrasted with Cole's darker hues and intensely fiery aura. 

But time had a way of eroding even the strongest foundations.

Lucas was soft back then. As pliable as molten gold. And Cole had made sure to harden him over time, shaping him by the crucible of their friendship. After a few fist-fights, Cole's influence had chipped away at Luke's naivety, leaving behind a more cautious and guarded soul—a depth of character forged only within the fires of their experiences shared inside these halls. 

But now, where Lucas's warmth had once tempered Cole's fire, it seemed only to stoke it instead, fanning the flames between them.

Slipping his cigarette between the bars of the window, Cole flicked the last of the ashes onto the sill and turned away, ignoring Lucas altogether. "Hey, Shep," he said, addressing his burly friend, David Sheppard. "You got the goods for the party tonight or what?"

"Naw, man. Just some candles. Still trying to get Spence to cough up the booze."

Lucas stepped forward, his amber eyes meeting Cole's gaze with quiet determination. "This isn't how we do things, Cole. I know that look. You're going to invite her tonight, aren't you?"

Cole regarded his best friend for a moment as he took a long drag. "Got a problem with that?"

The words lingered in the smoke-filled air, like a challenge, and a tense silence fell between them, thick with resentment. The other boys exchanged uneasy glances, sensing the shift in the air, but neither dared to intervene.

Finally, Lucas's gaze fell, as it always did, his voice defeated to a strained, tense murmur. "No."

"Alright, then," said Cole, twisting the cigarette butt into the windowsill. He turned toward Pierce Harrington, the newest addition to Cole's crew, having just enrolled last year. "Harrington, renege the invites. Let's keep this one between us, shall we?"

Lucas shook his head, his expression troubled as he turned to leave, but not before giving Cole one last, piercing look. "If this were anyone else, you would have put the fear of God in her by now."

"And just who said we won't? She's amusing, Lucas. Let's see how it plays out." He nodded to the other guys. "Got that? Spread the word: no one touches her. Make sure people know she's with us." He grinned, adding a cryptic "for now" at the end, just before withdrawing another cigarette and lighting it up.

◢✥◣ 

While traveling from the showers to her dorm in nothing but a towel, Rayne Foster made sure to acknowledge every perplexed stare with a curt, "Howdy." She changed her clothes and fulfilled her morning Infirmary check in, downing a small Dixie cup of meds dry. After rushing from the doctor's quarters, she made her way to the headteacher's office about five minutes past six o'clock, and that earned her a stern, five-minute lecture from the old woman in return.

Finally, Miss Wilson gifted her a new uniform, a map of the school, and her schedule. "You have ten minutes to get to homeroom. Don't be late."

"Got it," Rayne said with a nod.

She was late.

Her homeroom was surprisingly pleasant. Unlike traditional classrooms, this room was not burning with harsh, fluorescent lighting. The lamplights were soft, warm, and inviting, and the burgundy curtains along the wall possessed the goodwill to conceal the iron bars that barricaded them. Student desks were spaced apart, chromed and cushioned with plush leather. On the wall behind Mr. Matthews' cherrywood desk was a large whiteboard. An Ernest Hemingway quote was scrawled in black: "When you start to live outside yourself, it is dangerous."

The teacher's smile was kind when she entered. "So happy you could join us, Miss Foster," he said, and she was thankful he made no move to introduce her to the rest of the class.

The semester had started two weeks before, so cliques and preferred seating arrangements were already established among students. Rayne was in no rush to meet them anyway, especially when she realized they all had some piece of designer something accentuating their attire. She looked down at her own uniform, which hung around her as though it were two sizes too large.

Rayne rushed to the back of the classroom. The teacher's familiar eyes were enough to put her in a mood even if she hadn't been through Hell and back that morning. She discovered the only vacant seat happened to be next to the sandy-haired boy she'd met on the stairwell earlier. 

A crisp white Oxford shirt, with its unbuttoned collar folded over a charcoal sweater vest, gave him a polished look. The cuffs of his sleeves were rolled once, loosely, wrist veins tight beneath tanned skin. A silver band adorned his index finger. He looked less like a surfer now and more like a preppy, pretty boy who spent his summers sun-bathing on yachts; and he also appeared to be just as displeased as she was, rolling his eyes as she took a seat beside him.

Mocking the aggressive catcalling he put her through, Rayne said, "You know, you'd be cuter if you smiled."

"Yeah, well you'd be cuter if you kept your mouth shut."

"Oh, feisty," she hummed, and Mr. Matthews motioned for them to keep it down as the morning announcements sounded over the intercom.

Sitting in the desk crosswise from her, a brunette bejeweled with diamonds kept smacking her friend and pointing to Rayne. When Rayne did not shy away from their stares, the brunette swung her ponytail in her direction. "Enjoy your shower?" she whispered, the smirk on her pink lips lifting into a cocky snarl. To her right, a girl with strawberry curls giggled.

Rayne didn't miss a beat. "Actually, yes. It was quite refreshing, thanks for asking."

"Good." The brunette snorted. "Because it sure looked like you needed one."

Her friend chimed in. "Heard you were scrambling around like a naked rat too. Such a shame." She pressed her plump lips into a faux-pout. "Didn't realize the paupers couldn't even afford clothes."

"Yeah, well, I may not have daddy's trust fund, but at least I've got a spine." Rayne leaned forward, fixing her stare toward the brunette. "And in case you weren't aware, you're number one on my shit list, Bianca Hawthorne." At the sound of her name, the brunette flustered. "Yeah," Rayne sneered, "I got your full name, skank. Give me an hour, and I'll know your dorm room too."

Bianca turned in her seat and glowered. "Who told you?"

"A little birdy."

"Well, whatever. You don't have any proof."

"Don't need it. Don't plan on reporting it." Rayne settled into her seat. "I'd sleep with one eye open if I were you, babe."

"Is that supposed to be some sort of threat?"

"Yes, Bianca, it's a threat." The boy beside her snapped his fingers, an unexpected authority in his tone. "Now shut up and face forward."

To Rayne's surprise, the brunette fell silent, visibly unnerved by his command. As Bianca turned away, Rayne raised her brows. She would have been lying if she said she wasn't intrigued by the subtle display of power. The action elicited a wicked sense of wonder within her. It was the kind of sway she had wanted for herself.

Her rubescent brown eyes glanced over his features once more, conjuring the very same image of a boy drifting on the ocean. His face, nearly sculpted from marble in its perfection, was adorned with freckles she hadn't noticed in the stairwell before. His eyes were brown like hers, only instead of leaning toward the red end of the spectrum, they appeared as though they'd been dipped in honey. It was a warmth tinged with a quiet sadness that drew her in.

He caught her staring and quipped, "Most people know better than to cross me. You might want to remember that." He reclined deeper into his seat and faced the teacher once more, tapping his pen on the desk. "Unless, of course, you're looking for trouble."

Rayne smiled. "And what if I am?"

"Then you found it." He met her gaze, and Rayne realized she'd been hoping to see a sparkle of something coy in his eyes.

There was none.

All she could discern was a rather somber disquietude, a multitude of contradictions she wanted to sink her teeth into and mull over for a while. Rayne wondered about the depths of his family's wealth, the weight of whatever crime he'd committed to find himself in a place like this.

"Well," she began, rolling her shoulders back, "I haven't seen you put me in my place yet."

"Cole doesn't want me to." He turned away, twisting the ring on his finger. "It's just one more rule I have to follow. So, consider yourself lucky, I guess."

"And what is Cole? Like, your leader or something?"

"Look, I'm really not in the mood to chat."

"Come on, what's your name?" she asked, genuinely curious.

He rolled his eyes. "Lucas."

"I'm Rayne. Nice to meet you," she said, extending her hand.

He hesitated before taking it, the cold metal of his ring biting against the warmth of her skin. "This doesn't make us friends," he warned.

"Clearly," Rayne replied. "But why does Cole want you to be nice to me?"

"Who knows. Maybe he respects you." Lucas exhaled, surveying the room with a subtle, almost nostalgic look. "Your words this morning were like . . ." he paused, drumming his pen against the desk as if counting syllables, "a rare breeze in the stagnant air we breathe . . ."

Rayne raised an eyebrow. "Is that . . . a compliment?"

"It's a haiku."

"Hmm, writing poetry for me already?" She smirked. "Better slow down, we haven't even kissed yet."

"You're the one who should slow down." His eyes flickered briefly toward her, the corner of his mouth tightening, not quite a smile. "You're already taken."

"What? By who? Cole?" Rayne scoffed. "Whatever. You can tell him I'm not interested."

"Trust me," Lucas muttered, his gaze returning to the front of the room, "it's for the best. You'll need someone like Cole watching your back in a place like this . . ."

Rayne leaned in her seat, studying him. Despite his aloofness, there was something in his voice—maybe a thread of reluctance—that intrigued her. "Well, what about you? You could watch my back."

Lucas hesitated, fingers toying with the silver ring. He finally glanced her way, those honey-brown eyes unreadable. "I think, at best, I'll tolerate you."

Rayne tilted her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "How generous . . ."

For the first time, she thought she caught the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips too, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. His attention shifted back to the notebook on his desk, where the edges of the pages were filled with elegant, flowing cursive. She noticed now, the lines looked like unfinished stanzas of poetry—subtle and delicate, a hidden contrast to the wealth and power radiating through the room. Just another layer to the enigma that was Cole Bradford's lackey. 

As time went on, homeroom blended into first period, which was an hour-and-a-half long American Literature lecture led by Mr. Matthews. It was hard for Rayne to follow, but surprisingly, the other students were enrapt by the man's instruction. He used witty banter and addressed the students as though they were equals. There were a few inappropriate outbursts from a couple of boys in the back, but Mr. Matthews never grew angry with them. Instead, he laughed along with them, like he was having a casual, yet intelligent conversation amongst peers. No matter how childish or sarcastic they sounded, it was as though he respected that there was some form of thought behind their words, and in return, the students respected him, keeping their interruptions to a minimum. No one raised a hand in his class. Mr. Matthews would ask a question, and whoever was confident enough to answer, answered. Simple as that.

When the bell rang, Lucas was quick to flee the room without a backward glance. Bianca tried to scowl at her, but Rayne gave her one far worse in return. Before Rayne could file out the classroom door too though, the teacher raised his hand.

"Oh, Miss Foster," he said, "may I speak with you a moment?"

She ignored him.

"Miss Foster?"

Quickening her stride, Rayne's hand nearly made it to the classroom door, but his voice was stern.

"Rayne Foster."

"What?" she huffed.

The teacher held his ground. "A minute of your time," he pressed, waving for her to take a seat in the chair beside his desk. "Please."

"Fine."

As she sank into the cushion, Rayne realized how nervous she was to be alone with him. His raven-black hair, parted down the middle with deliberate care, spilled like ink sidelong and back across his temples. Staring at the man before her, she caught glimpses of something familiar—flashes of the real blue-eyed man shuddering over his features. Rayne blinked, each one feeling like a shutter closing on a moment she couldn't quite capture as she tried to ignore the flickering exhibit of a scar and glowing retinas across the teacher's face.

It was just another hallucination.

When he took a seat in the executive chair opposite her, Rayne realized the top two buttons of his blue dress shirt were undone, the openness seeming to pull at a thread of something in her subconscious. She turned away. There was an unflappable air of patience that surrounded him, and it was strangely soothing.

And that only pissed her off.

Mr. Matthews seemed to have been waiting for Rayne to become comfortable. As if realizing that would never happen, he finally said, "You hate this place, don't you?"

"Wow, Sherlock. What gave you that idea?"

He studied the pencil twirling between his fingers and chuckled. "I'm sorry, Miss Foster." He moved to meet her gaze, but she quickly trained hers to the floor. His voice softened. "Miss Foster . . . We haven't properly met, and yet I can't help but wonder: Have I upset you in some way?"

She shifted in her seat. "I don't even know you."

"Of course." He looked away and began straightening some papers on his desk. After some time, he set them down, steepled his fingers, and said, "What I'm getting at is that I understand. I know this isn't easy. Transitions like this can be overwhelming, especially when you feel like an outsider. Perhaps it's because we're in a boarding school full of rich troublemakers, but even I can relate to your discomfort."

"Discomfort?"

Troublemakers?

"Rayne," he began, and the use of her first name seemed to have startled them both. "Miss Foster, I know it's a lot to take in, but I wanted to reassure you that you're in good hands here."

She pulled back. "Who's hands? Yours?"

"Yes, of course. Along with Miss Wilson, and Doctor MacGowan, and any of the other teachers on campus. You don't have to go through this alone, Miss Foster. You have an entire system of support here at your disposal. And sometimes, knowing there's someone who understands can make all the difference."

"Look, I don't know what these rich kids are in here for, but, Mr. Matthews, I am a murderer," she said, standing.

"Are you?" he quipped, and the query hit her harder than it should have. "Is that what defines you? Or are you simply a young girl who has been through Hell? Been dealt a really rough hand, made some mistakes, and just needs a little—"

"Needs a little, what? Help? Newsflash: I don't need anything from anyone, Mr. Matthews. And I am certainly not in anyone's hands, least of all, yours."

He did not protest as she stormed out of the room. He simply watched her with an annoyingly empathetic gaze, rubbing a little at his temples. "Well, if you change your mind, my door is always open."

She mumbled, "I won't," and never looked back.