---
Emory stared at the photo long after the storm swallowed the light outside. The chapel. The kiss. The shadow in the background. Someone had been there. Someone had seen. But no one was supposed to know what happened that night. Not then. Not now. She pressed her fingers against the edges of the photo like she could smudge the past into something safer, something quieter. But her mind was already slipping back. Back to stained glass and candlelight. Back to the chapel.
It was winter. Her coat was soaked from the rain, hair sticking to her neck, and the chapel was the only place on campus not locked after dark. She remembered pushing the door open, expecting silence. Instead, she found Skye. Alone. Sitting on the edge of the pew, head down, hands in his lap like he was praying for something already lost. She should've left. She knew it even then. But she didn't.
"I didn't think anyone still came here," she had said.
He looked up, eyes half-shadowed beneath his hair. "I don't. Just tonight."
She stepped inside, closing the heavy door behind her. "Why?"
Skye tilted his head, a half-smirk on his lips. "Why are you here, Selene?"
She paused. "Don't call me that."
"You let me once."
"That was a mistake."
He stood, slowly, like everything in him was holding something heavier than she could see. "Then why are you trembling?"
"I'm not."
"You are."
He crossed the aisle between them in three deliberate steps, stopping just short of touching her. Her heart pounded so hard she thought the walls might hear. "Tell me to go," he said softly.
She didn't.
"Tell me this means nothing."
She couldn't.
And then he kissed her.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't sweet. It was war—hot, brutal, desperate. His hands gripped her waist like he was scared she'd vanish, and her fingers tangled in the collar of his coat. Thunder cracked overhead. Candles flickered on the altar. And for a moment, there was nothing else. No legacy. No bloodlines. No parents whispering behind closed doors. Just lips. And skin. And need.
But then the door creaked.
They broke apart.
She turned fast. Saw nothing. Just cold air slipping through a crack in the chapel door. Someone had been there. Watching.
Skye pulled away, stepping back like a wall had just risen between them. "You should go," he said quietly.
Emory's chest still heaved. "You kissed me."
"And you let me."
"I didn't—"
"You did."
The silence that followed felt worse than the storm. Worse than her guilt.
"I can't protect you from this," he said, voice sharp. "From them. From what happens next."
She should've said something. Anything.
Instead, she turned and left.
She never asked what he meant by "them."
She never asked who saw.
And she never kissed him again.
---
Now, two years later, Emory held the photo like it might catch fire in her hands. Her room felt smaller. The shadows deeper. She opened her drawer, slid the photo beneath a stack of envelopes, and locked it away. But the weight stayed in her chest like it had roots.
---
The next day, she didn't tell Jessie or Mariah. She didn't mention the photo or the handwriting or the figure in the back of the frame. She kept it buried beneath perfect posture and clean eyeliner, tucked between her ribs like a secret too poisonous to say aloud. But someone else already knew.
---
She walked out of her afternoon lecture and stopped short.
Skye stood leaning against a lamppost outside the building, arms crossed, dark eyes locked on her like she'd been the only person he'd been waiting for.
"Go away," she said as she passed.
He followed.
"You got it, didn't you?"
She stopped walking. Turned slowly. "What?"
"The photo."
Her pulse spiked. "Was it you?"
"If it was, I wouldn't need to ask."
"Then who?"
He stepped closer. "That's what I'm trying to figure out."
She blinked. "You're saying someone else knows?"
"They knew enough to be there that night."
Her voice cracked. "You think they've been watching us since then?"
Skye's jaw tightened. "I think Braxton is full of ghosts. Some of them never left."
She hated how his voice made her stomach twist. Like danger. Like comfort.
"I didn't ask for your help," she said coldly.
"I didn't offer it," he replied, just as sharp. "I just want to know who's playing with matches before everything burns again."
He handed her something small—a second photo. Not of them. A piece of paper with names. Four of them. Hers. His. Nick's. And one other she didn't recognize.
"Where did you get this?"
"It was taped to my locker."
"This is a game to them," she whispered.
"Then we play better."
Before she could argue, he walked away, disappearing into the crowd like smoke.
She stood there, the paper trembling in her grip.
---
That night, Emory sat with Jessie and Mariah in their suite, but her mind was somewhere else. Jessie talked about outfits for Friday's party. Mariah was reorganizing her playlist. But Emory just kept staring at the fire in the lounge, her reflection flickering back in the glass.
"You're really quiet," Jessie finally said.
"Just tired," Emory replied.
Mariah narrowed her eyes. "You get that look when you're lying."
"You both need new hobbies."
Jessie leaned closer. "If this is about Skye—"
"It's not," Emory cut in. "It's not him. Not exactly."
Mariah's head tilted. "Then who?"
Emory hesitated. Then reached into her coat and slid out the photo. She placed it on the table.
Jessie leaned in. Mariah's brow furrowed.
"Oh my God," Jessie whispered. "This is real."
"Someone sent it," Emory said. "No name. No warning. Just this."
"And the shadow?" Mariah pointed. "That's someone else."
"I think they were watching the whole time."
Mariah looked at her carefully. "You think this is a threat?"
"I think it's a reminder."
"Of what?"
Emory stared at the flames. "That nothing we buried ever stayed buried."
---
🖤 End of Chapter Seven
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