Page 6 of Don't You Pucking Dare

And when I find hers...

Well, that's when the real game begins.

Movement near the library steps catches my eye—a girl with a cello case. Something about the way she carries herself makes me pause. No designer clothes or manicured confidence like the other girls here. She holds that instrument like it's her lifeline, not just an accessory.

My pulse quickens as she turns. Brown hair falls straight past her shoulders, nothing fancy about the cut. Clear skin that's never seen expensive creams. But it's her eyes that make me still—determined, haunted, hiding something dark behind all that innocence. I know that look. I see it in my mirror every fucking day.

Lola Kemper.

It’s her.

I hang back, watching her navigate the crowd. She doesn't try to blend in—doesn't know how. Everything about her screams scholarship student: the way she counts her steps, thecareful distance she keeps from others, how she clutches that cello case like she's afraid someone will take it.

But there's something else. Something that makes my skin prickle with recognition. Under all that careful control, I sense a familiar kind of damage. The type that comes from growing up with monsters.

She claims a spot under an oak tree, fishing out a textbook and what looks like a pack of cheap crackers. My fingers itch to grab my phone, document this moment. Rick Kemper's secret daughter, sitting alone on campus, completely unaware she's being hunted. The predator in me wants to approach now—start the game, make first contact.

But I force myself to wait. To watch. To learn.

She pulls out sheet music, marking it with careful precision. Everything about her is controlled, measured, like she's spent her whole life trying not to draw attention. It would be almost admirable if it wasn't so fucking useful to me.

Some rich bitch walks by with her crew, whispers something that makes Lola's shoulders tense. Oh shit, that’s Amanda. We went to high school together, and she’s the last person I thought would be at Blackridge with me. And instead of shrinking, Lola's spine straightens. There it is—that flash of steel I was looking for. Daddy's little girl has teeth.

This is going to be more interesting than I thought.

I expected some spoiled princess, soft from daddy's money and protection. Instead, I find this—a girl who's clearly fought her own battles, who carries darkness like a second skin. Breaking her won't be as simple as I planned.

Good. I was hoping for a challenge.

My phone buzzes with a text from Noah about Reaper business, but I ignore it. I can't look away from her yet. Something about the way she holds herself, like she'sboth hiding and daring the world to notice her...it's fucking fascinating.

She glances up suddenly, like she can feel my stare. Interesting. For a split second, I think our eyes meet through the crowd. My blood hums with anticipation. But she looks away, gathering her things with quick, nervous movements.

Watching her hurry across the quad, I smile. Run all you want, little girl. You're already mine. You just don't know it yet.

Chapter 4

It’s my first day of classes. The girl in the mirror looks different today. More grown up, maybe, or just more alone. I brush my fingers over the simple silver cross necklace my mom gave me for graduation, trying to calm the flutter of nerves in my stomach. Everything feels bigger here— the ancient stone buildings, the sprawling quad, even the silence in my dorm room.

My new laptop sits in my backpack, still smelling fresh. The whole town pitched in for it— bake sales, car washes, even little Tommy offering up his piggy bank. "For our Lola," they'd said, "who's gonna show those rich kids what real talent looks like." I blink back tears, remembering their faces at my going-away party.

They don't understand what it means to walk these halls when your whole wardrobe came from thrift stores and Target clearance racks. When your hands are calloused from actualwork, not manicured for show. When everything you own fits in two cardboard boxes, except for the one thing that matters most.

My cello stands in the corner, honey-colored wood gleaming in the morning light. It's been my constant companion since I found it at that estate sale six years ago, held together with hope and careful repairs. My fingers find the worn spot on its neck, smooth from countless hours of practice. With it, I'm not just the girl from the trailer park— I'm music itself.

The scholarship letter hangs on my wall, framed in a second-hand frame I painted myself. "Full ride," it proclaims, based on talent alone. Not connections, not family money, not anything but the way I can make strings sing. Still, the thought of my first class— Music Composition— sends butterflies racing through my stomach. At least there, surrounded by other musicians, I might find a place where I could fit in and find friends.

I shoulder my backpack and double-check that my cello is safely locked away. The mirror catches my reflection one last time— simple brown hair cut straight across, clear skin that's never known expensive creams, eyes that my mom says hold all my determination. I might not belong in their world of trust funds and family legacies, but I belong to the music. I hope it’s enough.

Reality hits harder than expected. The first girl I encounter takes one look at me and curls her lip. "Are you lost? Janitor's office is in the basement. Better hurry— he hates slackers."

Her friend, drowning in a designer sweatshirt, smirks. "Don't forget about the overflowing toilet on four. Hope you brought your plunger."

Their laughter cuts through the hallway, and it’s like they’re twisting the knife already in my gut. My mom always said I got her snarky attitude along with her eyes.

"Oh, which one of you was it?" The words slip out before I can stop them. "You flushing your stash before Daddy finds out, or Beauty Queen here purging her breakfast to match Mommy's sample size?"

Their faces flame red as their friends' laughter shifts targets. It's a hollow victory— I know I've just painted a target on my back— but thank God for the professor choosing to appear in this moment.

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