Page 82 of Claiming Pretty

Ty took the second book from my hand and added it to the growing pile in his arms. “We need to think strategically. We’re up against an organization older than any of us.”

I reached for another book—Shadows of Influence: Secret Societies in Ireland—and flicked through its yellowed pages, frustration simmering just below the surface.

My anger shifted into something sharper, clearer, as determination tightened my grip on the book.

“This is bigger than all of us,” I said, my voice quieter now but no less fierce. “And right now, we might be the only ones who even know the Sochai exists. Wehaveto work together.”

Ciaran’s jaw remained tight. But I didn’t miss the slight loosening of his fingers, the flicker of something behind his eyes—grudging respect, even if anger still held him hostage.

I slammed the book shut, the sound reverberating in the silence of the stacks and making both boys flinch. “If we don’t figure out who the High Lord is—who’s ultimately pulling the strings—we’llneverstop them.”

Ty reached out, pulling the book from my hand andadding it to his pile without a word. “And if we don’t stop them soon…”

“We won’t live to try again,” Ciaran finished for him.

“And…” I said, the weight of everything pressing down on me. “More girls will pay the price.”

AVA

I’d walked into our dorm apartment later that night, yawning as I kicked off my shoes, Ciaran and Ty following behind me.

I heard Ty dumping the stack of books I’d checked out of the library on the dining room table with a thump.

As much as I wanted to start reading them, my eyes were glazing over.

“Good night,” I mumbled, already aiming for my bedroom.

A firm hand wrapped around the back of my neck, stopping me mid-step.

The grip was familiar, commanding, and unmistakably Scáth.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice was low, smooth, but it carried that edge of possessiveness that made my pulse spike.

“Um, bed?” My voice wavered as I turned to him, a little hopeful, a little unsure.

He smirked. “Mybed.”

My mouth opened, but no sound came out. I wasn’t sure if it was his boldness or the way he said it—like it wasn’t a question—that made a rush of adrenaline surge through me.

So much for sleep.

Over his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of Ty standing there in the living room, his jaw tight, his hand fisting the back of the couch.

For a fleeting moment, his mask slipped, and I saw it—the pain through the crack in the facade he tried so hard to keep in place.

Guilt weaved through me and I opened my mouth to tell Ciaran no, but then I clamped my mouth closed.

Screw Ty. I told him that Ciaran and I were together. Nobody forced him to live with us.

I tore my eyes away from Ty’s, refusing to be guilted into feeling bad.

Scáth’s grip didn’t loosen as he guided me into his bedroom.

Ciaran’s dorm bedroom was as chaotic as the man himself. The walls were a riot of pinned sketches, faded schematics, and scrawled notes layered haphazardly over dark damask wallpaper.

The room was dimly lit by antique lamps, their soft glow contrasting with the harsh blue light emanating from a laptop on his cluttered antique desk in one corner.

A battered leather chair sat in front of the desk, its surface cracked and well worn. The poster bed was unmade, the dark sheets spilling over the side, as though he’d kicked it down mid-battle during another restless night.

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