Chapter 3 - The First Encounter

I tell myself I won’t look at him again.

But of course I do.

Every few minutes, my gaze flicks across the cafeteria, drawn like a magnet to where Jace Langston sits at the head of his table. He doesn’t laugh the way the others do. He doesn’t throw his hands around to make his point. He just sits, quiet, the storm in the middle of their sunshine. And somehow, that silence makes him more dangerous than any of them.

I try to force myself back into the conversation with Liam, nodding as he explains which teachers hand out impossible essays and which ones couldn’t care less if you sleep through class. But the back of my neck prickles, like someone’s watching me.

By the time I glance up again, Jace is gone.

My stomach lurches. The chair he’d occupied is empty, the space around Victoria already filling with her laugh, her careful distraction.

I scan the room, but he isn’t in it.

Relief washes through me, followed by a sharp sting of disappointment I refuse to name. Because I’m not here to feel anything. Especially not about him.

When the bell rings, I follow the crowd into the hallway, clutching my schedule like it’s a lifeline. My next class is Literature, down in the east wing. The hallway narrows, quieter than the main stretch, lockers gleaming like mirrors. Students move in clusters, peeling off one by one.

And then it happens.

I round a corner and nearly collide with him.

Jace Langston.

Up close, he’s taller than I expected, his shadow stretching across the lockers, his presence pressing into the space like gravity. His storm-colored eyes catch mine before I can look away, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.

“Eva Sinclair,” he says.

Hearing my fake name on his lips makes my pulse spike. He doesn’t ask. He states it, like he’s already fact-checked my existence.

I recover quickly, or at least I try to. “That’s me.”

His gaze drops to the schedule in my hand, then back to my face. “New transfer. From—” He pauses, tilts his head. “Where was it again?”

His tone is casual, almost lazy. But his eyes are sharp, searching.

I force a smile. “Small town. Probably not on your radar.”

“Everything’s on my radar.” His voice is low, almost a warning.

I laugh lightly, though my insides are coiled tight. “Wow. Must be exhausting, keeping tabs on the entire student body.”

His mouth curves, not into a smile, but into something sharper. “Not everyone. Just the ones who don’t fit.”

The words hang between us, heavy and deliberate.

For a second, my rehearsed answers threaten to crumble. Does he already know? Has he pieced together what no one else could?

No. He’s testing me. That’s all.

I tilt my chin, meeting his stare head-on. “Maybe I just don’t feel like blending in.”

His eyes flicker—something between amusement and suspicion. “Or maybe you’re hiding.”

The way he says it makes my skin prickle.

“Interesting theory,” I say, stepping around him. My shoulder brushes his as I pass, intentional, steady. “But you should probably save your paranoia for someone else. I’ve got a class to get to.”

I can feel his gaze burning into my back as I walk away, my pulse hammering in my throat.

I’ve barely made it ten steps when his voice carries after me.

“You remind me of someone.”

I freeze. Just for a second.

My grip tightens on my books, nails biting into the covers. He can’t know. He can’t.

Slowly, I turn, schooling my expression into mild curiosity. “Do I?”

His eyes are unreadable, but his jaw ticks, like he’s holding something back. “Yeah. But I can’t put my finger on it.”

I shrug, forcing a smirk. “Guess I’ve just got one of those faces.”

He studies me for a long moment, then lets the silence stretch until I’m the one who feels like prey caught in the lion’s stare. Finally, he steps closer instead of backing away.

Too close. Close enough that I can smell the sharp edge of cologne, something clean but dangerous, threaded with the faint metallic tang of blood—probably from the bruises on his knuckles.

He lowers his voice. “No. That’s not it. It’s the way you look at me.”

My throat tightens. “And how exactly do I look at you?”

“Like you’ve already decided who I am.” His gaze narrows, cutting into me. “Like you’ve been waiting for me.”

I want to laugh it off, toss a line back at him, but my tongue feels heavy. Because he’s not wrong.

I force my expression into something cool, bored. “Or maybe I just don’t buy into the whole golden-boy routine.”

Something flashes across his face—not anger, but surprise. Maybe even amusement. “Finally. Someone who doesn’t worship at the altar.”

He leans against the locker beside me, casual in posture but sharp in intent. “So tell me, Eva Sinclair. What do you want from Blackridge?”

I keep my tone light. “An education?”

“Try again.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. His stare pins me like a butterfly, wings spread wide, nowhere to run.

I grip my books tighter, my smile fixed. “Maybe I just want what everyone else wants.”

“And what’s that?”

“To survive.”

That earns me the faintest curve of his lips. Not a smile. Something darker. “Smart answer.”

He pushes off the locker, taking a step back, his gaze never leaving mine.

“Be careful, Eva,” he says softly. “Blackridge eats people alive. Especially the ones who think they’re hunters.”

The words sink deep, coiling in my chest long after he turns and walks away.

I stand there for a moment, my body rigid, my mind spinning.

Because in the span of five minutes, Jace Langston has managed to strip away every layer of control I thought I had. He’s suspicious. Intrigued. And far too perceptive for my comfort.

This was supposed to be simple. He was supposed to be arrogant, blind, easy to manipulate.

Instead, he’s already looking at me like I’m the one wearing a mask.

And worse—he looks like he’s determined to rip it off.