If I were to approach him, anyone could overhear, and I think it’s safe to say, neither of us want that. I could leave and hope to catch them at Arsen’s foster house again, as I tried to do several times this week with no luck, but the urge to go home is no longer there.

So, when the girls begin to talk about the final places they’ve narrowed their winter vacation destination down to, I lean in, but it’s no use.

I was in my own world before, but now I’m fully zoned out, zoning in on the caged-up corner in the back as there’s something about dark and devious that cannot be ignored.

It’s fascinating.

They are fascinating, untamed and unapologetic.

It’s as if there’s this shadow that follows their every step, one I’m not sure everyone sees, daring me to slip into it, to step from my own, and view the world through their eyes, if only for a moment.

Or maybe it’s simply how Beretta has hopped up on the pop-up stage and joined the DJ behind her table that keeps me focused their way.

He smirks, allowing her to put her headphones on his ears and scoots over while showing him what she can do.

One thing about rich kid circles is they have no reservations when it comes to exploits and where to have them. The single ones all fuck each other, everyone knows it, but nobody talks about it, so the dance floor is already raging in racy rhythm.

Not that Beretta is paying much attention to that.

No, his eyes roam the room with a slow swivel of his head, pausing when his attention is pointed this way.

I squish my lips to the side to keep from smiling, but then he slips around the table, and in front of him, offering him a shoulder to grip as he hops down... Ransom and Arsen.

All three look this way.

Right at me.

People dance in the way, their faces coming in and out of view, their bodies blending into the stage at their backs.

But of course, black on black at a white wardrobe party.

Ransom lifts his chin, daring me to come closer.

I push to my feet, but before I can step toward them, they begin to curve left, leaving me to follow from my side of the crowd, down the hall and into a den-like room, set up as a designated smokers area—as if it doesn’t travel all through the house.

They mold themselves around a tall table and I step right up to it.

“Well, well.” I tip my head. “Ditch school but not the party. I’m almost surprised.”

“We had to let our lungs heal,” Beretta jokes, pulling out a joint and lifting it up.