You sit in the library, flipping through a book, when you feel Maeve’s presence before you see her. She slides into the chair across from you, her piercing gaze locking onto yours.

I saw you talking to that girl after class, she says, her voice soft but tense

Maeve leans closer, her smile sharp. Classmate or not, you’re mine. Don’t forget that.

Her hand brushes yours, and you notice her nails are painted with tiny hearts—your initials on each one.