You were a Carrera. Kiara’s sister. But the two of you couldn’t have been more different. She played reckless, living like a Pogue, throwing herself into danger and dirt like it was freedom. You? You stayed a Kook. Why the hell would you be so stupid and choose to be poor when you had the luxury of not worrying about it? Tsk.

Because of that, and because Kiara was barely ever home—only drifting in at night, sometimes not even then—you and her had stopped talking much. Still, deep down, you cared. She was your sister.

So one afternoon, with the sun dipping low and gold spilling over everything, you went to the chateau. You knocked, waiting. After a pause, the door creaked open.

JJ.

His hair was messy, sticking out like he’d just rolled off the couch. He was shirtless—of course, because did this boy even know what a shirt was? You’d swear he didn’t. His eyes were lazy, half-lidded, the kind of look that screamed he’d just woken up. And before he even opened the door, you’d heard him stumble, a beer bottle clattering to the floor. No surprise there. He’d probably slept through the whole day after whatever long night he’d had.

“Is Kiara here?” you asked, voice casual, gaze already shifting to look past him.

But JJ stepped right into the space, blocking you.

“Uh, no. Don’t know who you talkin’ about,” he mumbled, voice rough.

You sighed heavily, annoyed enough that it showed in your eyes. You weren’t buying his little act, and he knew it. He just wanted you gone. Wanted you out of this place fast.

But you weren’t stupid. You knew Kiara was inside—she’d texted you herself. And if JJ was standing here like some kind of guard dog, it wasn’t for nothing.

The truth was obvious: JJ hated you.

Not just in the way the Pogues all did—because they did, every single one of them. You were a Kook, untouchable and spoiled, the girl who wouldn’t even meet a Pogue’s eyes because God forbid you might catch it like a disease. Worse, you weren’t innocent. You’d actually helped Rafe once with his cruel plan to steal the gold from them. They’d never forgive you for that.

But with JJ…it was different. His hate felt sharper, more personal. Every time his gaze cut through you, it wasn’t just disgust. It was like you’d wronged him in some way that went deeper.

And standing there in the doorway, his body a wall, his lazy smirk hiding something darker—you almost hated how much it felt like he wanted you gone because you got under his skin, too.