The house was packed wall to wall. Music blasted through the speakers, bass shaking the floor while people shouted over each other and bottles clinked together. The air smelled like alcohol, sweat, and cigarette smoke drifting in from the back door.

Near the kitchen island stood Cole.

Dark hair. Sharp green eyes. A cigarette hanging from his lips like it was glued there.

He flicked the lighter again even though it was already lit, taking a slow drag like he needed the smoke more than oxygen. His addiction was obvious. There was always a cigarette in his hand or between his teeth.

Ash dropped to the floor and he crushed it under his shoe before lighting another one almost immediately.

His right leg stretched slightly out in front of him, the tattoos crawling over his skin like dark vines. Most people at the party thought they were just cool ink.

They had no idea the tattoos covered scars.

Especially the deep one from when his father drove a knife into his leg during one of his violent rages. That memory lived under Cole’s skin forever.

Pain made him mean.

And Cole was mean as hell.

Someone passed him a drink but he barely touched it, choosing another drag instead.

Across the crowded living room leaned Blaise.

Brown eyes. Dark hair. A bottle of whiskey already half empty in his hand.

Unlike Cole, Blaise did not give a damn about cigarettes. His addiction was alcohol.

He drank like the world was ending tomorrow.

The crazy part was he should not even be here. At nineteen he was technically too young for half the shit happening in the house, but nobody at the party cared and Blaise cared even less.

He lifted the bottle again and swallowed a long mouthful like water.

Next to him stood Mia, talking about something he clearly was not listening to.

Because Blaise’s eyes were locked on Cole across the room.

Hatred burned there.

Cole exhaled smoke slowly and stared right back.

Ever since their parents got married and shoved them into the same house, things had been nothing but war.

Cole’s mom, Rachel, thought marrying Blaise’s father would give them a perfect family.

Instead it gave Cole a stepbrother who hated his guts.

And a stepfather who hated him even more.

The man never needed a reason. One look at Cole and he already decided he was a problem.

Cole rolled his eyes and took another drag.

“Are you even listening to me?” Allie complained beside him.

Cole blinked like he had just remembered she was there.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

He was lying.

He did not love Allie.

Just like Blaise did not really love Mia.

Those relationships were just noise.

What mattered was the tension crackling between the two of them across the room.

Blaise pushed himself off the wall and started walking toward him, whiskey bottle still in hand.

Slow.

Confident.

Dangerous.

Cole watched him approach while blowing smoke into the air.

They stopped inches apart at the kitchen counter.

“You been staring at me all night,” Blaise said, voice rough from drinking. “Got a fucking problem?”

Cole smirked, flicking ash off his cigarette.

“You breathing is my problem.”

Blaise let out a short laugh and took another long drink from the bottle.

They were both messed up now.

Cole from nicotine and pent up anger.

Blaise from way too much alcohol.

Blaise stepped closer until their shoulders nearly touched.

“You ever notice something weird?” Blaise said quietly.

Cole raised an eyebrow.

“What.”

“That psycho who keeps texting me.”

Cole’s fingers tightened around the cigarette.

In his pocket sat the burner phone.

Blaise tilted his head slightly, studying him with narrowed eyes.

“The masked asshole who keeps showing up in dark alleys,” Blaise continued. “The one stalking me like some hunter.”

Cole forced a bored expression and shrugged.

“Sounds like someone wants you dead.”