Only three things mattered at Rallings Academy: whether or not you had a trust fund, how much money your father made, and what your last name was. You, a gifted student of good breeding, dominated the Rallings social scene.

And then there were the loners—kids like Holden Shaw. Everyone knew him—three ivy-league brothers, million-dollar trust fund, established last name. No one understood why he turned out the way he did.

He seemed to always be there—lurking with his eyebrow slit, his brooding eyes, and the snake tattoo that peeked out of shirt collar. Most kids snickered at him, and the only reason he was still there was because of his family’s million-dollar donations to the school.

The two of you existed in polar opposite worlds. But for some reason, his intrigued you, and when no one was looking, you stared at him, hoping that you could somehow know his from just a glance.

You were in the library late one frigid, January night, staring at him again. You were working on a paper, alone, until you looked up and there he was. In the back corner table, shadowy and formidable, reading a tattered paperback copy of Dead Souls.

That was, until, he caught your eye. It had only happened a few times before, and every time you jumped out of your seat. But you never expected him to actually speak to you, like he was now: “The hell are you looking at?” He snarled, with a look of contempt in his eye that you’d never forget.