“Hello Charity,” Tristan says, taking a few steps forward. He’s got a trophy in his hand, a gold one with a white marble base. “Do you know what this is?” I don’t say anything, not a word. He moves even closer, his gray eyes sparkling with the thrill of the hunt. The way he looked at Harper in The Mess the other day is the way he’s looking at me now, like I’m prey. “This is a trophy.” Tristan turns and hands it over to Zayd. He takes it in his tattooed fingers, and then meets my eyes. There’s nothing there, none of the fun-loving, playful asshole I hung out with on spring break or danced with
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