Page 52 of Revenant

My eyes flick to the silver ring she always wears. Moriah’s taste has never been anything short of impeccable, and I’d assumed every piece she owned was just that—expensive. But now, connecting the dots, the way she’s never once taken that ring off makes a great deal more sense.

Moriah rolls her eyes. “Technically. My father prefers the ‘sons’ part. I’m more like…the decorative afterthought.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s family,” she states, flicking her hand as though she came to terms with it a long time ago. “You get used to it.”

She gives the bartender a single nod and two drinks appear like magic. “How did he know what you wanted?”

Moriah smirks. “Well, because my brother owns the Mooncut Lounge” She hands me a martini like she’s throwing out a life preserver. “Welcome to the Carrow family nepotism. The sons get businesses, and I get…free cocktails and a lifetime supply of being underestimated. Cheers.” She taps her glass against mine and takes a long sip. “Now drink. You’ve been holed up in your room all week. Tonight, you’re not allowed to brood.”

The martini hits my tongue, and warmth blooms in my chest before I’ve even swallowed. Moriah watches me over the rim of her glass like she’s waiting for a verdict.

“It’s good,” I admit.

“It’s perfect,” she corrects, tipping the rest back and signaling for another. When two more appear on the bar, I quickly realize the reason I couldn’t keep up with her at the bonfire. She drinks for sport, and I fear she’s on varsity. Regardless, this is a night to let loose, and though keeping my composure is of the utmost importance, I decide to let myself just live.

My empty glass joins hers, and we both grab our fresh ones before I follow her blindly through the crowd. The music shifts, bass rolling over the space like it’s ingrained into the floorboards. She tugs me wordlessly toward the lower level as people instinctively move aside without hesitation. Some nod. A few stare. A girl in a sequined dress nearly trips over her own heels to get out of the way.

Yeah, run along, princess. Internally I laugh to myself. God forbid you get in the way of Moriah Carrow on a mission.

We reach a booth tucked into a corner. Moriah slides in first and pats the seat beside her. I try not to look like I’m cataloging every detail—the velvet, the glassware, the way the air itself feels filtered through money.

Back home, a “fancy night out” meant climbing onto the roof of our apartment building and letting the skyline do all the work. I could fade into the background up there. But this place? This is a whole different ecosystem. One where I’m pretty sure I’m the bottom of the food chain.

Again.

And then there’s Moriah. Who fits into it like she was born in the center of the universe and the world simply learned to orbit her. It’s fascinating and terrifying in the same breath.

A server appears with a tray of small plates—things arranged with surgical precision that we definitely didn’t order.

“Eat,” Moriah demands. “You didn’t get to eat earlier, and you look like you’re living off rubbish Pop-Tarts and spite.” I pick up a fork and try whatever’s closest—some tiny, overpriced thing presented like it’s auditioning for a magazine spread. It tastes incredible, which is annoying. I wanted to resent it on principle.

I used to make fun of people who ate like this—lived like this. Now look at me, a fucking hypocrite because I finally got picked to sit at the cool table. It’s pathetic. But Moriah isn’t like the stuck-up bitches from New York. I never knew, never suspected, I may actually get along with someone from her world.

Moriah watches me with that smug little tilt to her mouth. “See? Food. Revolutionary.”

“Shut up.”

“I don’t know how you survive. If I don’t eat my body weight in protein every day, I’m basically a corpse.” She laughs, leaning back, draping an arm across the booth like she owns the place. Which technically, her family does.

A guy slides into the seat across from me, next to Moriah—tall, brilliant hazel eyes, the right corner of his mouth pulled into a permanent half smile by a scar that climbs toward his jaw.

“You’re alive,” he says dryly.

Moriah freezes, her earlier carefree demeanor morphing into pure shock as she turns to look at him. She seems to know him, and if I’m reading her right, she’s scared. “What are you doing here, Tristan?”

“You haven’t checked in for weeks.”

“I’ve been at school,” she snaps, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

He raises a brow. “You mean the school you’ve been avoiding since—”

“Don’t,” she warns, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You’re supposed to be in the states. With Dad. So why are you here?”

The tension between them crackles, but ultimately he breaks their connection first. Without answering, he turns to me, offering what he probably assumes is a polite smile before disappearing back toward the bar. Moriah exhales as though she’s been holding her breath since he interrupted. “Brothers,” she mutters, rolling her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out. “Born to ruin vibes. We should go. I really don’t want him circling back.”

“What? Absolutely not. You brought me out here, and I’m not leaving until we’ve actually had fun.” I laugh, and it feels good—as if something loosened in my chest after days of being wound too tight.