Chapter 82
Tyler's POV
Blake's phone hit the dirt, and Cross's cold threat still hung in the air like ice. The older woman bought his "misunderstanding" excuse, but I knew better. That psycho had just threatened to break Blake's teeth over a stupid photo.
I watched Cross walk away, his shoulders rigid, that damaged right hand clenched at his side. Summer was staring at him from across the sugar shack, her expression unreadable but definitely not disgusted. If anything, she looked... impressed?
Fucking ridiculous. The scholarship rat defends his territory and suddenly he's some kind of hero?
But as the group dispersed and we headed back toward the cabins, an idea started forming. A brilliant, perfect idea that would solve two problems at once: getting Cross expelled before the USAPhO roster finalized, and saving Summer from whatever weird obsession she'd developed with Southie trash.
The research trip would end tomorrow. Back at school, we had maybe a week before Coach Anderson and Mr. Smith locked in the final competition team. I'd been banking on one of the top scorers dropping out or screwing up badly enough to open a slot. But neither Anderson nor Smith would bend the rules for me, no matter how much Dad leaned on the board. The only way I'd make that roster was if someone ahead of me got disqualified.
And Cross? He was the perfect target. One catastrophic scandal, and he'd be gone. Banned from competition, probably expelled entirely. The administration wouldn't tolerate that kind of liability, scholarship contract or not.
I'd been watching him all day. His ancient phone died fast—by nightfall, he always had it plugged into the outlet by his bunk, charging while he slept. The guy was so antisocial he never hung out after lights-out, just crashed early like some kind of robot on a schedule.
Tonight, the girls had their shower rotation. Summer was helping clean up after the bonfire, which meant she'd be last in line. Perfect timing. Perfect opportunity.
All I needed was that wireless mini-camera I'd brought—looked just like a USB stick, controlled through an app on my phone. I'd already tested it last month during the science olympiad trip. Worked like a charm.
The plan was simple: get footage of Summer in the shower, then use Bluetooth to transfer it to Cross's phone while he slept. At breakfast tomorrow, I'd casually mention to a couple of girls that I'd seen something weird on the school network, maybe hint that someone had been uploading creepy photos. They'd check, find the evidence on Cross's device, and boom. Done.
A loner like him? No alibi, no friends to vouch for his whereabouts. Even if he claimed innocence, the proof would be right there in his possession. The school would have no choice but to expel him. Probably press charges too.
I wasn't just getting rid of competition. I was protecting Summer from making the biggest mistake of her life. She deserved better than some damaged scholarship case who'd probably end up in jail like his father.
The more I thought about it, the more justified I felt. This wasn't cruelty—it was intervention. Rescue, even.
By ten-thirty, I was crouched in the pine trees behind the girls' shower house, the camera ready in my sweating palm. Through the small ventilation window, I could hear running water and giggly voices.
"Mia, do you even open your eyes when you shower?"
"Your boobs are so big, I'm embarrassed!"
Perfect. Just perfect.
Steam was fogging up the lens. I wiped it with my shirt collar, balanced on the unsteady woodpile beneath the window, my nose hot with excitement and nerves. Maybe I'd keep a backup copy in the cloud. Just in case.
Then something ice-cold clamped around my ankle and yanked.
I crashed face-first into the mud, my nose slamming against a rock. Pain exploded across my face, warm blood trickling down my lips. I flipped over, gasping, and froze.
Kieran Cross stood over me in the moonlight, his expression absolutely empty. Not angry. Not triumphant. Just... cold. Like he was looking at a dead animal on the side of the road.
Before I could shout, he stepped on my wrist—not hard enough to break it, but enough to pin me—and plucked the camera and my phone from my hands with terrifying efficiency.
"My dad's on the board," I choked out. "You're fucking done, Cross. You're—"
He didn't even blink. Just pocketed both devices and grabbed the back of my neck with one hand—his left, the strong one—and started dragging me.
Not pulling. Dragging. Like I was a bag of trash.
I tried to scream, but his right hand—the damaged one, weak and clumsy but still functional—clamped over my mouth. The pressure was nothing compared to his left, but the look in his eyes made my blood turn to slush.
He was going to hurt me. Actually hurt me.
And nobody would hear.