The rules had always been clear at Sinners Academy—betrayals came dressed in silk, kisses hid daggers, and the most dangerous games were the ones played behind closed doors. Raven Moreau had mastered survival. But tonight, she wasn't sure if she was playing the game, or if she had just stepped onto the board as a piece.
The masquerade ball wasn't just a school event—it was a declaration of power. The ballroom dripped with old money and even older secrets, chandeliers gleaming like they were carved from frozen fire. Raven moved through the crowd in a blood-red gown, slit high on the thigh, black lace gloves hugging her arms like whispers of danger. Her mask glittered with dark gemstones, but it couldn't hide the warning in her eyes.
"Someone's dressing to kill tonight," drawled a voice to her left.
She didn't have to look to know who it was. Killian Vale. Dressed in midnight, a raven-feathered mask crowning his sharp features. He leaned against the marble pillar like he owned the building. He always did. The worst part? Sometimes he did.
"You planning on dying, then?" she murmured, not bothering to face him.
He laughed, low and husky, the kind that curled around your spine. "If I die tonight, I want it to be by your hand."
She turned, slow and deliberate, letting her gaze rake over him like a blade. "Don't tempt me."
He stepped closer, and the crowd seemed to shift around them instinctively—like the room understood that when Raven and Killian shared space, tension became a living, breathing thing.
"You always come armed?" he asked, eyes flicking to the sliver of thigh revealed with every step.
"Only when I expect to be hunted."
He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear. "You like being hunted."
Her hand snapped up between them, catching the edge of his jacket. "And you like bleeding."
They stood there, heat pulsing, words unspoken threading between them like an invisible noose. But the music surged louder, dragging the moment away before either of them pulled the rope.
"Dance with me," he said.
"No."
"It's not a request."
And just like that, he took her hand. She could've stopped him, she told herself that as her fingers stayed wrapped around his. But she didn't.
He pulled her into the center of the ballroom, spinning her with a flourish that made the crowd pause. The string quartet's melody curled around them as they moved, steps in sync, like magnets wrapped in velvet and vice.
"You're dangerous in red," he said, watching her lips.
"You're dangerous in general."
"Maybe that's why you can't stay away."
Her fingers dug into his shoulder. "Maybe I'm just waiting for the right moment to destroy you."
His smile was wolfish. "Then let's make sure it's memorable."
They danced like it was a battle—elegant, vicious, intimate. Whispers followed them like shadows.
When the song ended, he leaned in again. "Follow me."
She should've said no. Should've walked away. But the look in his eyes said he had something she needed—something dangerous. So she followed him through a side door, down a dark hallway lined with ancient portraits of sinners long dead.
He stopped at a velvet-curtained door and turned to her. "What I'm about to show you... you can't unsee."
She crossed her arms. "I stopped being scared of the dark a long time ago."
He pushed open the door.
Inside was a secret library—not the one the students bragged about. This one had no windows, no cameras. Just shelves of records. Documents. Blackmail. Power.
"This is how they control everything," Killian said, voice quieter now. "Every name, every deal, every sin—it's all cataloged here."
She stepped forward, brushing her fingers along a leather-bound file with the Vale family crest.
"You brought me to the wolf's den," she said softly.
"I brought you here because if you want revenge—real revenge—you'll need more than fury. You'll need fire."
Her pulse kicked. "Why me?"
He stepped close again, almost touching. "Because you hate them just like I do. And because no one burns like you do."
For the first time, she saw it. The crack in his perfect mask. The fury beneath the smirk. The loneliness buried in the power.
"This is a game," she whispered. "A devil's game."
"And the devil," he said, reaching up to touch her jaw, "wants to see what you'll do next."
Just then, a sound echoed down the hall. Footsteps. Fast. Approaching.
Killian grabbed her hand and pulled her into the shadows, just as the door burst open.
Voices.
Not teachers. Not students.
"They can't find us here," he muttered.
"Who are they?" she whispered.
He looked at her, eyes suddenly full of something colder than fury.
"People who kill secrets."
The file she had touched was gone from the shelf.
The lights flickered.
And just before the scene cut to black, she realized—Killian Vale hadn't brought her here to protect her.
He'd brought her here to make a choice.
Raven's heels echoed against the checkered marble floor of the east wing as she followed the golden line etched into the tiles. The line wasn't just aesthetic—it was a rule. A tradition. Only Sinners bound to the Vale Legacy could walk beyond that line uninvited. But Raven had never cared much for rules, especially not when they were laced with power plays and ancient secrets.
The further she moved into the Vale wing, the colder the air turned. Not physically—but atmospherically. Like the walls themselves whispered memories of blood-pacts and betrayals.
A low chuckle spilled from the shadows ahead.
"Looking for the devil, or trying to be one?" Killian's voice purred like velvet wrapped around a blade.
She stopped mid-step, eyes narrowing. "I go where I want. You of all people should understand that."
Killian stepped into the light, shirt half-unbuttoned, a fresh cut on his cheek like a badge of honor. He held a goblet of something blood-red, swirling it as he approached. "You think this game of yours is without consequence?"
Raven tilted her head. "You think it's mine?"
Silence stretched between them like a drawn bow. Then Killian closed the space, standing so close she could feel the heat of his anger—or was it something else?
"You're playing with fire, Moreau."
"And you're addicted to the burn."
He laughed, but it was hollow. "Don't flatter yourself. You're not special."
"No?" she whispered, voice sharp as glass. "Then why do you keep watching me like I'm a problem you can't solve?"
A beat. Then Killian grabbed her wrist—gently, almost too gently. His thumb brushed the underside where her pulse thrummed wildly.
"You talk like you're untouchable," he murmured. "But I've seen the cracks. And I intend to tear them wide open."
Before Raven could respond, the grand clock in the hall struck midnight.
BONG.
BONG.
BONG.
The sound reverberated through the stone corridors. It was time.
Killian released her with a glance that scorched and walked past her, heading toward the grand staircase. "Come on, Moreau. Let's see if you can survive the Devil's Game."
---
The Devil's Game, as it turned out, wasn't a metaphor.
The Sinners' Midnight Trials had officially begun.
Raven stood with the others on the balcony overlooking the Courtyard of Echoes. Torches flickered along the hedges, illuminating the circle of masked students below.
Five trials. One winner. And tonight's test? A whispered dare called The Red Mark.
Killian stood across from her, mask in hand, expression unreadable. He looked carved from shadow and secrets.
Professor Thorne stepped forward, reading from an old, crumbling scroll. "Tonight, you'll be marked by fate—or fire. Only one of you will find the truth. The rest? You'll be hunted."
Gasps and whispers rippled through the crowd. Raven's pulse spiked.
Suddenly, Killian was behind her, his breath warm against her ear. "You sure you want to play?"
She turned to him slowly. "I'm not playing. I'm winning."
He smiled.
But there was something dangerous in that smile.
---
Twenty Minutes Later
Raven crouched in the fog-drenched garden maze, clutching a flickering candle given to her at the start of the trial. Find the Red Mark. Don't let the others see your fear. Survive.
She turned a corner—and slammed into a figure.
Killian.
Only this time, his shirt was gone. There was blood on his hands. And his candle had gone out.
"Don't scream," he whispered, backing her against the ivy-covered wall. "Someone's already been taken."
Raven's eyes widened. "What do you mean taken?"
Killian's jaw clenched. "This isn't just tradition anymore. Someone turned the game real."
A bloodcurdling scream tore through the air—followed by the sickening sound of something dragging across stone.
They both froze.
And then—
All the lights went out.
Raven felt Killian's hand grab hers in the dark.
"Run."
They sprinted through the maze, breath sharp and ragged. But just as they turned a corner, Raven's candle flared to life again—and illuminated the Red Mark, painted in blood on the wall ahead.
But something wasn't right.
It was shaped like her name.
"Killian—" she gasped.
He pulled her close, shielding her with his body as a figure emerged from the mist.
And then, as the final toll of the courtyard bell rang through the night, a voice whispered:
"Raven Moreau… is the next target."