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Dahlia is dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt, a beat-up leather jacket, and her usual white sneakers. Her hair is loose, falling to her shoulders in soft waves, framing the infuriatingly determined expression on her face. I hate that look. I hate that she always has it, no matter what she goes through. It’s what makes me want to break her to pieces. Smash her. Ruin her so thoroughly, she’ll never be able to stand up again. See if she’ll dare to ever look at me. “You’re drooling,” Preston whispers, then waves. “Thorne! Over here, saved you a seat.” The entire hall stares at her. It’s unusual for any of the girls to get to sit with us. Isabella and her minions made sure of it. So they only approach if one of us calls them over. Dahlia lifts her head and pauses, her forefinger tracing cryptic messages on her thumb. Like a witch. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s capable of making potions of some sort. Her eyes meet mine and she holds my gaze for one second. Two… Three… On the fourth, she slid