Whatever Wakes (Hallow Ridge #2)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

EZRA

The ceramic snowman sitting on the countertop glares at me with his beady little eyes. It’s creepy as fuck, and I have the feral urge to paw it to the edge of the counter and knock it off like a cat.

I’ve always hated this time of year.

Something is suffocating about it—the forced cheer, the empty promises of fresh starts that everyone seems to cling to.

Can’t relate.

I’ll be the same miserable asshole next year as I was this year and every other.

I’m sure it has a lot to do with my childhood, or lack thereof. Childhood implies there was a stage of development before I had to act like an adult—Jean Piaget would be sorely disappointed in my lack of proper cognitive milestones.

Kruz loves it, though.

The time of year, that is. Not the fact that I’m a miserable asshole.

Though maybe she loves that too.

Or at least I used to think she did.

She loves the snow, the lights, the goddamn peppermint-flavored everything.

I’d never admit it, but it’s part of what I love about her, how easily she falls head over heels into things that make her happy. It’s something I can’t personally connect with. Something I envy, and I suppose that in a way, I live vicariously through her joy.

I also envy the attention and adoration she gives to anything that isn’t me, including the inanimate things.

Yes, I am jealous of fucking candy canes. I used to be her favorite thing to suck and lick.

But of course, I ruined that like everything else.

This time last year, we were barely finding our footing in our relationship, but I had already fallen hard and fast. Even then, it was hard for me to hold back from her.

It’s been over a year since the last mess with the Assembly—since Stu went off the deep end, kidnapping Quinn to carve the chip we so desperately needed right out of her arm.

We had a plan, a safe way to remove it—something medical, a hospital visit under some other pretense—but he didn’t care.

He was just as unhinged as her father for putting it there in the first place. I have no doubt he would have killed her if I hadn’t gotten there in time.

She and Jack still have no idea I was ever involved.

Neither does Kruz. I’ve spent most of that time trying to convince myself I could stop thinking about her while planning my next steps.

I can’t, obviously .

Not when she’s still walking around campus like she doesn’t own my every thought.

We fucked for months—just over six.

I remember every detail about her. Every time she rolled her eyes, every dip and curve of her body, every sarcastic comment, every sound she’s ever made for me, every touch she thinks I’ve forgotten.

I could never forget her or anything about her, even when she pulled away. Slowly at first—spacing out our hookups, seeing other people, pretending that none of it mattered.

I know better.

She’s cute, though.

Like she could actually get away from me.

I don’t deserve her, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let anyone else have her.

I ensured she’d be my TA for this school year. That was just one mistake of many I’ve made since last November. When she found out sometime in June, she started trying to be professional .

That was the beginning of the end of the bare minimum I could give her.

Her seeing other men doesn’t bother me.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

It’s not like she’s sleeping with any of them. I know because I watch her.

Because I’ve made sure it gets back to all of them that she’s mine . Rumors travel fast, especially in a place like this. Whispers, sideways glances, the way some guys tense when they see me watching—it’s all proof that they know.

She is . She just doesn’t realize. Not yet. But she will.

Plus, it’s necessary to keep her safe, to know what she’s doing and who she’s with. People underestimate how quickly things can go wrong and how easily danger slips into the spaces you don’t think to check. Especially in Hallow Ridge. I’m just making sure that doesn’t happen.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it. The power in knowing before she does. The quiet thrill of anticipation. The satisfaction of keeping her exactly where she needs to be.

I follow her when she thinks she’s alone, staying just far enough behind to blend into our surroundings. She never notices, never so much as glances over her shoulder. It’s almost disappointing.

Almost .

I’ve sat in coffee shops, pretending to work, while she laughed with some guy who was far less entertaining than she let on. I watched the way he leaned in too close, the way her smile barely reached her eyes.

It took everything in me to keep my distance, but keeping my distance is unfortunately the one thing I have mastered.

I’ve sat in my car outside her dorm for hours, watching her window just to make sure she didn’t bring anyone back with her. Sometimes the light stays on late, her silhouette moving behind the curtain. Sometimes I catch glimpses of her pacing, talking on the phone, stretching out on her bed. Alone, just like she should be.

Though that thought doesn’t sit quite right. I don’t think she should be alone so much as she should be with me , but we’ll get there.

I’ve hacked into her calendar, too—nothing major, just enough to know when she has plans. It’s useful, knowing where she’ll be before she even gets there.

Her texts? It’s easier than you’d think to mirror someone’s notifications to your own device. A simple trick, really. A precaution.

I don’t read every message, though.

Even I know how to have boundaries.

Well, I tell myself I do. And sometimes, that’s enough.

If she knew the lengths I’ve gone to… the places I’ve followed her, the things I’ve done to make sure she stays exactly where she should be …but she doesn’t. That’s the point. She can’t know.

It’s not about control; it’s about knowing she’s safe. It’s about protecting what’s mine. About knowing she’s mine, even if she doesn’t admit it yet. Even if she fights it, argues, glares at me with fire in her eyes, and curses my name in that beautiful mind of hers.

All of this has led me here because I’m tired of watching from the shadows for the last six months. Tired of her pretending I don’t exist outside of the moments she allows me. Tired of playing a game I never agreed to.

I’m at the house of her so-called study date, some idiot who doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air she does, let alone look at her the way I’ve seen him look at her. Like she belongs to him. Like he has the right to sit close, to make her laugh, to touch her.

He’s passed out in the next room, drugged, stripped down to his boxers, and completely unaware of the fact that his night just took a turn for the humiliating. The poor bastard won’t even remember what happened, just that he woke up in bed alone, confused, exposed.

Good.

That’s what he gets for thinking he could have any part of her, even the small part she allows him.

Getting him into bed and undressed was nearly unbearable. Everything about it made my skin crawl, my muscles lock tight like I was gearing up for a fight. I haven’t had that much skin-to-skin contact with anyone who wasn’t Kruz in a long fucking time.

Her hands are the only hands I’ve ever allowed on my body, the only ones I’m not disgusted by. The only ones I crave. It’s the exact opposite with her. I want to touch her. Need to. Want her to touch me like she means it, like she knows I’m the only one who can take care of her.

I can likely thank my dad for my distaste for human touch. The lack of my own bodily autonomy over the years is something I’m sure I’ll need to unpack in therapy in the future. If I ever get around to it.

Even though I was just heaving him into bed, the way his sweat-slick skin slid across my arms made bile rise in my throat like acid, burning from the inside out.

I’m lucky that I was even able to go through with this. I could have asked someone else for help, but there’s no one I trust with Kruz. No one else who understands what she means to me. No one else who knows exactly how much I’d do for her.

And we all know what happened the last time I trusted someone with the people I love.

I know this is fucked up.

But I couldn’t stop myself.

I need to deter her from other men. I need her to understand what it feels like when she ignores me, when she laughs too easily with someone else, when she acts like she’s free to do whatever she wants.

I want to give her a taste of her own medicine. I want to set something off inside her, something that forces her to react, to stop pretending I don’t matter to her the way she matters to me. I wonder what she’ll feel if she thinks I’ve been fucking around with someone else? Someone who isn’t her . Will she feel it in her gut, in her chest, in the way her hands curl into fists at her sides? Will she seethe the way I do?

Will she feel the same boiling anger I do when I see her with anyone who isn’t me?

Most of all, I just want to see her reaction, to see her eyes darken, to hear the way her breath catches when she realizes I’m here, what it looks like I’ve done.

Though, I’d never fuck anyone that wasn’t her. Can’t even stomach the thought. Can’t imagine wanting anyone else.

She’ll flip.

It’s so easy to piss her off. Almost too easy.

And God, I love it.

My cock hardens in my pants at the thought of her reaction, and now all I have to do is wait.

Kruz

The wind cuts through my coat as I make my way up the icy sidewalk, cursing myself for not driving. But walking clears my head, and I need that tonight.

Christmas break starts in just a few days, and still, all I can think about is Ezra.

All I can ever fucking think about is Ezra.

It’s been just over a year since I first landed in his bed, and just over six months since the last time I was in it—187 days, not that I’m counting.

I should be over it by now. Shouldn’t still feel this coil of frustration, of longing, twisting inside me every time his name crosses my mind.

But I remember the first time I saw him at Jack’s house the night we moved Quinn in, the way his presence filled the room without him even trying. How he was all sharp lines and lazy confidence, an easy smirk tugging at his lips despite the circumstance.

I’d met plenty of men who thought they were charming. Ezra actually was. And he wasn’t even trying.

Maybe that’s why I tried so hard to ignore him at first.

It’s definitely why I couldn’t look away once I finally gave him that first glance.

The first night happened too easily, too fast. A conversation that turned into something else, a drink that turned into a dare I was too stubborn to back down from. And Ezra, who should’ve been off-limits, who should’ve been a bad decision I didn’t even consider—except I did.

Over and over.

It was supposed to be one night. No strings, no attachments, nothing to get tangled up in.

But then there was another night. And another. And suddenly six months had passed, and I was still lying in his bed, still reaching for him in the dark, still pretending like I wasn’t letting him ruin me for anyone else.

And now it’s been six months since I let myself have him, since I forced myself to walk away before he could push me away first.

Six months of pretending I don’t care.

Six months of pretending it doesn’t still hurt.

Six months, and I still can’t stop thinking about him.

I don’t know what kept me coming back in the first place. Being with Ezra felt like nothing more than random hookups, peppered with cryptic conversations and long silences.

Then he pulled that stunt, ensuring I’d be his TA next year.

He can say he had nothing to do with it all he wants. I’m not stupid; I know he did it to keep me close. But that gave me more of a reason than anything to end whatever it was that we had going on.

I should be mad.

I am mad, in theory.

But I also can’t get him out of my head.

Not his hands, his voice, the way he looks at me like he’s solving a puzzle only he understands.

None of the guys I’ve tried seeing since him even come close. Not sexually, not intellectually, not in sheer presence.

Not that I have had any sexual interest in anyone but him since the day I first had him.

Not that very many men have seemed interested in me at all after the first few dates. I’m starting to think something is wrong with me.

Hallow Ridge always has a way of making things more complicated. Everyone has secrets, and it’s like the town itself knows what I’m hiding.

What we were hiding.

But being someone’s dirty little secret was never my ideal kind of relationship to begin with. And even though at one point in time I was desperate to take whatever crumbs he would give me, I had always known in the back of my mind that I deserved more.

Better.

Someone who would be proud to tell the world I belonged to them.

Someone who would give me so much more than what he had to offer.

But god . I so wanted that person to be him.

I shake the thought as I turn up the walkway to the apartments. My study date is waiting inside, probably sitting at his kitchen table, books open, pretending we’re going to get something done.

I don’t know why I bother. It’s not like anything will come of it, but at least it keeps me distracted from Ezra.

Though I would love for someone to fuck me stupid, pushing every thought of him from my mind if only for a few minutes.

I reach the door and knock, half-hoping no one answers.

The door swings open, and there he is.

Not my study date, but fucking Ezra .

Standing there in nothing but boxers.

His hair’s a mess, his eyes dark and unreadable, and my heart does that stupid thing where it flips even though I know I should be pissed. I always feel this way around him, and it makes me want to punch myself in the face.

I’ve seen him like this a million times, but only ever for me .

And seeing him like this outside those parameters? Well, it makes me feel things I have no right to be feeling, especially because I came here for the same reason.

I can’t breathe—literally cannot suck in even half a breath, because my heart’s in my throat, blocking the airflow.

Why is he here?

Where are his clothes?!

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand, my body stiff with surprise.

Ezra leans casually against the doorframe, his tattooed arm stretched up like he owns the place, like he’s been here before . The art is so familiar—because I’ve traced every line of it, memorized the patterns inked onto his skin while he slept beside me.

That hand has gripped my throat more times than I can count, his touch fierce, electric, impossible to ever fucking forget.

Right now, though? The sight of those tattoos makes me want to scream.

“What, no hello?” he drawls, his voice infuriatingly smooth, like he’s savoring my reaction. “I was just about to ask you the same thing, morte mea .”

“ Don’t call me that,” I snap, brushing past him into the apartment. The space smells faintly of cedar and coffee, and the sight of Michael’s study notes spread across the kitchen table confirms what I already suspected.

Ezra was never supposed to be here.

So what the fuck is he doing?

He follows, unbothered, his footsteps slow and deliberate. “Relax,” he says as if he has any right to tell me that.

I whirl around to face him. “Where’s Michael?”

Ezra raises an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. He nods his head in the direction of the bedroom, and I peek inside.

Michael is sprawled out on the bed butt ass naked, a sheen of sweat covering his skin. He looks freshly fucked and passed out from the sheer exhaustion of it.

I shudder, because while I was fine with the prospect of studying with him, I realize in this moment that I didn’t ever want to see him in this state, especially not as the result of Ezra’s doing.

“What the fuck?” I ask, my voice icy.

He shrugs, moving toward the couch and sinking into it like he’s completely at home. “What, you didn’t think I’d move on? It’s been months.”

I’m half a second away from hurling something at him when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to find the screen lit up with a missed call from Michael just over an hour ago. I guess I didn’t feel it vibrate the first time. My stomach twists. Maybe he was canceling? “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough.” His tone is so casual it’s infuriating, and I want nothing more than to wipe that stupid satisfied look off his face.

Ezra doesn’t budge, his smirk softening into something more calculated. “Why are you so wound up? Let me guess—Michael ditched you, huh? That’s why you’re in such a mood.”

I grit my teeth, refusing to let him bait me. “You don’t know anything about my mood, or about Michael.”

“I know plenty about Michael,” he cuts in, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His dark eyes glint with something unbearable.

“ Great . Fine,” I snap without hesitation.

Ezra chuckles, low and infuriating. “Always so feisty. One of your better traits, honestly.”

I grab the nearest object—a hunk of twisted metal sculpture from the console table—and hurl it at his head.

He catches it effortlessly, his smirk never wavering. “Nice aim.”

This pisses me off even further, so I grab the matching sculpture that sat next to it and chuck it even harder.

This one hits the mark. Well, barely. It grazes his cheek before hitting the wall behind his head and plopping onto the back of the couch.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch.

Blood beads at the top of his cheekbone and drips down his face, a faint bruise already blooming, but he just looks at me and fucking smirks .

He stands, stretching with deliberate slowness. His muscles pull taut, and my eyes roam over every hard inch of him.

He steps into Michael’s room and reappears a moment later fully clothed, then strolls to the door, but as he passes me, he leans in close, his voice a murmur against my ear. “I’ve missed you too, morte mea.”

I slam the door behind him, my pulse racing, my anger a hot, buzzing thing under my skin.

The nerve of him.

The fucking audacity .

And yet, as I lean against the wall, trying to steady my breath so I can leave too, one thought refuses to leave my mind:

Why wasn’t he surprised to see me here?