Chapter 2
Ipull up Ivarsson’s essay on my laptop, trying to ignore the way he’s staring at me instead of looking at the screen.
This is our fourth session, and he still hasn’t figured out that actually paying attention might help him pass this class.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice even and professional. “Let’s go over the mistakes. You keep repeating this one — it shows up in almost every essay.”
“I guess I just really like repetition,” he says, voice dropping lower. “The physical kind, too. Same movements. Back and forth.”
He pauses. I can feel his eyes boring into the side of my face.
“Though,” he adds, his tone darkly amused, “I do like to mix up the speed. And the direction.”
My fingers freeze on the keyboard.
Is he… is he actually hinting at what I think he’s hinting at? Or have I completely lost my mind?
I refuse to look at him. I will not give him the satisfaction.
“Well,” I reply, my voice admirably steady, “if you repeat a trick in hockey that doesn’t work, you stop doing it.”
“The words in my essay work perfectly.” His tone is lazy, amused. “You understand them perfectly.”
“It’s not about understanding.” I force myself to look at the screen, at the red marks I’ve made throughout his paper. “It’s about automating correct writing, which will be useful to you in life.”
“Wow.” He leans back in his chair, and I hear the creak of wood protesting his weight. “Your whole strict, serious-guy act? Impressive. You should charge extra for that, Beeler.”
The way he says my surname—drawing it out, making it sound almost intimate—makes me turn my head before I can stop myself.
He’s staring straight at me, chewing his gum with slow, deliberate movements. His jaw works methodically, and I notice his pupils are dilated, making his ice-blue eyes look almost black. The way he’s looking at me makes heat crawl up my neck.
I look away immediately, embarrassed by my own reaction.
“Next time,” I say, aiming for prim and professional, “you have to correct the new essay yourself.”
“Or what?” The insolence in his voice is thick enough to cut.
“Or our lessons will be useless,” I snap, losing the battle with my temper.
“They’re useless now.”
“Then let’s stop them.” The words come out before I can think them through. “Or will your father have me expelled?”
The silence that follows is deafening.
I immediately regret it. Damn it. Ivarsson can cause me real problems—his family basically owns this college. One word from him and I could lose my scholarship, my future, everything.
When I force myself to look up, he is smiling. But it’s not a normal smile. It’s almost bloodthirsty, all teeth and no warmth. A shiver runs down my spine.
“Daddy’s been dead for a long time,” he says quietly.
“My uncle runs the family now. He’s the one who sponsors the college.
If that’s what you’re worried about.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and that predatory smile doesn’t waver.
“Don’t worry, Beeler. He won’t touch you. You’ve got me for that.”
“I’m sorry.” The words feel inadequate. “I didn’t know. About your father.”
“Wow. Sorry,” he whispers, more to himself than to me. He spreads his legs wider, and I try not to notice the way his thighs strain against his dark sweatpants. “There are only so many Ivarssons this earth can bear. That’s why someone always has to die.”
The comment is strange, unsettling. And the way he says it—the cadence, the word choice—doesn’t sound like someone who makes basic grammar mistakes in essays. It sounds literary, almost poetic. Dark.
I’ve never really talked to Ivarsson before these tutoring sessions. Brief exchanges in hallways, the occasional shove into a locker. I didn’t know he could talk like this.
He shifts his foot, and the sound of his sneaker against the floor makes me flinch.
“What’s the matter?” His voice is sharp with observation. “You seem so nervous today.”
“I’m impressed by your observation skills,” I bite back.
“Oh, the bookworm’s got bite.” He says it almost indifferently, pulling out his phone and tapping at the screen. “Good to know.”
I need to get out of here. Away from his dark eyes and darker words and the way he’s making my skin feel too tight.
I stand up and start gathering my things, laptop and notes and pens. I walk around the table, heading for the door, and his leg shoots out, blocking my path. I nearly stumble over it.
“Not so fast.” His voice is a command. “Don’t get comfortable. The lesson isn’t over yet.”
What a keen desire to learn. And all to torment me to the last possible second.
I force myself to sit back down and suffer through another fifteen minutes of halfhearted corrections and loaded comments. By the time I glance at the window, it’s getting dark outside, the sky turning that deep purple that means night is coming fast.
“I think we’re done for today,” I say, reaching for my water bottle.
Ivarsson shifts in his chair at the exact wrong moment. His elbow knocks my portable bottle, and it goes flying, rolling across the table and onto the floor.
“Real smooth, champ,” I mutter under my breath.
“I heard that.”
I ignore him and drop to my knees, searching for the bottle under the table. The library’s old wooden floor has gaps and cracks, and—shit—the bottle has rolled into one of them.
I stick my hand into the crack, fingers searching for the bottle, and that’s when I feel my sweater catch on something.
There are strange hooks or nails inside the crack, old hardware from decades ago, and my sleeve is tangled up in them. The opening is too narrow to maneuver properly.
“Shit,” I hiss, trying to pull free.
I hear the scrape of Zane’s chair turning. When I glance up, he’s repositioned himself so he’s facing me directly.
He spreads his legs wider, one of them actually touching my knee, and instead of the mockery I’m expecting, his expression is dark and intense. His eyes are hooded as he watches me struggle.
“Are you looking for something down there?” His voice has gone rough.
“No.” I yank at my sleeve. “I mean… yes. My sleeve is stuck… in there, um.”
“Oh my.” There’s cruel amusement in his tone. “That sweater’s a crime against humanity. Can’t blame it for holding on.”
“Shut up.”
I jerk my arm harder, and suddenly Zane is moving, standing up so abruptly his chair scrapes loudly against the floor. He’s coming closer, and my brain short-circuits as I realize his groin is now at eye level.
I can feel my face heating up. This is mortifying. Absolutely mortifying.
“Beeler.” He says my name again, and it sounds like a caress. “Look at me.”
I’m forced to lift my head. He’s staring down at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. From this angle, he looks massive—broad shoulders blocking out the overhead light, jaw tight, eyes dark with something I can’t name.
“Looks like you’re stuck,” he says, his voice gone hoarse.
I want to make some cutting remark about stating the obvious, but my throat has gone dry. His voice alone is enough to make every hair on my body stand on end. I start pulling harder on the sweater, no longer caring if I tear it. I just need to get to my feet. Now.
Zane spreads his legs wider and steps closer to the table, and suddenly his groin is touching my hair. I try to turn my face away sharply, and that’s when I see it—the front of his dark sweatpants is definitely bulging.
Oh god.
I immediately turn away, feeling the color rise to my cheeks. This isn’t happening. This isn’t real.
“Come on, Beeler,” he says, his voice thick. “I’ll pull you out.”
To my horror, he doesn’t bend down to help with the sweater.
Instead, he positions himself behind me and grabs me by the shoulders, pulling me backward.
The sweater tears with a loud rip, and I’m suddenly free—but now I’m pressed against his chest, his arms around me, and I can feel every hard plane of his body.
I start to slide down, gravity working against me, and his hands move to grip my chest, holding me up with overwhelming strength. And that’s when I feel it—a distinct, hard thing pressing against my back.
Holy fuck.
I practically throw myself forward, scrambling to my feet and grabbing my things with shaking hands.
“Damn, my sweater is completely torn,” I say, trying desperately to sound casual even though my voice is shaking. Inside, I’m screaming at myself to run, to get out of here as fast as possible.
“It is,” Zane replies, and his voice is so deep it’s almost a growl. “Your knees okay, Beeler? Or should I check?”
The question—the implication—makes something hot and mortifying curl in my stomach.
I don’t answer. I just grab my backpack and bolt for the door.
~ ~ ~
I don’t stop running until I’m outside the library, the cold October air hitting my flushed face like a slap. My hands are shaking as I try to zip up my jacket over the torn sweater. The fabric hangs loose where it ripped, exposing a strip of my stomach.
What the fuck just happened?
My phone buzzes. I pull it out, expecting Maya or Derek checking in, but it’s an unknown number.
Did you enjoy being on your knees for him, little bee?
My stomach drops again. I spin around, scanning the quad, the shadows between buildings, the windows of the library behind me. Someone is watching. Right now. Someone saw what happened in that study room.
Another text arrives before I can process the first.
You looked so pretty like that. But you were supposed to stay home tonight. Bad bee.
I’m going to be sick.
A hand lands on my shoulder and I nearly jump out of my skin, spinning around with my fists raised like I have any idea how to throw a punch.
It’s Ivarsson.
He’s standing there in just his t-shirt despite the cold, his gym bag slung over one shoulder. His expression is unreadable, but his jaw is tight, and there’s something in his eyes I’ve never seen before.
“Jesus Christ, Beeler, you trying to give yourself a heart attack?”
“Don’t—don’t touch me,” I stammer, backing away.