Chapter 2 #2
Something flickers in his eyes—something that might be hurt, but it’s gone too fast to identify. He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Relax. You forgot this.”
He tosses something at me. I catch it reflexively. It’s my water bottle, the one that started this whole fucked-up situation.
“Thanks,” I mutter, shoving it into my backpack without meeting his eyes.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, and there’s an edge to his tone that wasn’t there before. “You’ve been jumpy all session. And just now in there—”
“In there was nothing,” I cut him off sharply. My face is burning hot despite the cold air. “My sweater got caught. That’s all.”
“Right.” He draws the word out, skeptical. His eyes drop to where my torn sweater is visible beneath my jacket, and his expression darkens. “That why you ran out like the building was on fire?”
“I didn’t run—”
“You absolutely ran.” He’s not smiling now. If anything, he looks angry. “Scared of me, Beeler?”
Yes. But not for the reasons you think.
“No,” I lie.
“Then what scared you?” He steps closer, and I force myself not to back away again. “Because something did. You looked terrified. Tell me.”
The way you looked at me. The way you touched me. The way your body reacted when I was on my knees in front of you. The way mine reacted.
“Nothing,” I say instead. “I just needed air.”
He studies me for a long moment, those ice-blue eyes seeing too much. Then he glances down at my phone, which I’m still clutching in my white-knuckled grip.
“Bad news?”
“It’s nothing.”
“You keep saying that word.” His mouth quirks slightly. “I don’t think it means what you think it means.”
Despite everything—despite the terror and confusion and the lingering heat in my body—I almost laugh. “Did you just quote The Princess Bride?”
“What, you think hockey players can’t watch movies?” He sounds almost offended.
“I think you have trouble writing coherent sentences, so yes, I’m surprised you can quote classic films.”
The words are out before I can stop them. Shit. That was too far, especially after what just happened, especially after bringing up his dead father—
But instead of getting angry, Zane laughs. It’s a real laugh, not his usual mocking chuckle, and it transforms his entire face. For a second, he looks almost human. Almost approachable.
“There’s those teeth again,” he says, grinning. “I was starting to think you were all bark and no bite.”
“I have plenty of bite,” I snap automatically.
“Yeah?” He leans in closer, invading my space, and I can smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine with notes of cedar. “Prove it.”
My breath catches in my throat. Up close like this, I can see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, can see the faint stubble along his jaw, can see the way his pupils are still dilated. My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
“I need to go,” I say, but I don’t move. Can’t move.
“You keep saying that too.” His voice has dropped lower, rougher, and there’s something hungry in his expression. “But you’re still here.”
“Because you’re blocking my path.”
“Am I?” He doesn’t move back. If anything, he leans in fractionally closer, and now I can feel the heat radiating off his body. “You could just go around me.”
“Fine.” I step to the side. He mirrors my movement, still blocking me. “Ivarsson—”
“Beeler.” The way he says my name makes something hot and dangerous curl in my stomach. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t.” But his expression contradicts his words entirely. There’s something fierce in his eyes. “I just don’t like mysteries. And you’re definitely hiding something.”
My phone buzzes again. I don’t look at it, but Zane’s eyes flick down to where it’s still clutched in my trembling hand.
“Someone bothering you?” His tone has shifted, gone cold and dangerous in a way that makes me think of predators.
“No.”
“Beeler.” There’s a command in his voice now. “Look — I’m no grammar nerd, but I’m not stupid. Someone’s blowing up your phone and you’re acting like you want to run. Tell me what’s going on, or I’m taking that phone and finding out.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
He raises an eyebrow in challenge, and I know—I absolutely know—that he would.
Fine. Maybe I can use this. Maybe having someone like Zane Ivarsson—someone scary and powerful and completely untouchable—know about the stalker situation isn’t the worst idea. Maybe it’ll actually help.
Or maybe I’m just desperate and terrified and not thinking straight.
“Someone’s been…” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “Following me. Watching me. Sending me things.”
His entire demeanor changes in an instant. The playfulness vanishes, replaced by something sharp and predatory. His jaw clenches, and I can see the muscle jumping there. “What kind of things?”
“Gifts at first. Books, coffee, little things I mentioned wanting. But today…” I swallow hard, my throat tight. “Photos. Of me. Through my window.”
“Fuck.” The word is vicious. He runs a hand through his hair, and I notice his knuckles are bruised and raw. From hockey, probably. Or from hitting something. “You go to campus security?”
“Not yet.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I don’t have any proof of who it is, and I—” I break off, frustrated and scared and so fucking tired. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll handle it.”
“Like hell you will.” He pulls out his own phone, movements sharp and aggressive. “Give me your number.”
“What? No.”
“Beeler.” He’s using that captain voice, the one that probably makes his teammates snap to attention and run drills until they collapse. “Give me your fucking number. If this person is watching you, you need someone who can actually do something about it.”
“And you think you can?”
“I know I can.” He says it with absolute certainty, like he’s never failed at anything in his life. Which, knowing his background and his family’s wealth and power, he probably hasn’t. “Number. Now.”
I rattle it off before I can talk myself out of it. His phone chimes as he sends me a text, and my phone buzzes in my hand.
Zane. Save this. Anything off, text me right away.
“I’m not going to text you every time I get a creepy message,” I say, but my protest sounds weak even to my own ears.
“Yeah, you are.” He pockets his phone, his expression brooking no argument. “Because whoever this is, they escalated to threats and photos today, which means they’re getting bolder. And people who get bolder eventually get physical.”
A chill runs through me. I hadn’t thought about it that way. Hadn’t let myself think about it that way.
“You’re trying to scare me.”
“If I wasn’t trying to scare you, you’d be really scared.” He jerks his head toward the parking lot. “Get in my car. I’m driving you home.”
The command in his voice—the assumption that I’ll just obey—makes something snap inside me.
I’ve spent the last hour being ordered around, being stared at, being made to feel like I’m losing my mind.
And now, after everything that just happened in that library, after feeling his body against mine, after running away like a coward, he thinks he can just tell me what to do?
“No,” I say flatly.
He blinks. “What?”
“I said no.” I take a step back, putting distance between us. “I don’t need a ride. I’ll walk.”
“No, you won’t. Don’t be stupid—”
“Stop calling me stupid.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, edged with all the tension and fear and confusion swirling inside me. “I can take care of myself.”
“Someone is literally fucking stalking you—”
“I know that!” I snap. “I’m very aware of that, thank you. But I don’t need you to rescue me. I don’t need anything from you.”
Except I do. I need space. I need to think. I need to not be in close quarters with him right now, not after what happened upstairs, not when I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my chest and his body pressed against my back.
Being near him makes me feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.
I start walking quickly toward the edge of campus, my torn sweater flapping in the cold wind, my backpack bouncing against my spine. Every instinct is screaming at me to look back, to see if he’s following, but I force myself to keep moving forward.
I make it maybe fifty feet before I can’t help myself.
I glance back over my shoulder.
Zane is still standing in the exact same spot where I left him, motionless under the streetlight. His gym bag is at his feet, his hands are shoved into his pockets, and he’s watching me go.
The light casts shadows across his face, making his expression impossible to read, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t call after me. Doesn’t follow.
He just watches.
Something about that—about the way he’s letting me leave, about the stillness of his body, about the distance growing between us—makes my chest tighten uncomfortably.
I turn back around and walk faster.
~ ~ ~
The walk home takes ten minutes, and I spend every second of it looking over my shoulder.
The campus is getting darker, the streetlights flickering on one by one as the sun disappears below the horizon.
Halloween decorations cast strange shadows—fake cobwebs look like real ones in the failing light, plastic skeletons seem to move when I’m not looking directly at them, jack-o’-lanterns grin at me from every porch.
My phone stays silent in my pocket. No more texts from the stalker. No texts from Zane either, though I don’t know why I keep checking for those.
By the time I reach the dorm building, my nerves are completely shot. Every sound makes me jump—a car door slamming, someone’s laughter from a window, the rustle of leaves in the wind.
I practically run up the three flights of stairs to my room, fumbling with my keys as I try to unlock the door.
Once inside, I slam it shut and engage both locks, then stand there with my back pressed against the wood, breathing hard.
My room is small and quiet. The window faces the quad, and I can see the lights of campus twinkling in the distance.
Someone stood out there and took photos of me through this window.
I walk over and yank the curtains closed, then move to the bed and do the same. The fabric is thin—I can still see light through it when I turn on the lamp. I need better curtains. Blackout curtains. The kind that don’t let anyone see in.
My phone buzzes, and I nearly drop it.
Unknown number: Home safe, my little bee? All alone in your little room?
My hands start shaking. I take a screenshot and, before I can second-guess myself, send it to Zane’s number.
His response is immediate: where are u right now?
Home. My room.
fucking told you not to go there
You told me to get in your car. I said no.
There’s a long pause. Then: stubborn dumbass.
Despite my fear, I almost smile. Takes one to know one.
if he sends shit or shows up, text me. I’ll come. or call me. no text. seriously. just call me.
I’m fine. I locked everything.