Chapter 4
“They were at the museum,” I whisper, staring at the butterfly. “They followed me.”
I look up at Zane, expecting—I don’t know what. Concern? Anger? Some kind of reaction?
He’s watching me intently, his ice-blue eyes tracking every expression that crosses my face.
“Keep looking,” he says quietly. “There’s more in there.”
My hands shake as I move the tissue paper aside. Underneath are photographs. Multiple photographs.
Of me.
The first one shows me walking across campus yesterday, my backpack slung over one shoulder. The second is me sitting in the library, completely unaware I’m being photographed.
The third—my stomach drops—is me through my bedroom window again, this time reading in bed.
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe.
“Keep going,” Zane says.
I don’t want to. But I can’t stop myself from digging deeper into the box. My fingers encounter something else—something wrapped in tissue paper. I pull it out carefully and unwrap it.
It’s another butterfly specimen. Not the one I bought today, but a different piece from the same species. A male Morpho rhetenor, perfectly preserved, wings intact and gleaming that impossible blue.
For a moment, I forget to breathe. This specimen is even rarer than the one I bought. Even more valuable.
“They knew,” I say numbly. “They knew exactly what I wanted.”
“There’s one more thing,” Zane says, his voice low. He nods toward the box. “At the very bottom.”
I push aside the remaining tissue paper. My fingers brush against something smooth and cool. I pull it out.
It’s small, heavy for its size, and made of a sleek, dark, polished material. For a bewildered second, my brain tries to place it—a piece of abstract art? A strange, weighted chess piece? Then, the shape registers. The subtle, tapering curve. The flared, discreet base.
My blood runs cold, then a scalding heat floods my face, burning its way up my neck to the tips of my ears. It’s a butt plug. Small and stylish.
My hand jerks as if shocked. The thing clatters onto the wooden floor between us, the sound obscenely loud in the tense silence.
I can’t look at Zane. I can’t move. The violation of the photos was one thing. This is different. This is a hot, shameful humiliation. They mocked me. They implied something deeply private, and they sent it to be opened in front of him.
I force my eyes up. Zane is staring at the object on the floor, his expression unreadable.
There’s one more thing in the box. A card, plain white, with that same typed font:
You won’t need butterflies if you come to the party. Stay home where you belong. Final warning.
I set everything down on the table, my hands trembling. Butterflies from the stalker. The photographs. The sex toy. The threat.
“At least I have butterflies now,” I say, trying for levity and failing completely. My voice comes out hollow. “Three butterflies. That’s… that’s good, right?”
Zane doesn’t answer. He’s still watching me with that intense focus, like I’m some kind of experiment he’s conducting.
“Right,” I say to myself. “Let’s just—let’s get back to work.”
~ ~ ~
We spend the next forty minutes in tense silence. I try to focus on Zane’s essay corrections, but my mind keeps drifting to those photographs, to the knowledge that someone was close enough to take them, to the fact that they knew exactly where I’d be today.
“So,” Zane says suddenly, breaking the silence. “This party tomorrow.”
I look up from my laptop. “What about it?”
“You’re not seriously still planning to go.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement, delivered with the kind of casual arrogance that sets my teeth on edge.
“A lot of people are going,” I say carefully. “It’s the biggest party of the semester.”
“Yeah. A lot of people who actually belong there.” He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “No offense, Beeler, but a Sigma Halloween party isn’t exactly your scene.”
“And what’s my scene, exactly?” I can hear the edge in my voice.
“I don’t know. Library? Some kind of butterfly museum?” He shrugs, but there’s something calculated about the gesture. “Just seems like you’d be more comfortable staying home. Staying safe.”
“I’m going,” I say flatly.
His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his posture. A tension that wasn’t there before. “Your funeral.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He picks up his phone, starts scrolling through it.
The dismissiveness in his tone makes anger flare in my chest. “You know what? I don’t need your permission. I was invited. I’m going. End of discussion.”
“Sure.” He doesn’t look up from his phone. “Whatever you want, Beeler.”
But I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his knuckles have gone white around his phone. Something about my insistence on going to this party has clearly bothered him.
Good. Let him be bothered.
We finish the session in hostile silence. I’m packing up my things—carefully placing both butterfly specimens in my bag along with my laptop—when I notice Zane standing up, stretching.
His arm knocks into my water bottle. It tips over, water spilling across the table.
I lunge for my bag, trying to get it away from the spreading water. But I’m too slow. The water reaches the edge of the table and drips onto my bag, soaking into the fabric.
“Fuck!” I yank the bag away, unzipping it frantically. “My butterfly—”
“Relax, it’s in the box,” Zane says. “It’s fine.”
But when I pull out the box with the butterfly I bought myself, I see the cardboard is soaked through. Water has seeped inside, dissolving the tissue paper. I open it with shaking hands.
The butterfly specimen is ruined. The water has damaged the delicate wings, warped the body, destroyed what was perfect just moments ago.
“No, no, no—” My voice cracks.
I look up at Zane, and he’s just standing there, watching me. Not apologizing. Not even pretending to be sorry.
“You did this on purpose,” I say, my voice shaking.
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with those ice-blue eyes, something dark and hungry moving beneath the surface.
“You knocked that bottle over deliberately.” I’m standing now, anger overriding my usual caution around him. “You destroyed it on purpose.”
Silence. He just stares at me, his gaze intense and unwavering.
“Say something!”
He moves then, closing the distance between us in two long strides. I should back away. I should run. But I’m frozen in place as he invades my space, towering over me.
“Butterflies are fragile things,” he says quietly, his voice low and dangerous. “Easy to damage.” His eyes bore into mine. “You should be more careful with things like that.”
“Stop with the bullshit.” I stand, anger overriding my usual caution around him. “You knocked that bottle over on purpose. You wanted to destroy it.”
“Well, why the fuck would I do that?” he asks slowly, the muscle in his jaw twitching.
“I don’t know! Maybe for the same reason you’ve made my life hell for the past month.
Maybe because you think it’s funny to mess with the scholarship kid who doesn’t belong here.
” My voice is shaking now, with anger or fear or both.
“Maybe because you’re just an asshole who gets off on making other people miserable. ”
Something dangerous flashes in Zane’s eyes. He moves around the table, closing the distance between us in two long strides.
“You think I’m an asshole?” His voice is low, controlled. Deadly.
“Yes.” I refuse to back down, even though every instinct is screaming at me to run. “I think you’re a spoiled, entitled asshole who’s never been told no in his entire life.”
He’s so close now. Too close. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, can smell his cologne mixed with something else—sweat and something darker that makes my pulse race.
He leans in, and I feel his breath against my ear. His lips brush my skin as he speaks, sending an unwanted shiver down my spine.
“Everything breaks eventually, Beeler,” he murmurs. “Everyone can be broken. You’ve got two new butterflies now — they were just brought to you. And I’ll destroy whatever I want. And I’ll take whatever I want.”
“What—what are you—”
But I’m already moving, trying to step back, to put distance between us. My hip bumps against the table. I stumble, reaching out to steady myself, and my hand catches on Zane’s sweatpants.
We both freeze.
I can feel—oh god, I can feel—
Zane exhales sharply, a sound that’s half shock, half something darker.
His hand shoots out, gripping my wrist, holding me in place for a heartbeat too long before letting go.
Even in that brief contact, I catch a rigid hardness pressing through the fabric, an undeniable response that shouldn’t exist here, in this moment.
Heat floods my face. My entire body feels like it’s on fire.
And the worst part—the absolutely worst part—is the tiny, involuntary spike of something shameful in my own body. A pulse of arousal at his proximity, at the taut tension of him, at the rough catch of his breath and the subtle press of his hard cock against the fabric.
No. No, no, no.
I yank my hand back like I’ve been burned, heart hammering, cheeks flaming, desperate to erase the memory of what I just felt.
“I have to go,” I manage to choke out.
“Beeler—”
I don’t wait to hear what he’s going to say. I grab my bag—the one with the intact butterflies still safe inside—and run.
I don’t stop running until I’m outside the library, gulping in cold October air, my heart hammering against my ribs.
What the hell was that?
What the hell is wrong with me?
I don’t like guys. I don’t. And I definitely don’t like Zane Ivarsson—arrogant, cruel, confusing Zane Ivarsson who just destroyed my butterfly and said things that made my skin crawl and my body betray me.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out with shaking hands.
Did you like touching him, my bee? I saw everything. Good boy.
My breath catches in my throat. The words hit me like a physical blow, making my stomach drop and my skin flush hot.
Good boy.
Something twists inside me—something sick and wrong and confusing. Because along with the nausea, along with the fear, there’s a flutter of something else. Something that feels disturbingly like excitement.
No. That’s not—I don’t—
But my body is reacting anyway. A heat spreading through my chest, my pulse racing in a way that has nothing to do with fear alone.
I read the message again. I saw everything.
That’s impossible. The study room has a door. Walls. We were alone in there. No one could have seen what happened—the way I accidentally touched him, the way he exhaled, the way we both froze in that charged moment.
Unless they were watching through the window. Unless they were right outside the door. Unless they’re closer than I ever imagined.
My head spins. The fog around me seems thicker now, pressing in, making it hard to breathe.
Good boy.
Why do those words make my skin tingle? Why does some twisted part of me respond to the praise, to the attention, to the fact that someone is watching me so closely they know my every move?
I’m sick. I must be sick to feel anything other than terror right now.
I think about Zane’s proximity, the heat of his body, the rough catch of his breath. The way my own body responded despite every logical thought screaming at me to run. The confusion of wanting and fearing at the same time.
The stalker knows. Saw it all. And called me a good boy for it.
My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop my phone. I shove it in my pocket, but the words are burned into my brain now.
Good boy.
I’m going to be sick. Or I’m going to—I don’t even know what.
I start walking, not caring where I’m going, just needing to move. To get away from the library, from Zane, from whoever’s watching me right now. From the confusing cocktail of feelings churning inside me.
The fog has gotten thicker since this morning. It swallows me up as I walk, turning the familiar campus into something alien and threatening.
I change direction, heading for Maya’s apartment. Behind me, I swear I hear footsteps in the fog.
But when I turn around, there’s nothing there.
Just the fog, and the distant sound of laughter, and the growing certainty that whatever’s happening to me—whatever game the stalker is playing—has only just begun.
And somehow, impossibly, Zane Ivarsson is right in the middle of it.