Chapter 5
Ican’t stop thinking about it.
About him.
About Zane and the way his body responded in those moments—both times. When I was on my knees in front of him, struggling with my stuck sweater, and he was standing there with that dark look in his eyes.
And then yesterday, when I accidentally touched him and he made that sound, that sharp exhale that was definitely not disgust or anger.
He was hard. Both times.
Why?
The question loops through my mind like a broken record as I lie in bed, staring at my ceiling. It’s past midnight, but I can’t sleep. Can’t stop analyzing every interaction we’ve had, looking for clues, for answers that make sense.
Why would Zane Ivarsson—star hockey player, campus royalty, heir to a fortune—be aroused by me? By Easton Beeler, scholarship nerd who he’s been casually tormenting since last year?
It has to be part of some cruel plan. Some elaborate prank to humiliate me. Get me flustered, confused, off-balance. Then he’ll laugh about it with his teammates, post something online, and finish off whatever scraps of dignity I have left on this campus.
That makes sense. That’s the only explanation that makes sense.
Except it doesn’t explain the way he looked at me. The hunger in his eyes. The possessive edge to his voice when he said everything breaks eventually.
I roll over, punching my pillow in frustration.
And another thing—is Zane even into guys? I try to picture him with girls, try to remember seeing him with a girlfriend or hooking up at parties. But I come up blank. Then again, I’m not part of his social circle. I don’t go to parties. I don’t even go to the hockey games.
Derek mentioned once that Zane is a beast on the ice. Aggressive, territorial, dominant.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge these thoughts. It doesn’t matter. None of this matters because I don’t care about Zane Ivarsson’s sexuality or his motivations or anything else about him.
Except I do care. That’s the problem.
I care about the way my body reacted to him. The way it still reacts when I think about his proximity, his breath on my ear, his hands on me.
I don’t like guys. I’ve never been attracted to men before.
So why does thinking about Zane make my pulse race and my skin flush hot?
~ ~ ~
The next day, I avoid campus entirely.
I skip my morning classes, skip the mandatory tutoring session with Zane. I text Professor Thornton claiming I’m sick, which isn’t entirely a lie. I do feel sick—sick with confusion and fear and that shameful arousal I can’t shake.
I spend most of the day in my apartment with the curtains drawn, jumping at every sound, convinced the stalker is right outside my window. Or worse, already inside.
By evening, I force myself to take a shower. The hot water helps, washing away some of the tension knotted in my shoulders. I stand under the spray longer than necessary, trying to think about nothing at all.
When I finally emerge, wrapped in a towel and dripping water across my floor, I freeze.
There’s something on my bed.
A small package, wrapped in familiar black paper with silver ribbon.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I didn’t hear anyone come in. My door was locked—I checked it three times. My windows are closed.
How did they get in here?
I approach slowly, like the package might explode. But when I unwrap it with shaking hands, it’s not photos or threats or another destroyed butterfly.
It’s chocolate. My favorite chocolate from that expensive shop downtown—the one I only buy from maybe twice a year because it costs more than I should spend on a single piece of candy.
Salted caramel dark chocolate with gold flakes.
I stare at it, my mind spinning. The stalker broke into my apartment to leave me chocolate. My favorite chocolate. How do they even know this about me?
I should throw it away. I should call the police. I should do literally anything except what I’m about to do.
I sit down on my bed and unwrap the chocolate.
This is insane. This is the definition of insane. The stalker could have put something in it—drugs, poison, anything. I should not be eating this.
But somehow, I’m certain they didn’t. Some instinct I can’t explain tells me this is just what it appears to be—a gift. Twisted and invasive and completely fucked up, but a gift nonetheless.
And god, I deserve some stress relief. I deserve this small moment of sweetness in the middle of this nightmare.
The chocolate melts on my tongue, rich and perfect and exactly what I needed.
I hate myself a little bit more.
~ ~ ~
“You’re really going to your grandmother’s?” Maya asks, watching me pack my duffel bag. “For the whole weekend?”
“Yeah.” I fold a sweater and shove it into the bag. “I need to get away from campus for a bit. Clear my head.”
“Because of the stalker?”
“Among other things.”
Derek is sprawled on my couch, scrolling through his phone. “You know we’d go with you if you wanted. To your grandma’s or wherever.”
“I know.” I zip up the bag. “But I need some time alone. To think.”
“About the hot asshole hockey player?” Maya asks innocently.
I throw a sock at her. “No.”
“Liar.” She grins. “You’ve been weird ever since that tutoring session. What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Easton.” She uses her serious voice. “Talk to us. Please.”
I want to. God, I want to tell them everything—about Zane’s strange behavior, about my confusing reactions, about the chocolate on my bed and the messages calling me good boy and the way I can’t stop thinking about things I shouldn’t be thinking about.
But I can’t find the words.
“I just need some space,” I say finally. “I’ll be back Tuesday. I promise.”
They exchange worried looks but don’t push it. Derek drives me to the bus station, makes me promise to text when I arrive, and watches until my bus pulls away.
I sit by the window, my duffel bag on my lap, and watch the campus disappear behind me.
I’m doing the right thing. Getting away. Avoiding the party. Avoiding Zane. Avoiding whoever’s stalking me.
This is the smart choice.
The safe choice.
~ ~ ~
I make it three blocks before I pull the cord and get off at the next stop.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself, standing on the sidewalk with my duffel bag while the bus drives away.
I can’t do this. I can’t run away like a coward. I can’t let threats control me, can’t let some stalker dictate where I go and what I do.
And another thing—the thing I haven’t wanted to admit even to myself—Zane clearly didn’t want me at that party. The way he dismissed me, implied I didn’t belong there, suggested I’d be more comfortable at home.
That should make me want to stay away.
Instead, it makes me furious.
Who the fuck is Zane Ivarsson to tell me where I belong? Who is he to decide whether I’m worthy of attending a party I was explicitly invited to?
I pull out my phone and text Maya: Change of plans. I’m coming to the party after all. Can I borrow something to wear?
Her response is immediate: YESSS. Get your ass over here.
I hail a taxi—an expense I really can’t afford, but screw it—and give the driver the address.
My grandmother’s house can wait. My safety can wait. My common sense can definitely wait.
Tonight, I’m going to that party.
And if the stalker wants to watch, let them watch.
If Zane wants to be surprised, he’s about to be very surprised.