Chapter 12
The stalker’s body goes rigid. Then, in one swift movement, he positions himself directly in front of me, blocking me completely with his frame.
“Well, well, well.” A voice cuts through the darkness, dripping with mockery. “Who’s that you’re hiding back there, Zane? Finally catch your little pet?
My blood turns to ice.
Zane.
They called him Zane.
The masked figure in front of me—my stalker, the one who’s been tormenting me for weeks—is Zane Ivarsson.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. The world tilts sideways as everything I thought I knew rearranges itself into a new, terrifying pattern.
“You know exactly who he is,” Zane says through clenched teeth, his voice tight with barely controlled rage. The mask distorts it, but I can hear him clearly now. “And you know I’m aware of your plan. All of it. This whole fucking mess.”
Three figures emerge from the fog, all wearing matching masks. Hockey players, from their build and the way they move. One of them—the one who spoke—laughs.
“What plan?” His tone is all false innocence. “We don’t have any plans, captain. Unlike you. We’re just having a little fun on Halloween.” He emphasizes the last word with venom. “We just want to play with the toy.”
Zane’s entire body goes motionless. Predatory. Dangerous.
I watch his posture shift, and even through my shock and confusion, I recognize the stance. It’s the same one Derek described once—the way Zane positions himself on the ice right before he destroys someone.
“You two.” Zane addresses the other two masked figures. “Are you sure you’re with him? It’s not too late to make a choice. Sid will be back soon. Nero is going to pay for this split, and you’re going to go down with him if you don’t make the right choice. Right now.”
One of the masked figures shifts uncertainly. I can see the hesitation in his body language.
A split. There’s a split within the team. Or the fraternity. Or both.
“Shut the fuck up, Ivarsson.” The first hockey player’s voice turns vicious. “Stop trying to get in their heads and get out of our way. We just want to enjoy the party favor.” A pause. “Or is it just your toy, Zane? That why you’re so protective?”
“You’ll pay for every word,” Zane whispers, and the ice in his voice makes even me shiver. “You’ll pay for even daring to look at Beeler.”
Then everything happens at once.
The three hockey players rush forward as a unit, attacking Zane from different angles. He manages to catch the first one with a brutal punch that sends him staggering backward, but the other two are on him immediately.
“No!” The word rips from my throat before I can stop it.
I stumble backward, my mind screaming at me to run. This is my chance. Zane is occupied—distracted by the fight. I could disappear into the fog, find help, get out of this nightmare.
Run, you idiot! Run! They’re all distracted.
But I can’t move.
I’m frozen, watching as Zane fights three opponents at once. He’s good—incredibly good—landing hits that would drop most people. But they’re working together, coordinating their attacks, and even he can’t block everything.
A fist connects with his ribs. Another with his jaw. He takes the hits and keeps fighting, keeps putting himself between them and me.
Run, my rational mind screams. Run now while you have the chance.
But he’s fighting three of them. Three against one. And they’re hitting him hard—harder than any training exercise or hockey match would allow.
One of the hockey players suddenly breaks away from the fight, lunging toward me.
Zane roars—actually roars, the sound inhuman and terrifying—and throws the player attacking him aside with brutal force. He grabs the one reaching for me and slams him into a tree with enough impact that I hear the breath leave the guy’s body.
But the movement leaves him exposed, and another player kicks him hard in the back. He goes down to one knee.
“Don’t you fucking dare touch him,” Zane snarls, his voice raw with fury even as he takes another hit.
I’m still frozen, torn apart by warring impulses. Every logical thought tells me to run. To save myself. To get away from Zane—my stalker, my tormentor, the person who’s been invading my privacy and sending me threats.
But watching him fight—watching him take hit after hit while protecting me—something inside me cracks.
I turn toward the park, looking at the path that leads away from here. Away from danger. Away from Zane.
I could leave. I should leave.
My hands are shaking. My heart is pounding so hard it hurts.
Then I hear Zane grunt in pain as someone lands a particularly brutal punch to his stomach, and the sound makes my decision for me.
“Fuck,” I whisper to myself.
I scan the ground frantically and find a thick branch half-hidden in the fog. It’s heavy in my hands as I pick it up, the bark rough against my palms.
One of the hockey players has his back to me, focused on Zane. I don’t think. I just act.
I swing the branch with all my strength and connect with his back.
The impact jolts up my arms. The player stumbles forward with a shout of surprise and pain, turning to look at me with shock visible even through his mask.
“You little—”
But the distraction gives Zane the opening he needs. He takes advantage of the chaos, landing a devastating hit to the player closest to him.
The branch isn’t much of a weapon. It’s not going to turn the tide of this fight. But it’s something. It’s all I have.
And now all three hockey players have seen me actively fighting back. Seen me helping Zane.
The rational part of my brain finally breaks through the adrenaline. What am I doing? I can’t fight these people. I’m not a fighter. I’m just going to get hurt—or worse.
“Sorry,” I whisper, though I don’t know who I’m apologizing to.
I drop the branch and run.
I don’t look back. Don’t let myself think about the fact that I’m leaving Zane alone to fight three opponents. Don’t let myself wonder if he’ll be okay.
I just run through the fog, through the darkness, my lungs burning and my legs screaming for me to stop.
Behind me, I hear shouts. The sounds of fighting. Zane’s voice roaring something I can’t make out.
I run faster.
The fog is so thick I can barely see three feet in front of me. I have no idea where I’m going. Away from the fight. Away from Zane. That’s all that matters.
My foot catches on something—a root, maybe, or a decorative stone—and I go down hard. My hands scrape against the ground, stinging with pain. I scramble back to my feet, ignoring the way my knees protest.
Keep moving. Don’t stop.
I find a gap in the bushes near the gate fence and crawl inside, ignoring the branches scratching at my arms. The foliage is thick enough to hide me, and from here I can see anyone approaching while remaining concealed.
My phone screen lights up my hiding spot with its dim glow. No signal. Still nothing.
I try texting anyway—Maya, Derek, 911—but none of them go through. Whatever’s jamming the signal is still active.
I shove my phone back in my pocket and try to control my breathing. My hands are shaking. My heart won’t stop racing.
I left him.
I left Zane there fighting three guys alone, and I just ran.
The guilt twists in my stomach like a knife. What if they hurt him? What if he’s—
No. I shake my head, trying to clear it. Zane Ivarsson is my stalker. He’s been watching me, invading my privacy, sending me threats disguised as warnings. I don’t owe him anything. Running was the smart choice. The safe choice.
So why do I feel sick about it?
And those hockey players—they were targeting me specifically. Called me “the toy.” Knew that Zane was interested in me.
That last thought makes my head spin.
Zane is interested in me.
It sounds like fiction. Like something Maya made up to tease me. But it’s real. The way he fought to protect me, the way he positioned his body between me and them, the way he roared when one of them tried to grab me—that wasn’t fake.
God, what does that even mean? What do I do with that information?
I hear footsteps nearby and freeze, barely breathing. Someone is moving through the fog, their gait uneven like they’re injured.
I should stay hidden. Stay quiet. It could be one of those hockey players looking for me.
But something makes me peek out through the branches, first making sure the bushes are still concealing most of my body. I need to see who it is.
A figure emerges from the fog, and even in the dim orange light, I recognize him immediately.
Zane.
Without thinking—without letting myself think—I push through the bushes and step out.
He sees me instantly, and his entire body language changes. He starts walking toward me with purpose, closing the distance between us in long strides.
The closer he gets, the more I can see. The mask is gone now, discarded somewhere. His jaw is tight, muscles working beneath the skin. His hoodie is torn—not just torn, practically shredded on one side, exposing his shoulder and part of his chest. There’s blood on his face, his hands, his clothes.
But he’s alive. He’s walking. He’s here.
He reaches me and practically grabs me, his hands closing around my arms and pulling me toward him with barely controlled force.
“Zane, are you okay?” The words tumble out. “Is everything all right? Did they—”
“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice is rough, almost a growl. “Running away like that? Wandering around alone in this place? You’re impossible.”
I blink, confused. “I—what?”
He’s not angry that I left him. He’s angry that I put myself in danger.
The realization hits me like a physical blow.
“I’m sorry,” I manage to say, my voice small. “I didn’t know what to do. I just—I—” My eyes drop to his hands, still gripping my arms, and I gasp. “Oh god, your hands. Damn it.”
His palms are covered in blood. His knuckles are split and bruised, swelling already visible even in the poor light. It looks painful. It looks like he beat someone—or multiple someones—into submission.
Without thinking, I reach for his hands, gently pulling them toward me. He lets me, his grip on my arms releasing as I cradle his injured hands in mine.
“They need to be treated,” I whisper, carefully examining the damage. “Does it hurt a lot?”
He doesn’t answer.
The silence makes me look up.
Zane is staring at me with an intensity that steals my breath. His eyes are dark, pupils dilated, and there’s something hypnotic about the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m the only thing in the world that matters. Like he’s memorizing every detail of this moment.
He’s not moving. Barely breathing. Just letting me hold his bloodied hands while he watches me with that devastating focus.
“Did you just walk away from them?” I ask quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. “Or did you… did you win?”
The question seems to snap something in him. His hands leave mine and move to my shoulders, gripping them with an urgency that borders on desperate.
“You’re coming with me now,” he says, and there’s no room for argument in his tone. “You can make whatever sounds you want. Scream if you need to. It doesn’t matter anymore.” His grip tightens slightly. “My car is at the north gate.”
I should protest. Should demand answers. Should do something other than nod and let him guide me.
But I don’t.
I walk beside him—or rather, I let him position me slightly in front of him, his hand moving from my shoulder to the back of my neck.
The grip is firm but not painful, more controlling than restraining. His palm is warm against my skin, and I can feel the roughness of his split knuckles.
Even if I wanted to escape, I couldn’t. Not with him holding me like this. But the truth is, I don’t want to.
I can’t help myself. I want this.
The feeling of his hand on my neck is strange and pleasant in a way I don’t want to analyze. And the way he keeps me positioned just in front of his body—close enough to push me forward, close enough to cover me if something happens—makes my stomach flip with an emotion I’m not ready to name.
Butterflies. I have butterflies in my stomach because Zane Ivarsson is touching me. Controlling me. Protecting me.
I’m so fucked.
We move through the fog in tense silence. Every sound makes me jump, but Zane’s presence behind me keeps me from completely panicking.
“Where are the others?” I ask quietly. “Other players. Did they—”
“They’re not a problem anymore,” Zane says, his voice flat.
“What does that mean?”
“It means they won’t touch you.” His hand tightens slightly on my neck. “I made sure of it.”
The possessiveness in his tone should scare me. It doesn’t.
“Zane, what’s happening? What is all this? The hunt, the masks, those guys—”
“Later.” He guides me around a large tree, his body pressed close to my back. “When we’re safe. When you’re safe.”
“I don’t understand why they were targeting me specifically. Why do they even know about—” I can’t finish the sentence. Can’t say about us because there is no us.
“Because I made the mistake of letting them see how I feel about you,” Zane says quietly, and the admission makes my heart stop. “And they decided to use that against me.”
I stumble, but his hand keeps me upright, keeps me moving forward.
“How you feel about me,” I repeat numbly. “Zane—”
“I said later.”
We reach a section of the fence that looks different from the rest. There’s a gap here, partially hidden by overgrown bushes. Zane releases my neck and moves past me, pulling the fence aside to reveal a space just wide enough for a person to squeeze through.
“This way,” he says. “My car’s on the other side.”
I hesitate. This is it. This is my chance to make a choice. I could go through that gap, but once we’re in his car, I’m completely at his mercy. No witnesses. No escape route.
“Easton.” He watches me, something raw and unfamiliar flickering beneath the blood and bruises on his face. “You’re coming with me. There’s no other way.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
Relief floods his features. “Okay?”
“Get me out of here.” I move toward the gap in the fence. “And then you’re going to explain everything. And I mean everything, Zane. No more secrets. No more games.”
“No more secrets,” he agrees. “I promise.”
He helps me through the gap, his hands careful despite their injuries. On the other side, I can see his car—that familiar black Mercedes, parked in the shadow of a large oak tree.
As we walk toward it, his hand finds the back of my neck again, and this time I lean into the touch.
I’m either making the best decision of my life or the worst.
Right now, I honestly can’t tell which.