12. Karolina
KAROLINA
Even though I had the weekend to rest after Bones hung up on me, I’m too tired when I arrive at Professor Hirst’s lecture the following Monday.
Last night, I had an unpleasantly vivid dream about being chased through the woods by Bones. It’d blended with memories of the night I ran from Brandon and Carter.
When I finally broke free from the nightmare around three AM, I’d been too scared to go back to sleep. Instead, I pulled out my books and tried to prepare for class.
My fear of the connection Bones wants is so much more acute than worry over his barely leashed aggression when I rejected him. Even with his huge body flexing above me after the hunt, I knew he wouldn’t truly hurt me.
I allowed our mutual fantasy to become real, and he mistook roleplay for romantic interest.
I rub my eyes, and my sandpaper lids sting. I’m jittery from three cups of coffee on an empty stomach—I felt too sick to eat breakfast.
That’ll have to be enough to keep me awake through class when all I want to do is huddle in my bed and sleep until my brain is less scrambled by thoughts of my masked man.
As much as I don’t want to make my heart vulnerable to Bones, I do care about him. I know I hurt him deeply.
Just because I never intended to do that doesn’t mean he’s okay.
He accused me of treating him like a sex toy.
I wince at the thought. I’m afraid it’s too close to the truth.
“Miss Williams?” Professor Hirst prompts.
My stomach drops. I have no idea why he’s calling on me. What was he saying while I was lost in my tangled thoughts?
We’re supposed to be studying Viking poetry today. I’ve read three books on the subject, but I don’t know the answer to his question.
He stares at me for several seconds that seem to stretch into long, tense minutes, and I suppress the urge to squirm in my seat.
“Make sure you’re prepared next time,” he finally says, then turns his attention to Amala’s raised hand.
My cheeks burn with embarrassment and indignation.
If I start rattling off the titles I’ve read over the last few weeks, I’ll seem desperate. There’s no way for me to defend myself without sounding petulant and attention seeking.
I swallow my shame and lift my chin.
There’s plenty of time for me to prove myself in the coming weeks without begging for his approval.
Class is painful. I’m blinking for too long and struggling to keep my eyes open. Despite my best efforts, most of Professor Hirst’s words skim over my mind without sinking in.
His voice is low and rich, and his light English accent is enigmatic. I can’t place exactly what region he’s from, and I’m not an expert anyway. He’s probably posh, given his precise enunciation, but sometimes he sounds almost American.
This is a distraction I can’t afford. I don’t need to know where he’s from. I don’t need to know anything about him other than what he has to teach me about Vikings.
My vision blurs slightly, and I stare at him in an effort to look alert. He gesticulates with those big arms as he continues his lecture. His biceps strain against his crisp white button-down shirt with every movement. It’s almost indecent for an academic to be so buff.
How does he find the time to do research when he must put in hours at the gym every day to maintain that physique?
His dark eyes flick to me, and I hastily scribble a nonsensical note to break from his gaze before he asks me another question.
How much longer will I have to endure this?
There’s not a clock on the wall, so I risk reaching for my phone to check the time. I pretend to fish in my bag for another pen and discretely press the button on the side of my phone.
A news story shows on my lock screen, drawing my attention for a precious moment. I really need to delete that distracting app, but it came with my phone.
Before I flick the story away to check the time, my eyes catch on the photo that’s featured.
I blink.
It’s Rich.
Then I read the headline: University of York Student Found Dead.
My shocked gasp draws everyone’s attention.
Professor Hirst stops talking.
I don’t even think about his potential censure and pull my phone all the way out of my bag. Dread is a lead weight in my stomach as I tap on the story to expand it.
“I’ve warned you about phones in my lecture, Miss Williams,” he says.
I don’t respond. My eyes fly over the article.
Once.
Twice.
I skim it a third time.
I can’t accept it. It’s too vile.
Rich’s body was found in the river, but he didn’t drown. Someone cut his throat. The police are searching for the murderer.
The boy who stole a sloppy kiss from me in my kitchen is dead.
“What’s wrong?” Amala asks.
I jolt when she touches my arm tentatively to call my attention to her.
“Rich.” I manage to push his name through my tight throat and give her my phone.
She looks it and claps a hand over her mouth in pure horror.
“Alright,” Professor Hirst says in clipped tones. “Both of you. Take the phone outside. Now.”
I glare at him. For a moment, I consider telling him to fuck off. Our classmate is dead. His lecture doesn’t matter.
But I’m too shaken to deal with him right now.
Somehow, I get to my feet. The world turns fuzzy at the edges as I walk towards the exit. Amala hurries after me.
“Lena, wait.” Her voice wavers with tears.
“Miss Williams,” Professor Hirst barks, but I ignore him.
I walk out of the building in a daze, making my way to the courtyard. Amala touches my arm again, and I flinch. I almost forgot she was shadowing me.
I turn and find that my friend’s cheeks are wet. She’s crying. Her chest heaves on shaky breaths. She looks like she’s on the verge of a panic attack.
Her distress helps me numb myself to the horror of Rich’s murder. Amala needs support. Comforting her will keep me from succumbing to my own panic.
“We should sit down,” I urge, taking her hand.
We find a bench in the courtyard, and her knees fold. She drops down onto it beside me.
“Breathe, Amala. You’re okay.”
“No, I’m not!” she says on a harsh sob.
I squeeze her hand. “I know.” My voice breaks, and I force my spine to straighten. “Breathe with me.”
I fall into a familiar pattern that I’ve practiced to keep panic at bay for years. Breathe in for four seconds, hold for four, breathe out for six.
“Keep going,” I encourage when Amala’s chest stops hitching on every inhale. “You’re safe.”
Her hand tightens around mine, but she manages to continue mirroring my breaths.
Suddenly, our course mates surround us.
“We got the news too,” a boy with curly red hair, Colin, says thickly.
“Professor Hirst dismissed us,” another boy, Samuel, informs us. “We’re going to the pub.”
“What?” I ask.
It seems wholly inappropriate to go out drinking right now.
“I need a fucking pint.” Colin rubs a hand over his shining eyes.
I look around at my classmates and realize many of them are on the verge of tears or are openly crying. They need to be together right now. The pub is a place for them to gather and support one another.
“Okay,” I agree.
Even though it’s not like me to let people in emotionally, I can see that this is necessary. I don’t have to lean on their shoulders and cry, but I can be there for them.
Especially Amala, who looks like she might be sick at any moment. She’s been kind to me, even though I barely know her.
I’ve dealt with the deaths of my peers before. I can endure her fresh pain to help her navigate this grief.
A flash of that night in the ruined stables assails my thoughts, and I quickly shove the bloody memories away. Now isn’t the time to spiral into my own nightmares.
Amala extricates her hand from mine to wipe her eyes.
“Here,” she says, offering my phone. I didn’t realize she was still holding it. “I think you got a message.”
I check the screen. The new message notification looks odd. There aren’t any contact details listed, not even a phone number that I haven’t saved.
Acting on autopilot, I tap the message.
My knees fold again when it fills my screen, and my butt hits the bench.
Anonymous
I killed him for you. Rich wasn’t worthy of you. He’ll never touch you again.
Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. I’m not breathing.
I can’t process it.
“Lena? What is it?” I’m only dimly aware of Amala’s question.
I can’t answer. I can’t accept what’s happening. Voicing it out loud will make it real.
“Miss Williams.”
A masculine hand touches my shoulder. I yelp in alarm and jerk away. My phone drops from my chilled fingers, clattering to the ground.
“You forgot your bag,” Professor Hirst says gently.
Then he bends down to pick up my phone. He glances at the screen.
My stomach drops when his cleanshaven jaw ticks.
He’s seen the message.
He knows someone is watching me. Someone killed for me.
Rich’s death is my fault, and my safe new life is crumbling around me.
Professor Hirst tucks my phone into his pocket. “Come with me, Lena.”