4. Maren
Maren
I slouch in the hard plastic chair, my eyes glazed over as the professor drones on about something I couldn't care less about.
The lecture hall is freezing, as always.
You'd think they could afford decent heating with the obscene amount of tuition we pay, but no.
I pull my oversized hoodie tighter around me, sinking further into the fabric.
The girl near me is furiously scribbling notes, her pen scratching against paper in a way that makes my skin crawl.
I resist the urge to snatch it out of her hand and snap it in half.
This is exactly why I choose to sit this fucking far back.
Instead, I focus on the clock above the whiteboard, watching the seconds tick by with agonizing slowness.
My mind wanders, as it always does in these mind-numbing classes. I think about the upcoming weekend, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. To the warehouse on the outskirts of town between here and St. Charles where Declan Reed hosts his fights.
I can already feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, hear the dull roar of the crowd. The musty smell of sweat and desperation. The taste of copper on my tongue. My fingers twitch, itching to curl into fists.
But it's not just the raw violence that calls to me. No, it's the hunting ground those warehouses become. A predator's paradise.
It's been too long since my last fix. My body aches for it, a gnawing hunger that claws at my insides. I need to feel alive again, to chase that high that only comes from selecting my target, reeling them in, and then...well. Let's just say I'm very particular about how I like to play.
My fingers drum restlessly against my thigh as I picture it. The flirting. The teasing touches. Leading them somewhere private.
God, I need it. The rush. The power. The way it makes every nerve ending in my body sing.
I'm lost in the delicious anticipation when I hear the lecture hall door creak open. My eyes stay closed, not bothering to see who's late to this snooze-fest. The professor keeps droning on about…fuck, I don't even know what anymore.
Then I feel it. A shift in the air, a prickle along my spine. Someone slides into the seat behind me, just off to the side. I don't need to look to know who it is. My body recognizes him instantly, every cell suddenly electric and aware.
Riggs.
I open my eyes slowly, forcing my breathing to steady even as my pulse quickens. The professor's voice fades to a dull buzz, irrelevant background noise. All I can focus on is the presence behind me, the heat radiating from his body.
I resist the urge to turn around. Instead, I stay perfectly still, hyper-aware of every tiny movement he makes. The rustle of fabric as he settles into his seat.
My skin feels too tight, too sensitive. I can almost feel the ghost of his breath on the back of my neck, though I know he's not that close. Not yet, anyway.
Part of me wants to bolt, to put as much distance between us as possible. But a larger part, the part that craves danger like a drug, wants to lean back. To close that gap and feel the solid warmth of his chest against my back.
I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms. The pain helps ground me, reminding me why I need to stay away. Riggs Rhodes is a complication I can't afford.
But god, the way he makes me feel...it's intoxicating. Dangerous. Almost as good as the high I chase in those warehouses.
I shake my head slightly, trying to clear it. I can't let myself get pulled into his orbit.
I feel my jaw clench, teeth grinding together as I fight the urge to turn around. Why the fuck is he here? This isn't his class. Is he following me now? The thought sends a shiver down my spine, equal parts thrill and dread.
As if he can read my mind, his voice cuts through the fog of my thoughts, low and husky. Just loud enough for me to hear, he says, “Had to transfer from Thursday to Tuesday to free me up for some Little Jaguars shit.”
My breath catches in my throat. Of course. The fucking mentoring program. I'd forgotten he was involved with that do-gooder stuff. It's almost disappointing, really. Part of me wanted this to be about me, wanted him to be here because he couldn't stay away.
Forcing myself to focus back on my professor is hard, but I don’t want to give Riggs the satisfaction of knowing he’s affecting me as much as he is.
God, I want to turn around. To look into those eyes and lose myself in them. To let him consume me, body and soul. But I can't. I won't.
I'm Maren fucking Marino. I'm the hunter, not the prey now.
But with Riggs…the lines blur.
I try to focus on the droning, but Riggs' presence behind me is like a gravitational pull. His every movement, every breath, commands my attention. I hear the soft tapping of keys as he types out notes on his laptop, punctuated by occasional frustrated sighs.
“Fucking piece of shit,” he mutters under his breath, barely audible.
I tilt my head slightly, curiosity getting the better of me. His mumbling continues, a steady stream of irritation.
“Come on, you useless…just connect already. How hard is it to get decent Wi-Fi in this overpriced hellhole?”
I bite back a smirk. For all his intensity, there's something oddly endearing about hearing Riggs Rhodes, campus golden boy, cursing at technology like a frustrated grandpa.
The tapping resumes, more aggressive now. I can practically feel the frustration radiating off him in waves. His leg starts bouncing, the vibration traveling through the floor and up into my seat.
“Fuck's sake,” he hisses. “How am I supposed to check JaguarHallPass?”
My eyebrows raise slightly. Since when does he care about campus social media drama?
I feel his gaze on me again. It's not the first time he's looked my way during this endless class, and I doubt it'll be the last.
He thinks he's being subtle, but I can feel the weight of his stare. It lingers for a moment too long before shifting away, only to return minutes later.
Finally, unable to take the tension anymore, I turn my head just enough to catch his eye. His gaze locks onto mine, intense and searching. Those hazel eyes, flecked with gold and green, threaten to pull me under.
“Stop looking for ghosts, Riggs,” I whisper, my voice soft and tinged with amusement.
His eyes widen fractionally, surprise flickering across his face before it's replaced by that cocky smirk I know so well. He leans forward slightly, closing the distance between us.
“I never stopped seeing you,” Riggs says, his voice low and intense.
I wasn't expecting that. It shouldn't make me feel anything, but it does.
I fight to keep my expression neutral, but I can feel a smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth.
“The party this past weekend,” he continues, his voice low and husky. “I saw you in the yard. By the big oak tree.”
I tilt my head slightly, not quite looking back at him. “Are you sure about that?” I ask, my tone light and teasing.
I can feel Riggs' eyes boring into me, searching for any hint of confirmation. But I'm not about to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I lean back slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of his face in my peripheral vision.
“You know, Riggs,” I whisper, keeping my voice low and playful, “they say that old oak tree is haunted. Some poor girl died there back in the seventies. Spurned lover or something equally tragic.”
I pause, letting the words sink in. “Maybe what you saw wasn't me at all. Maybe it was her ghost, still wandering the grounds, looking for her lost love.”
I can practically feel the tension radiating off him. His breath catches, just for a moment, and I have to bite back a smile. Got him.
“Nice try, Maren,” he says, his voice low and husky. “But I know what I saw. And it wasn't some ghost of a girl from decades ago.”
I raise an eyebrow, the picture of innocence. “Oh? And what exactly did you see, Riggs?”
Riggs leans in closer, his breath hot against my ear. “I saw you, Maren. You were standing there, half-hidden in the shadows, watching the party like a hawk.”
I turn to face him fully now, arching an eyebrow. “And why exactly would I be lurking outside a Theta Chi party? Not exactly my scene, in case you haven't noticed.”
Riggs' eyes gleam with a mixture of triumph and something darker. “That's what I've been wondering. Why were you there, Maren? Why just stand outside instead of coming in?”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Maybe I was just walking by after dinner with mommy dearest.”
“Bullshit,” he says, his voice low and intense. “You knew I'd be there. You were looking for me.”
I can't help the laugh that escapes me, even if it sounds a little forced. “Wow, someone's got an inflated ego. Not everything revolves around you, golden boy.”
Turning away from Riggs, his words still ring in my ears. My fingers itch for something to do, to distract me from his gaze burning into my back. I flip open my notebook.
Almost without thinking, my pen starts to move across the paper. At first, it's just random swirls and shapes, nothing coherent. But then the lines start to take form.
I find myself drawing a mirror, ornate and antique-looking. The glass is cracked, spider-webbing out from the center. And peering out from that fractured surface are a pair of eyes. Empty, hollow, staring back at me with an intensity that would make most people’s skin crawl.
My pen moves lower, adding droplets falling from the bottom of the mirror frame. They start off clear, but as they descend, they darken as I shade them heavier and heavier.
I stare at the drawing, transfixed. My fingers trace over the lines, feeling the indentations my pen has left in the paper. The eyes in the mirror seem to follow my movements, accusing and hungry all at once.
A shiver runs down my spine. I can feel Riggs' gaze on me again, burning into the back of my neck. But I don't turn around. I keep my eyes fixed on the drawing, on those empty eyes staring back at me.
The professor's voice fades back in, announcing the end of class. I blink, coming back to myself. How long was I lost in that drawing?
Around me, people are packing up, all you can hear is the scrape of chairs and rustle of papers . I can feel Riggs still behind me, waiting. For what, I'm not sure. Maybe for me to acknowledge him again. Maybe for something more.
I stand up slowly, stretching out the kinks in my back. My hoodie rides up slightly, and I know without looking that Riggs' eyes are fixed on that strip of exposed skin. I take my time gathering my things, hyper-aware of him.
As I turn to leave, I let the folded drawing slip from my fingers. It flutters to the ground, landing just a few feet away from Riggs. I don't look back as I walk away, but I assume he’ll pick up the paper. I wonder what he'll make of it.