10. Maren
Maren
I slip out of the lecture hall before Riggs can collect his shit. People part around me like I'm made of poison. I used to care about the whispers that follow me—poor Maren, what happened to her, such a shame—but now I find them oddly comforting.
The hallway outside is packed with students, a sea of backpacks and coffee cups and chatter.
I duck into the alcove near the building's east exit, tucked behind a display case of academic trophies nobody gives a damn about. It’s the perfect vantage point.
I can see the lecture hall doors without being seen, and can watch the stream of students thin out as they rush to their next classes or back to their dorms.
Riggs finally emerges, his movements jerky with frustration. He's got his bag slung over one shoulder as his eyes scan the crowd.
“Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Goddammit, Maren.”
A smile tugs at my lips. I shouldn't enjoy this as much as I do, but there's something intoxicating about watching him unravel. About being the one who makes him lose it. It's power, and after everything that happened, power is the only thing that feels good anymore.
He stalks past my hiding spot, close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to.
Close enough to see the muscles in his jaw working as he grinds his teeth.
“Looking for me?” I step out just as he passes, and he whirls around so fast he nearly loses his balance.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses, eyes wide. “How do you do that?”
“Maybe you're just not as observant as you think you are.”
I grip his wrist and pull him into the alcove with me, like I'm reeling in a fish that's already hooked. His body crashes against mine. He’s all hard muscles and warm skin.
The space is so tight that we're practically one person—his chest pressed against mine, his breath hot on my face.
One of his legs slides between mine, a position that starts as accidental but could turn into something else in one move.
I keep my face carefully blank, even as heat pools low in my belly. I won't give him the satisfaction of knowing what he does to me. That's not how this works.
His eyes are fixed on me, pupils dilated so wide there's just a thin ring of hazel around the black. I can see the tiny flecks of gold in them, the way his lashes are darker at the roots. Details I shouldn't notice, shouldn't care about.
“You're always running away from me,” he says, voice rough. His hands find their way to my waist, fingers digging in just enough to let me know he doesn't want me slipping away again. “Every fucking time. You drop these little bombs and then vanish.”
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze directly. “Maybe I like watching you chase me.”
“This isn't a game, Maren.” His voice drops lower, a dangerous edge to it.
I let my eyes drift over his face, taking in the stubble on his jaw, the tiny scar above his eyebrow from a hockey injury last season.
“You don't understand what you're getting yourself into,” I tell him, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw with one blood-red fingernail. His stubble is rough against my skin. “You think you want me, but trust me, you don't.”
“Stop telling me what I want,” he growls, leaning in closer. His thigh presses more firmly between my legs, and the sudden pressure makes my breath catch. He notices, because of course he does—and a smug look crosses his face.
I feel him everywhere, in every nerve ending and every shuttered part of me that I’ve tried to lock away. The part that's not afraid of coming undone.
“Christ, Maren,” he breathes. He's pissed, but there's something else there too. Something raw and needy that makes me dizzy.
“You look like you could use a drink,” I say, ignoring the way my body responds to every inch of contact between us. “Or ten.”
His hands clamp down harder on my waist. A warning. “Not until you tell me what the hell you're doing.”
“Right now?” I tilt my head, letting my hair fall over one eye. “I'd say I'm winning. When did you get so desperate for a girl's attention, Rhodes?”
His jaw tightens again, muscles working beneath the skin. It's a beautiful thing to watch, almost hypnotic in its intensity.
“When did you get so broken?” he shoots back.
I could hate him for that, but hate requires too much energy. And if he really knew how broken I am—how broken he's going to be by the time I'm done—he'd run as far from me as he could get.
“You should be running,” I say, my voice steady despite the chaos inside. “Take the hint.”
“Not happening.” His grip tightens, defiant. “You don't get to do this—just fuck with my head without any consequences.”
“Consequences?” I laugh, low and mocking. “Tell me what those are like.”
He narrows his eyes at me, the muscles in his arms taut where he pins me against the wall. It's a standoff, both of us are too stubborn to back down. Too fucked up to let go.
His hand hovers near my throat, shaking from the effort it takes not to close the gap. I know he wants to grip it, feel the frantic pulse under his palm, but he’s afraid. Afraid of breaking me more than I'm already broken.
I smile, shifting so my neck presses against his skin. Egging him on. Daring him.
“Do it,” I taunt, my breath warm against his ear. “You're scared to hurt me? Or are you scared you won't?”
He lets out a ragged breath, and for a moment I think he's going to pull away. Go back to chasing and begging and demanding answers I'll never give him.
But then his eyes lock onto mine, and it's like a dam bursts inside him. He grips my throat—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to let me know he could if he wanted to.
Enough that I can't escape even if I try.
Something wild unfurls in my chest, and I have to bite back a gasp of pleasure.
This is what I need—this edge of danger, the thrill of control and surrender twisted into one fucked-up knot. He's right where I want him, and I'm right where I want to be.
“This?” His voice is tight with anger and something that sounds too much like despair. “Is this what you want?”
“Yes,” I whisper, because there's no point in lying about that anymore.
His face is inches from mine, breath mingling until I can't tell which is his and which is mine. “You're insane.”
“So are you.” A smile tugs at my lips again, genuine this time.
His lips crash against mine, and the world falls away. I taste blood where my lip catches on his teeth, metallic and perfect. His fingers grip my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt but not enough to make me stop. Not enough to make me want to.
My body arches against his, reckless and greedy.
His thigh drives between my legs with punishing force, and I grind down against him, a ragged sound escaping my throat. He swallows it down as I'm drowning in the feel of him, the weight and heat and need that radiates from his skin.
I tangle my hands in his dirty blond hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more.
He pushes harder, more demanding now, as if he's trying to own every part of me at once. My back hits the wall again, knocking the breath from my lungs, but I don't care.
He pulls back, breath ragged, and I can see the apology forming on his lips. Sweet, guilty Riggs—thinking he’s gone too far when he hasn’t even scratched the surface.
I lean forward and bite down hard on his lip, drawing blood. It pushes him over the edge, and he’s on me again, mouth ruthless and punishing.
Exactly how I want it.
I sink my nails into his bicep, feeling the muscle tense beneath the skin. I'm rewarded with a groan that vibrates against my lips, raw and primal.
He shoves me harder into the wall, and I gasp at the impact before kissing him back with everything I have.
His hands are everywhere—in my hair, gripping my waist, sliding along my thigh. My fingers claw at his shoulders, his neck, the hard planes of his chest.
His hand slides under my shirt, fingers splaying across my ribs, and for a moment I lose myself in the sensation. Heat blooms wherever he touches, melting the ice I've carefully built around me. It's dangerous, this feeling. More dangerous than anything else we're doing.
I can feel him growing harder against my hip, his breathing ragged and uneven.
With a sudden twist, I reverse our positions, shoving him against the wall with enough force that his head thuds against the plaster.
His eyes widen in surprise, pupils blown so wide they've nearly swallowed everything else.
I press my body flush against his, one hand gripping his hair, the other trailing down his chest to the waistband of his jeans.
His breath hitches, muscles tensing beneath my touch.
“Fuck, Maren,” he gasps, voice wrecked.
I bite his earlobe hard enough to make him hiss. “That's the idea, isn't it?” I murmur, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. “What you've been chasing after all this time?”
I pull back just enough to look him in the eye, maintaining the pressure of my body against his. His face is flushed, lips swollen and smeared with my lipstick and both of our blood. He looks completely wrecked, and I've barely started.
I place a single finger against his lips, my nail digging in just enough to sting.
“Well,” I say, my voice steadier than it has any right to be, “that was fun.”
And then I step away.
Just like that. Leaving him panting against the wall, a mess of want and confusion. His lips part, still stained, like he can't believe I'm pulling back when we were just getting started.
“What the fuck?” he growls, reaching for me.
I dance away, light on my feet despite the heaviness spreading through my body. Every cell screams at me to go back, to finish what we started, but I've spent too long training my body to obey my mind instead of the other way around.
“I told you,” I say, smoothing my hair with practiced casualness. “You don't understand what you're getting yourself into.”
Riggs pushes himself off the wall, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
“You can't just—” he starts, then stops, frustration tightening his features. “You can't keep doing this, Maren. This push and pull shit. You want me, I know you do.”
I shrug, leaning against a trophy case. “Want has nothing to do with it.”
“Bullshit.”
“Believe what you want.” I examine my nails, noting where one has chipped during our little…encounter.
“You're right,” Riggs says, his voice hoarse. His chest rises and falls rapidly, but he doesn't move toward me again. He stays pressed against the wall where I left him, like he's waiting for permission. “That was fun. But we both know it's not what you really want.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Oh? And what is it I really want, Dr. Rhodes? Please enlighten me with your expert psychological assessment.”
“You want someone who isn't afraid of what you've become,” he says simply. His eyes never leave mine. “Someone who won't run when things get ugly.”
Something in my chest tightens, a sharp twist that feels dangerously close to pain. I hate how easily he sees through me sometimes.
“And you think that's you?” I ask, my voice flat and cold.
“Yes,” Riggs says without hesitation, pushing off the wall. “It's me. It's always been me since that night.”
My fingers curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms.
“You’re fucking delusional.”
His voice drops even lower, barely above a whisper. “Sometimes, when I think about what he did to you, I wish I'd been the one to kill him instead.”
I laugh, the sound echoing harshly against the high ceiling. “That's not how this works. You don't get to pity me or wish to take it from me.”
“Fine.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. It sticks up at odd angles, making him look younger, more vulnerable somehow. “Then I'm making you a deal.”
“A deal?” I cross my arms, amused despite myself. “This should be interesting.”
He squares his shoulders, jaw set in that stubborn way that means he's not backing down. “You don't kill without telling me first.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and impossible to take back.
I tilt my head, studying him like he's a puzzle I can't quite solve. “What makes you think I need your permission?”
“I'm not giving you permission. I know better than that,” he says, his voice low and urgent. “I'm asking for a heads-up. Just let me be the person on your side, in your corner, watching your back.”
“Watching my back?” I repeat, the words tasting strange to my tongue. “Or watching me?”
“Both,” he admits, and I almost respect the honesty. “I won't stop you. I won't turn you in. But I need to know.”
I take a step back, putting distance between us. The look on his face is raw, open—so fucking honest it makes my skin crawl. No one should look at another person that way, like they'd walk through fire just to stand in ashes for them or with them.
“I'll think about it,” I say finally, the words coming out softer than I intended.
His eyes widen just a fraction. He wasn't expecting that—wasn't expecting me to consider it at all. That tiny flash of surprise gives me a sick little thrill. I like keeping him off-balance.
I can still taste his blood on my tongue, can still feel the phantom pressure of his body against mine. My skin hums with it, alive in a way I haven't felt in months.
I turn to leave when his voice stops me for a moment.
“Here,” he says, fumbling his phone out of his pocket with his free hand. The screen is cracked in one corner—a spiderweb of fractures that catches the light as he holds it out to me. “Put your number in. So I can reach you.”
I look at the phone, then up at his face. There's a bruise forming on his jaw where I gripped him too hard. He looks wrecked and beautiful and so fucking hopeful it makes my teeth ache.
“No thanks, golden boy,” I say, the corner of my mouth quirking up. “I'll text you later. Maybe.”
Confusion flits across his features, followed quickly by frustration. His fingers tighten around my arm, not enough to hurt, just enough to make his point. “You don't have my number.”
I lean in close, close enough that he holds his breath in anticipation. My lips brush against his ear as I whisper, “Don't I?”