Chapter 26 Celeste
Celeste
Ican not sit still.
Linkin’s toy hauler smells like stale coffee and cold pizza.
It’s a comforting stink that says everyone’s been up too late and nobody’s bothered to clean.
Much better than my brand new rig, where everything smells so brand new.
Shiloh’s feet are propped on the couch, Korbyn’s toes resting over hers as they scroll in easy silence, the blue light from their phones painting their faces.
Together they look like opposites pulled into the same frame—Shiloh, sharp and striking, straight out of a goth editorial, and Korbyn, all soft edges and earnest calm, like a middle school librarian who knows exactly where everything is shelved.
The rig hums with the easy, tired noise of people who’ve done this a hundred times.
My skin, though, is a live wire. It’s not just restless, it feels like a constant vibration under my ribs. If I don’t move, I feel like I’ll split open and spill out. The air feels too small for whatever’s coiled inside me.
“I need to go on a run,” I blurt, louder than I mean to be.
Three heads turn, and their eyes find mine.
“Run?” Shiloh echoes, one brow arching like she’s trying to place the joke.
“Yeah.” I push off the counter where I’ve been leaning, fingers leaving a faint smear of sweat on the laminate. “Just a quick one. There’s a park a few blocks over. I saw it when we came in last night. I just need to clear my head.”
Korbyn’s frown deepens. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Lucian is still in his meeting with Rowan.”
“It’ll be fine, I’ve done this more times than I can count.” The words come out before I can talk myself out of them. I’m already moving toward the door, the motion a promise to myself. “You guys know I need to run when I feel like this. I just need some time alone. I just need this, okay?”
Linkin squints at me, the light catching the lines at the corners of his eyes. “They should be done with their meeting soon. Can you wait for them to be done? I’m pretty sure Lucian would rather chew glass than let you out of his sight right now.”
I glance over my shoulder and lower my voice. “They have like an hour left? So… maybe don’t mention it until I’m back, alright?”
“Celeste—” Shiloh starts, the warning already forming, but I cut her off with a signature smile.
“It’s Kansas City, it’s not the end of the world. I’ll be back before he even notices I’m gone.”
I don’t wait for the argument. By the time Linkin opens his mouth again, I’ve slipped out the door and pulled it shut behind me.
The sun hits me like a slap. Why is it so bright?
It smells like asphalt, exhaust, and something sweet.
I tie my hair into a high ponytail as I jog down the path, fingers fumbling with the elastic until it’s tight enough to keep my hair from whipping my face.
My sneakers find the pavement in a rhythm that starts to unknot whatever’s wound tight inside me: left, right, left, right.
The city noise recedes into a steady backdrop until it’s just me and the cadence of my feet.
This is my time. Running clears my head the way nothing else does. It strips everything down to the essentials: breath, heartbeat, the small, familiar ache in my calves. For a while, the world shrinks to the sound of my feet and the air filling my lungs.
I need time alone. I don’t want Lucian hovering over me.
I don’t want his hands to be the measure of how fragile I am.
I don’t want him to brush my hair like I’m something breakable and then look at me with that careful, worried expression that makes me feel smaller.
I need to be somewhere he isn’t. Just space where I can be loud in my own head and not have to soften anything.
My breathing evens out. The burn in my thighs arrives and reminds me I didn’t stretch like I should’ve, but it reminds me I’m alive.
Sweat beads at my hairline and trickles down my spine, cooling as the breeze catches it.
The park opens up ahead, a strip of green between buildings, trees throwing dappled shade across the path.
Kids’ laughter threads through the air, and the humming under my skin starts to quiet.
I don’t think about the rig. I don’t think about the vandalism or the way Lucian looked at me last night when he brushed my hair like I might fall apart again. I don’t let my mind go there. I let my feet think.
I just run.
There’s a dark shape against chrome, a block of shadow leaning on the hood of a sedan that catches my attention.
I barely register him at first; he’s just another parked car, another person in a park.
Who wears head to toe black in the summer in a park—actually, never mind, I could see Shiloh doing that.
My feet keep their rhythm. My breath keeps its count.
The trees blur green and gold, and the path hums under my soles.
I glance over at him again, his head turns, and his eyes find me.
It’s the way he looks that makes my stomach drop, like he’s been waiting for the exact moment I’d pass. A smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth, small and wrong. He winks, the motion lazy and practiced, and I cringe as something in the air goes cold.
No. I’m overthinking this. He’s probably just one of those creeps who thinks winking at women is charming.
I force my gaze forward. Don’t look. Don’t make it a thing. People stare at runners. People wait in cars at the park. I remind myself of the facts like stones to hold down the rising panic. I’m fine.
The trail bends, and the parking lot slides away. The trees close in, and the city noise thins to a distant hum. I let the rhythm of my feet pull me along, let the burn in my calves be the only thing that matters.
After about five minutes, I hear footsteps behind me.
At first, they’re just another sound, maybe an inexperienced jogger, or someone running on the path. But the steps are heavier than a jogger’s bounce, a measured crunch that eats the gravel in long, even bites. The cadence is wrong.
I don’t look back right away; I tell myself not to. But the hair along my neck prickles, and the sound grows closer, a second heartbeat syncing to mine.
When I finally glance over my shoulder, my chest drops out.
He’s jogging the trail behind me. The same man dressed in all black I saw in the parking lot. His smirk is still there, and he’s focused on me. He’s wearing black gloves in July, and the sight of them is a wrongness that lands in my gut like a stone.
Why gloves? The question has no answer, and that absence is louder than any explanation. Panic hits like a fist, causing my lungs to tighten and my legs to go hot and cold at once.
I push harder. My stride lengthens, breath tearing.
The park that felt like a refuge a minute ago narrows into a corridor with him at the far end and me trapped in the middle.
Every step I take, his steps answer, his pace matching mine, closing the distance with the steady, terrifying inevitability of someone who planned this.
My mind scrambles for options. My phone is in my pocket, heavy and useless until I pull it out, and pulling it out might take too long, especially at this pace.
The crunch of his footsteps is a countdown. The sun’s light tilts, shadows lengthen, and the world narrows to the sound of my own breath and the man’s steps eating up the space between us.
“Run all you want.” His voice slides across the trail, low and taunting, like he’s enjoying the sound of me running away. “But you can’t hide. You know I’ll find you.”
Something rips open inside my chest. A sound I don’t recognize tears out of me, and I push harder, my legs pumping until my lungs burn. The world narrows to the slap of sneakers and the hot, ragged rasp of my breath.
Branches whip my arms as I cut off the path and into the trees. Leaves slap my face, twigs snag my shirt, sweat slicks my spine. The air closes in—thick, green, smelling of damp earth and something older and darker. Every nerve is a bell: run, run, run.
His voice threads through the leaves, casual and close. “Celeste… don’t make me chase you too hard.”
I don’t stop. I can’t. I shove through a tangle of brush, lungs burning, scanning the undergrowth for a place to disappear. Finally, I drop behind a thick cluster of brambles and press myself flat to the ground, panting so hard my ribs ache. My heart is a drum in my ears.
Then I hear the crunch as a twig snaps somewhere too close for comfort.
He’s not a silhouette anymore. He’s a presence, the sound of him folding the space between us. “I know you’re out here,” he calls, sing-song, like he’s coaxing a pet. “C’mon, baby. We both know you want this. You were practically begging me.”
The words make bile rise in my throat. What the hell is he talking about?
“I’m gonna enjoy this,” he purrs.
Something cold and furious rises through the fear. I don’t wait to think, I move.
I launch myself from the brush toward his voice and drive my shoulder into him, aiming low. He grunts as he stumbles back a step. For a second, I taste victory.
“Get the fuck away from me!” I roar, my elbow cocked.
He barely dodges my fist. “Damn,” he pants, eyes glittering. “We are going to have so much fun when I get you on your knees where you belong, slut.”
He’s smiling at me like this is a fucking joke.
I throw another punch, and this one thankfully lands on his cheek. He laughs, the sound making me want to vomit.
“Oh, baby, that was solid.” He wipes blood from his lip with the back of his hand. “You’re a fighter. I like that. Let’s see if I can fuck that out of you.”
I drive the side of my foot down the outside of his shin, the edge of my shoe scraping hard enough to make him stagger.
He howls, his fingers loosening just a fraction, and I use that sliver of space.
I push against him as hard as I can and hit the ground.
As fast as I can, I roll and try to keep moving.
Instinct threads through me, trying to do everything necessary to keep myself safe.
He’s on me in seconds, the weight and heat of him crowding me. I twist and shove my thumb toward his eye; he jerks, head snapping back, but he refuses to let go of me.
“Goddamn,” he breathes, like he’s in awe of me.
“Get. Off. Me!” I scream, every syllable a blade.
He catches both my wrists, pinning them above my head. The world narrows to the pressure of his hands, the hot press of his chest, the sound of my own heart pounding so loud it drowns out the birds. My muscles burn from the fight; my breath comes in ragged, shallow pulls.
“Damn,” he pants, like he’s just finished a race. “You’re really committing.”
I buck, twist, not hearing his words as I try to slide out from under him, but he shifts with me, easy and practiced. He laughs like this is entertainment.
“You don’t have to make it this real, baby,” he says, grinning down at me. “Most girls don’t fight half this hard.”
The words are a blade. “Get the fuck off me,” I spit again, voice raw.
He ignores me and keeps talking, like he’s filling the silence with ownership. “This is exactly what you begged me for. The others didn’t fight, at least not like this. They wanted me so bad once I was on top of them like this. I’m going to have such a fun time breaking my new toy.”
“Others?” The word rips out of me, small and furious.
“This is only the third ad I’ve answered, but this is all about you; this is your fantasy. You don’t want to hear about the rest. You made the rules, and you consented for this to be as non-consensual as possible, but this is feeling a bit too real for me. Let’s dial back the acting.”
My blood runs cold. The words come out like a plea and a command at once. “This isn’t my fantasy. I’m not acting, I never consented.”
The man blinks at me, like he’s hearing something he doesn’t want to parse. Then he slowly shakes his head. “Bullshit,” he says, voice flat. “We’ve been talking for over a week. You sent me your pictures. I know it’s you.”
The sentence lands like a slap. My mouth goes dry. “I didn’t send you shit, I don’t know who the fuck you are.”
Something in his face changes. The smirk that had been a permanent curl falls away. His brow knits, confusion folding into the lines around his eyes. For the first time, he looks off-balance.
“You told me your name was Celeste,” he says, almost puzzled, as if he’s trying to fit a new piece into a puzzle that’s been glued wrong. “You—”
“My name is Celeste, but I never sent you anything.” The words are small and steady, but they feel like a hammer.
His grip loosens, just a fraction. It’s enough. I wrench my right hand free and drive my elbow into his ribs. He doesn’t flinch away so much as stare at me, like I’ve knocked something loose inside his head.
“Oh my God,” he breathes, and the sound is thin. “Wait. You’re serious?”
He scrambles back, sitting up as if the ground itself has become unfamiliar. Color drains from his face until it’s the ashy gray of old paper. The confidence that had been a second skin peels off him in real time.
“I thought… I thought we were fulfilling your fantasy.” His voice is smaller now, fraying.
“When I answered the ad, the person I spoke with said they were you. They sent me your name and your photos. The person said you would be in Kansas City, and you travel with friends, so we needed to wait until you were out on a run. You said this was a CNC thing. That you wanted to be hunted, and you liked it when it felt real.”
The words tumble out of him like a confession and a plea. My pulse is still a drum in my ears; the forest seems to hold its breath.
“I never sent you anything,” I repeat, slower, because the sentence needs to land. “I don’t even know what ads you’re talking about.”
He presses his hands to his head like he can squeeze the truth out. “Jesus Christ.” The phrase is raw, horror, finally, bleeding through. Not at me, not at what he thought he’d arranged, but at the realization that whatever game he’d been playing had just gone sideways in a way he didn’t plan for.
His eyes flick to the trees, to the path, and the empty spaces where witnesses might be. The bravado has drained out of him; what’s left is a man who suddenly understands the scale of what he’s done. His breath comes quick and shallow.
Panic arrives like a physical thing pulling at his limbs and at the edges of his composure. He looks smaller under the trees, swallowed by the night he thought he controlled.