Chapter 30
Adrian
The noise doesn’t stop anymore. What used to be a low static hum in my blood—easy to drown under the weight of blades on ice and the clean burn of lung-splitting drills—has calcified into something sharper. Louder. An unrelenting, high-pitched frequency that has a name. Her. Clara Harrington.
The way her voice snaps when she’s trying not to care.
The way she pushed me at the party, her small hands flat against my chest, her body trembling.
The way her body folded into mine during that kiss.
Spiteful. Flushed. Wanting. The way her fingers curled in the fabric of my hoodie like she was holding herself together while I was trying to take her apart.
I walked away. Like a coward. As if I still had any semblance of control.
It was a lie. The control is gone, replaced by a raw, gnawing obsession that has sunk its teeth into me and refuses to let go.
It’s not just the memory of the kiss, of her yielding.
It’s the fight in her. The way she looks at me like she’s the only person not afraid to see the cracks in the foundation, and the only one smart enough to figure out what they mean.
She doesn’t just challenge me; she sees me, and the feeling is a dangerous, addictive drug.
I don’t text. I don’t plan. I just find myself walking toward the campus café like my body knows the route better than my brain. What the fuck am I doing? The thought is a dull throb behind my eyes. Call it pathetic; my feet still hunt the same path.
I should be at the rink. But the need to see her, to feel that tension snap tight between us again, is a compulsion I can’t outrun.
Addison hasn’t said a word since my grades were posted, so the mandatory sessions are probably done.
I’m off the leash. But the thought of not seeing her in that library, of not having that guaranteed hour to dissect her, is a void I’m not willing to face.
The tutoring was a cage they put me in. Now, it’s the one I refuse to leave.
With her. It’s a hunger, and she’s the only thing that will satisfy it.
She's a whirlwind behind the counter, a symphony of cinnamon, dark espresso, and warm, frothed milk.
The scent of burnt sugar clings to the air.
Her dark hair is gathered in that messy half-bun she pretends is practical but always yields rebellious, soft edges.
A few curls have escaped, tracing a path down the nape of her neck, and I find my gaze following them.
Her sleeves are pushed up, as if in silent battle, revealing a faint smudge of cinnamon high on her cheekbone.
I'm torn between wiping it away with my thumb and, more dangerously, licking it off.
I take the corner booth. Shadowed. Back to the wall. A clean line of sight straight to her. A predator’s advantage.
She sees me. Just for a second. Her eyes flicker toward my corner, and her movements stutter.
A cup clatters against a saucer, the sound jarring in the café’s low hum.
Then she resets—blinks once, like rebooting a system.
Her spine, already straight, becomes rigid.
Her lips press into a thin, pale line. A door slamming shut.
She doesn’t come over. She doesn’t acknowledge me.
But she knows I’m here. The knowledge radiates off her in tense, sharp waves. The air crackles with it.
She’s more brittle than usual. She almost drops a cup, her recovery a jerky, angry movement.
She snaps at a customer who calls her “sweetheart.” She messes up a drink and blames the espresso machine.
Every time she wipes down the long, marble counter, her gaze flicks to mine—fast, guilty, as if I’ve caught her doing something indecent.
A freshman in a Titans hoodie clocks me from the register line, phone half-hidden. The red record light blinks. Good. Let them wonder.
I stay still, my gaze fixed on her. Not just her body, though I see the sway of her hips when she turns, the stubborn line of her jaw, the subtle tremor in her fingers when she believes she's unobserved.
I see all of it. The frantic pulse at her throat, a beat I silently match, imagining my lips pressed there.
The fine hairs on her arms, bristling as if my stare is a cold draft. I watch for her entire shift.
She holds it together until she breaks. It’s not dramatic.
She just steps out from behind the counter like she’s walking through fire, every nerve raw.
Her hands are empty, but her eyes are full of accusation, challenge, and something wild she won’t name.
She stops at the edge of my booth, one hip cocked against the table, staking a claim on the moment.
“What is this?” she asks, her voice low and razor-sharp. “You stalking me now?”
I lean back into the cracked leather. Good. She feels it. She knows this isn’t random. This is a hunt. “You noticed.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’ve been staring at me like you’re trying to count my heartbeats.”
I hum, a low sound in my throat. “Already know how fast it gets when you’re pissed.”
Her jaw twitches. She glances at the empty table. “You didn’t even buy coffee.”
“I didn’t come for the caffeine.” My eyes drop to her mouth, and I see the exact moment she remembers the taste of me on her lips. She exhales, a sharp, frustrated sound.
“Then what do you want?”
My gaze drags over her, slow and deliberate, from the frantic pulse at her throat to the spot where her collarbone disappears under her shirt.
I want to touch that spot. I want to tilt her chin back and make her admit she feels this sick, obsessive pull, too.
I meet her eyes. “What do you think I want?”
For one breath, she falters. Her fingers curl tighter. Her chest rises and falls too quickly. Then she locks it down. Resets. Always resetting.
“I think you want control,” she says flatly. “And you’re pissed because I won’t just hand it over.”
I smile, a lazy, lethal curve of my lips. “I think you liked it when I took it.”
Her lips part. Just for a second. A flicker of memory—of the kiss, of being pressed against the wall, of her yielding—crosses her face before she banishes it.
“You can’t just show up here and lurk like some ice-veined phantom.”
“Didn’t expect anything,” I say. “Just wanted to watch you work.”
“Bullshit.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table, my voice a low, intimate thread meant only for her. “Then stop giving me something worth watching.”
Her breath catches. A hitch. A victory.
I hold still, letting the moment stretch until the noise of the café fades and there’s nothing left but the raw electricity snapping between us.
“You’re not romantic, Adrian.” The words are an accusation.
“No?”
“No. You’re a storm pretending to be a person.”
I smirk. She sees the destruction and isn’t running. “And yet,” I say, my voice a low murmur, “you keep standing in the rain.”
She huffs. “We’re not doing this here.”
“Good,” I murmur. A promise. “We’ll do it later.”
She pushes off the table, her spine too stiff. She walks away without another word, but her shoulders are tight, her breath unsteady. She doesn’t look back until she thinks I’m not watching. Only once. But it’s enough. A crack in her armor. I plan to tear it wide open.
By the time her shift ends, I’m waiting outside in the cold. She doesn’t flinch when I fall into step beside her. I reach out and take her bookbag. The strap is still warm from her shoulder. The weight of it feels right, proprietary.
“Yes or no?” I ask.
She nods once, not breaking stride. “Yes. For one block.”
Her body tenses as I walk beside her, a wary flicker in her eyes as she glances up at me.
This is different—too soft, too intimate.
I can see the hesitation in her posture, the way her fingers curl around her strap.
She doesn’t pull away, but I feel the unspoken questions hanging in the air.
Is this a trap? What’s the catch? Her breath fogs between us, short and sharp.
Her fingers are tucked deep into her sleeves, as if holding herself back from doing something reckless.
The silence between us isn’t empty. It crackles, alive with everything we didn’t say in the café, everything we’ve swallowed since the kiss. When a group of guys barrels past, I reach out on instinct, my hand finding the small of her back, my palm flat against her spine to shield her with my body.
“Left,” I say, guiding her with two fingers. “Less traffic.”
She goes still, every muscle locking at once, but she doesn’t pull away.
Her breath stutters. I feel the jolt of her reaction through my hand, a silent, unwilling confession.
A surge of dark, possessive satisfaction rolls through me.
Mine to touch. Mine to protect. I let my hand drop, though my palm still burns.
“Library,” I say finally, my voice low, rough around the edges. “You owe me a session.”
Her head turns, her eyes stormy and sharp. “You think I owe you?”
I arch a brow. “I know I do.”
A pause. One beat. Then another. She looks away first. “One hour.”
I grin, a slow, dangerous curve of my lips. “One’s all I need.”
She mutters something under her breath, but her voice betrays her.
Tight. Flushed. Her pulse flutters at her neck, high and fast. I keep walking beside her, counting her breaths, matching them to my own.
Inside the library, the air is too warm, still.
She leads the way, her boots striking fast against the stone floor.
Her hands tremble almost imperceptibly as she pushes open the study room door.
She moves straight to the far table, pulling out her notes. A routine. It isn’t. She knows it. I know it. Her voice gives her away. “You gonna keep trying to make me flustered?” she asks, eyes locked on her folder.
I step closer, letting the silence stretch before I answer. “Depends.” My voice is softer now. Darker. “Is it working?”
She slams the folder down, harder than necessary. Her ears are pink. A flush creeps up her neck. She turns on her heel, and I follow, closing the distance until our shadows stretch and merge across the room.
I know, without a single doubt, she’s not getting anything done tonight. This was never about studying. It was always about tension on the verge of combustion.
It’s about me wanting to be the one to light the match, just to watch her burn.