9. Wren #3
I stretch to grab a wayward puck from beneath the bench, fingers brushing cool rubber, when that feeling hits—that prickle between my shoulder blades.
The one that whispers you’re not alone.
I straighten slowly, the hair on my arms lifting.
My fingers tighten around the puck in my hand, shifting it so I can use it as some sort of defensive weapon.
I whip around—
And freeze.
“Jesus,” I breathe, pressing a hand to my chest. “You scared me.”
Isaac Evans is standing just inside the doorway, half in shadow, arms folded across his chest. He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands there, casual as anything. And then he smiles—easy, boyish. The kind of grin that probably lets him get away with murder.
I swallow, shifting awkwardly on my feet beneath his gaze. I’m acutely aware that we are the only two people in here. Hell, possibly in the entire sports center. It’s a Friday night, and pretty much everyone emptied out as soon as the game was over.
I’ve made it a point to never be alone with a guy ever since that night, and being with Evans now, especially after already being cornered by Lucian, means panic is front and center, even though Evans hasn’t done anything to warrant it.
My palms sweat, my heart races, and I can feel fear muddying the edges of my thoughts.
“Did you forget something?” My voice comes out tight, higher-pitched than usual.
His eyes flick over me in a way that feels…deliberate. Not leering exactly, just aware.
“Nah, figured no one had invited you to the party and thought I’d see if you wanted to come…with me.”
“Oh.” My grip tightens around the puck. “I don’t really do parties.”
He takes a step closer. “You’ve never been to a Kings’ party, though.”
“I just—prefer quiet,” I respond quickly.
He chuckles under his breath, eyes glinting in the low light. “Quiet can be overrated.”
My pulse stumbles. The room feels smaller now. Warmer.
Too warm. Why won’t he just take no for an answer?
I shift back a half-step without meaning to, my calves brushing against the bench.
He notices. His smile flickers, softening like he’s reading the wrong cue. “Hey, I didn’t mean to freak you out or anything.”
“You didn’t.”
Lie.
He studies me for a moment longer, then his grin returns, easy and practiced. “Guess I’ll have to convince you to say yes to a drink some other time.”
And before I can tell him he’s wasting his breath, he’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving the air too still, too heavy.
Only when my chest starts to burn, do I realize I’m holding my breath. My pulse beats in my throat, too loud in the empty room. Dragging a hand through my hair, I exhale shakily.
I hate this feeling.
The tightness in my chest.
The way my body reacts before my brain can catch up.
He didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t say anything wrong.
But the memory of a hand on my wrist, of shadows and breath and no escape, coils like barbed wire through my chest all the same.
It takes me longer than it should to finish up my tasks and get home, and when I do, I’m inexplicably exhausted.
I miss the Steelhawks. I miss Dylan. I miss the little bit of comfort I had carved out for myself at BSU.
Everything here is foreign. New. Scary. I have no one I can trust. No one I can turn to, and I hadn’t realized how much comfort I’d found in Dylan’s presence.
I might have only known her for a year, but in that time, she helped heal a part of me.
She helped me learn to trust again. She made me feel bolder. More confident.
Now, I once again feel like a scared mouse jumping at shadows.
And I hate it.
I’m sick of being this person.
Of letting my trauma define me.
Of letting one night define everything that is still to come.
I’ve just finished double-checking that all the windows and doors are locked when my phone pings from my bedside table.
The sound cuts through the quiet, sharp and unexpected.
Dylan’s usually the only one who texts this late, but she—
The thought dies the second I see the number.
Unknown.
The message preview glows on the screen:
Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about our project, little librarian. You and I have unfinished business.
My throat goes dry.
For a second, I stare at the words, my mind trying—and failing—to make sense of them.
Then I see it. The signature below the text, tacked on like an afterthought.
—L.C.
The air leaves my lungs all at once.
Lucian Caulfield.
I drop the phone onto the bed like it’s something that could burn me.
The room feels smaller now. Tighter.
Every window I locked, every door I checked… Suddenly, none of it feels like enough.
Because he shouldn’t have my number.
Because I don’t know how he got it.
Because even a message that looks harmless can feel like a threat when it comes from someone who already owns too much of the space inside your head.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the glow of the phone screen lighting the words again.
A reminder.
A promise.
A warning.
Whatever it is—
It settles over me like ice.
I thought the worst was behind me. That the monsters were gone. But now I know—they were only waiting for me to come home.