Chapter 8
Eight
Blair
Icount the steps from my bed to the bathroom like I always do.
Eight, always eight. It’s a number that feels safe, symmetrical, and clean.
But this morning, something slips. I miscount.
Twice. The first time I catch it halfway through, my breath hitches as I retrace each step with deliberate precision.
The second time, I reach the sink and realize I’ve skipped one entirely.
My heart stutters, and I freeze in place, staring at the tile like it might rearrange itself to fix what I broke.
I whisper the numbers under my breath, trying to make them stick, trying to make them feel right.
But they don’t. They feel foreign, like someone else is walking in my skin.
I brush my teeth for exactly two minutes, using the timer on my phone like I always do, but I check it four times.
Then five. Then six. I can’t remember if I started it late or early or not at all.
The seconds stretch unnaturally, and I feel my chest tighten with the kind of panic that doesn’t scream; it hums. I rinse my mouth and stare at my reflection, searching for something familiar.
My hair is pulled back. My sweater is folded neatly on the chair.
My planner is color-coded and waiting. Everything looks the same.
But I don’t feel the same. I feel tilted, like the floor beneath me has shifted just a few degrees, and I’m the only one who noticed.
My rituals are failing me. The structure is cracking. And I don’t know how to stop it. Because he’s in my head now. In my skin. In the spaces between my routines. And I think if I keep unraveling like this, he’ll be the only thing left.
The air is sharp when I step outside, the kind of September morning that bites at your skin and makes everything feel a little too awake.
I clutch my bag tighter, fingers curled around the strap like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered, and maybe it is.
The sidewalk is damp from last night’s rain, leaves scattered like broken thoughts across the concrete.
I count my steps out of habit, four from the door to the edge of the path, three to the turn, but the numbers feel off, like they’re echoing in a space that doesn’t belong to me anymore.
I keep my head down, eyes trained on the ground, trying to stay inside the rhythm.
Left foot. Right foot. Breathe in. Breathe out.
But something shifts in the air, something subtle, something wrong.
I feel it before I see it. That prickle at the base of my neck.
That tightness in my chest. That sense that I’m not alone.
And then I look up.
It’s parked across the street, angled just enough to face the dorm entrance. Blacked-out windows. Matte finish. No decals. No distractions. Just sleek, silent power. The Range Rover. His Range Rover. I’ve never seen it parked here. Never this close. Never waiting.
My breath catches, shallow and uneven. I stop walking. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the weight of it. The car doesn’t move. The engine isn’t running, but it’s not empty. I know it. I feel it. He’s inside. Watching. Waiting. Not hiding. Just present like a shadow cast in daylight.
I glance around, but no one else seems to notice.
Students pass by, earbuds in, voices low, eyes glazed with morning fatigue.
They don’t see it. They don’t feel the pull, but I do.
Every inch of me does. My skin tightens.
My pulse stutters. And the question I’ve been trying to bury claws its way back to the surface.
What does he want with me?
No one has ever wanted my attention like this. Is this some sort of a trick? Kinsley always tells me what a man whore he is. I’m not naive enough to believe I’ve caught his attention in a good way.
I turn away, forcing my feet to move, forcing my breath to steady. But the image stays burned behind my eyes, the car, the silence, the certainty. He’s not just in my head anymore. He’s here. And he’s not leaving.
Kane
She doesn’t know what she’s doing to me. Not really. Not yet.
She walks out of that dorm like she’s still invisible. Like the world hasn’t shifted. Like her routines still protect her. But I see the way her shoulders tense when she spots the car. I see the way her breath catches. She’s starting to feel it. The pressure. The presence. Me.
I should leave. I should drive away. I should let her have her morning, but I don’t because I want her to know I’m here.
I want her to feel it. I want her to start asking questions she doesn’t want answers to.
I used to think obsession was weakness. That needing someone meant surrender.
But this isn’t surrender.
This is strategy.
This is precision.
She’s not just a girl. She’s a system, a locked box, and I want to crack her open and see what spills out.
I want to know what she looks like when she breaks. Not loudly, not violently, but slowly.
I want to watch her routines rot, her rules fail, her breath hitch every time she sees me.
I want her to feel me in the spaces she thought were hers. In her planner. In her journal. In the way she folds her sweater and counts her steps. I want her to stop counting. I want her to forget how to stay clean. I want her to know what it feels like to burn.
I don’t want her love. I want her obedience. Her surrender. Her soul.
And I’ll take it piece by piece.
Quietly.
Deliberately.
Until she’s mine.
My mind focuses back on Blair when I see Micah Jameson move through campus like he’s auditioning for something, swagger in every step, grin sharpened to a blade, always loud enough to be heard but never clear enough to be trusted.
He’s the kind of guy who thrives on attention, who collects girls like trophies and forgets their names by morning.
I’ve watched him on the field, fast and reckless, all flash and no discipline.
Coach likes him because he wins games. The team tolerates him because he throws parties, but I see through him.
I see the way he watches Blair. Not with curiosity.
Not with respect. With hunger. With calculation.
Like she’s a thing to be taken, not a person to be known.
Micah spots her from across the lawn and changes direction.
It’s subtle, but I catch it, the shift in his posture, the way his smile sharpens, the way he adjusts his pace to intercept.
He’s done this before. To other girls. With other outcomes.
But Blair isn’t like them. She’s not built for casual touch or careless words.
She’s built from silence and structure and the kind of fragility that looks like steel until you press too hard. And Micah presses.
He steps into her path, says something I can’t hear, and reaches out, just a hand on her arm, just a touch.
But she flinches. I see it. The way her body recoils, the way her breath stutters, the way she tries to pull away without making a scene.
She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t shove. She just folds inward, like she’s trying to disappear. And something in me snaps.
I push off the hood, fists already tight, blood already hot. I don’t care what he said. I don’t care if he meant it as a joke. I care that she flinched. I care that she tried to escape. I care that he touched her like he had the right. And he doesn’t. He never will.
Because Blair Everett isn’t his to approach.
She isn’t his to touch.
She isn’t his to make flinch.
She’s mine.
Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
Even if she’s still trying to stay clean.
Even if she’s still counting steps and folding sweaters and pretending she’s invisible.
I see her.
I feel her.
And I’ll make damn sure no one else gets close enough to make her pull away.
I catch up to him behind the science building, where the campus thins out and the noise dies.
Micah’s alone, tossing his duffel over one shoulder, still riding the high of whatever he thought that moment with Blair was.
He doesn’t see me at first. He never does.
That’s the problem with guys like him, they think attention is power.
They think being seen means being in control.
But real control is quiet. It’s patient. It’s the moment before the hit lands.
He turns when he hears my steps, and his grin flickers, just for a second.
Just enough. “Fischer,” he says, casual, like we’re more than teammates, like we’re equals.
We’re not. I don’t answer. I just keep walking until I’m close enough to smell the sweat on his collar and see the twitch in his jaw.
He shifts his stance, tries to square up, but I’m already in his space.
“You touched her,” I say, voice low, steady, the kind of calm that makes people nervous. “She flinched.”
Micah scoffs and tries to play it off. “Relax, man. I was just saying hi. Didn’t know she was yours.”
That word—yours—hits like a match to gasoline. Not because it’s wrong. Because it’s premature. Because he said it like a joke. Like a dare. Like he doesn’t understand what it means.
“She’s not a joke,” I counter. “She’s not a party favor. She’s not something you get to lean into and test the waters.”
He rolls his eyes, shifts his weight, tries to laugh. “Damn, man. You’re really wound up. I didn’t do anything.”
“You touched her,” I repeat. “She pulled away.”
That’s the line. That’s the moment. That’s the difference between me and him. I see the way she breathes. I see the way her fingers twitch when she’s anxious. I see the way her silence isn’t emptiness, it’s armor. And he tried to crack it with a smile and a hand on her arm.
I step closer, until there’s nothing between us but the tension. “You do it again,” I fume, “and it won’t be just talking next time.”
Micah leans back slightly, but the smirk doesn’t leave his face. He’s cocky. Stupid. He thinks this is a game. “Wow,” he drawls, “our mighty quarterback playing bodyguard now? Didn’t know you had a thing for damaged girls.”