Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen
Blair
Iwake to silence.
No alarm. No voices. Just the soft hum of morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains and the distant drip of water from the bathroom sink.
I shift beneath the sheets, and that’s when I feel it, bare skin against bare sheets. No jersey. No barrier. Just me, naked in Kane’s bed.
My breath catches.
Then I see him.
He’s sitting in the chair across the room, shirtless, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on me like he’s been watching for hours. Not soft. Not gentle.
Possessive.
Like he’s memorizing the way I breathe. Like he’s claiming me with his gaze alone.
A flush rises in my chest. I clutch the sheet tighter around me, suddenly aware of every inch of skin, every curve, every mark I didn’t mean to show.
I shuffle the sheets around my breasts, and that’s when I feel the ache between my legs. Last night was… intense.
The rain splatters against the windows, but it’s not what I hear. My mind is eerily quiet. Getting into an unmade bed with a man I barely know anymore should be sending alarms sounding in all directions, but the chaos is quiet around him. How is that possible?
When his skin touches mine, the counting disappears into the background. I don’t fear the uncertainty like I normally do. It’s such an anomaly that I surrender to him. He quiets the storm, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted.
“Look at me,” he commands. My eyes flutter open. I didn’t realize I’d drifted away from this moment.
Kane gently pushes away the wet hair sticking to my face, then presses his lips to my forehead, trailing kisses along my cheek. Electricity sparks with every touch to my fevered skin.
He slowly sinks into me, pushing and pushing until he’s completely inside. I cry out from the pain, but it’s already quickly fading away.
“Breathe, sunflower. Just breathe.” His voice is low, steady, like it’s tethered to the center of the earth.
I do as he says, not because I’m told to, but because I can.
Because for once, the air doesn’t feel like glass in my lungs.
For once, I’m not counting ceiling tiles or blinking in even numbers or bracing for the next invisible blow.
“You’re so big…” The words slip out, breathless, unfiltered. Not just about his body. About his presence. His weight in my life. The way he fills the space around me, like he was always meant to be there.
“You’ll get used to it, baby.” Kane doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t tease. He just watches me like I’m something sacred. His thumb brushes over my cheekbone, and I swear I could cry from the gentleness of it.
I nod as he continues to move, thrusting deeper each time. I can feel him everywhere now. He lifts my legs to his shoulders and pulls my hips in time with his.
He moves with purpose, with control, and I feel it everywhere—his rhythm, his weight, the way he draws me into his orbit like gravity. My legs are lifted, my body open, and I should feel exposed. I should feel overwhelmed.
But I don’t.
Because he’s not taking.
He’s anchoring.
And for the first time in forever, I’m not counting. I’m not scanning the room for exits. I’m not bracing for the moment it all falls apart.
I’m just here. With him.
Breathing.
Burning.
Belonging.
The storm outside rages on, but inside me, there’s only quiet. Not numbness. Not dissociation.
Peace.
And that’s the most dangerous part of all.
Because peace is addictive.
And Kane is the only one who’s ever given it to me.
My mind snaps back into place the moment I feel his gaze. It’s heavy. Intentional. Like he’s not just looking at me, he’s studying me. I blink, my throat dry. “You were watching me,” I whisper, voice rough.
He doesn’t blink. “I always watch what’s mine.”
My stomach twists. Not in fear. In something sharper. Something that feels like being seen too clearly.
“Do you say that to all your girls?” The words slip out before I can stop them, bitter and defensive. I regret them instantly.
His head tilts, slow and deliberate. “Other girls?”
I swallow hard. The box is open now—might as well let the contents spill. “I’ve just heard rumors,” I murmur. “That you’re a playboy on campus.”
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t deny it. Just watches me with that same unreadable intensity.
“I see,” he says. “And do you believe everything you hear?”
I look away, suddenly ashamed. “No. But it’s hard not to wonder.”
He steps closer, and I feel the heat of him before I see the shift in his expression.
“Let me make something clear,” he says, voice low. “I don’t waste time on things I don’t want. I don’t chase what doesn’t matter. And I don’t watch anyone the way I watch you.”
My breath catches.
“I didn’t know,” I murmur, voice barely audible.
Kane doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches me like I’ve said something sacred. Like my doubt is something he’s been waiting to dismantle.
“You weren’t supposed to,” he says, stepping closer. “Not yet.”
I swallow hard, heart thudding. “So the rumors…”
He cuts me off with a look. Not cruel. Just final. “They talk because they don’t know me. They talk because they want to be you.”
I flinch. “Be me?”
“You think I look at anyone else like this?” His voice is low, dangerous. “You think I follow anyone else across campus just to make sure they’re safe? You think I memorize anyone else’s schedule, their habits, the way they breathe when they’re anxious?”
My breath catches.
He’s not hiding it. Not the obsession. Not the need. Not the fact that he’s been watching me long before I ever noticed.
“I don’t care what they say,” he continues. “I care what you believe. And if you’re going to let their jealousy rewrite what happened between us, then I’ll remind you. Again. And again. And again.”
I scoot back, but he follows. Not threatening. Just inevitable.
“You’re mine, Blair. And I don’t share.”
He turns and walks to the dresser. Picks up a folded stack of clothes, my clothes. Clean. Dry. The jersey, the jeans, even my bra.
“I washed them last night,” he begins. “Figured you’d want to feel like yourself again.”
I sit up higher, the sheet clutched tight, heart thudding. I don’t know what to say. I’m grateful. I’m overwhelmed. I’m still trying to process the fact that I slept in his bed, that he saw me like this, that he sees me now.
He sets the clothes gently on the edge of the bed, then crouches beside me, eyes dark and steady.
“You don’t have to hide from me,” he says. “Not now. Not ever.”
I nod, barely.
But I’m still trembling.
Because being wanted like this, being claimed, isn’t something I’ve ever known I would survive.
I grab the clothes from the edge of the bed and rush to the bathroom, heart pounding like I’ve done something wrong. Like I’ve crossed a line I wasn’t supposed to. The jersey’s warm, freshly laundered, but it feels heavier now, like it’s soaked in everything that happened last night.
I dress quickly, hands shaking, avoiding the mirror.
When I come back out, Kane’s still in the chair. Still shirtless. Still watching me like I belong to him. Like everything he said was true tenfold.
I clear my throat. “I’ll call a ride share. Get back to the dorms.”
His jaw tightens, and he stands.
“You wore my jersey,” he says, voice low and sharp. “You slept in my bed. You think I’m letting you walk away like it didn’t mean something?”
I freeze.
The words hit harder than I expect. Not because they’re cruel. Because they’re true. Because part of me wants to pretend it was just heat and adrenaline and proximity. But he won’t let me.
He steps closer, slow and deliberate, until I can feel the heat of him again.
“You don’t get to disappear,” he says. “Not after last night. Not after us.”
I swallow hard, fingers curling around my phone like it’s a lifeline.
But it’s not.
He is.
And that terrifies me.
The ride back to campus is quiet, but not peaceful.
Kane’s hand stays laced with mine the entire time, even with the roar of the motorcycle beneath us and the helmet muffling everything else.
It’s not comfort, it’s control. A tether.
A reminder that last night wasn’t a one-off.
It was a shift. A claim. And now I’m being returned to my world with his fingerprints still on my skin.
I don’t speak. I don’t know what I’d say if I did. My body still hums with the memory of him, but my mind is trying to catch up. Trying to make sense of what it means to wake up naked in his bed, watching while I slept, dressed in clothes he washed for me, like I belonged there. Like I was his.
When we pull up to the dorms, the campus is already awake. Students spill across the sidewalks, laughing, talking, sipping coffee. A few heads turn when they see us—Kane’s bike, Kane’s hoodie, Kane’s presence, and then me.
“Thanks for the ri—“
Kane’s off the bike before I can finish the sentence. He turns to me, eyes dark, jaw set, and steps into my space like he’s done a hundred times before.
And then, in front of everyone, he kisses me.
It’s not soft. It’s not shy. It’s a claim. His hand slides to the back of my neck, anchoring me, and his mouth finds mine like he’s sealing something permanent. Like he’s daring the world to watch.
Gasps ripple around us. Someone whistles. I hear my name—half question, half accusation.
But I don’t pull away.
Because in that moment, I’m not just the girl in his jersey.
I’m his.
And he’s not hiding it.
Not anymore.