Chapter Nine
SOMEONE IS FOLLOWING me.
I first noticed it three days ago, walking back from Professor Sigmund’s lecture hall. A prickle at the back of my neck. The sensation of eyes tracking my movements across the quad like crosshairs finding their target.
I told myself I was being paranoid.
But then I felt it again at the campus coffee shop, where I’d been nursing a lukewarm latte and pretending to study.
And again at the library, tucked into my usual corner on the third floor.
And again when I was grabbing dinner at the dining hall, my fork frozen halfway to my mouth because I was absolutely convinced I wasn’t imagining it.
Someone is watching me.
And it’s starting to freak me out because I can’t stop thinking about it.
Everything and everyone around me has become a cause for paranoia. The shadow that lingers too long at the edge of my vision. The footsteps that match my pace a little too perfectly. The figure I keep catching in my peripheral, always turning away the moment I look.
My mind has gradually been spiraling into worst-case scenarios with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever chasing a tennis ball off a cliff.
What if Braxton found me?
What if he knows I was at the auction?
What if he’s waiting for the perfect moment to grab me, drag me into a van, sell me to the highest bidder all over again—
What if I disappear and no one notices until my unfinished graphic novel becomes a cautionary tale about artistic procrastination?
I’m so paranoid I’ve even started varying my routes, taking different staircases and leaving buildings through side exits. All the things Detective Eaton told me to do, really, but it’s just not enough.
I still feel like I’m being followed.
By day five, I’m jumping at my own shadow. By day six, I’ve started walking with my keys wedged between my fingers like some kind of ineffective wolverine. By day seven—
By day seven, I snap.
It happens in the late afternoon, the California sun hanging low and golden over the quad, students sprawled on the grass with textbooks they’re pretending to read. I’m cutting through the courtyard behind the humanities building when I feel it again.
That prickle.
That weight of someone’s gaze pressing against my spine.
And something inside me just...breaks.
I don’t think.
I don’t plan.
I just spin around and charge directly at the shadow I’ve glimpsed from the corner of my eye.
“LEAVE ME ALONE!”
The words tear out of my throat as I barrel toward the figure lurking near the archway, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears, my feet slapping against the cobblestones, my hands balled into fists even though I have absolutely no idea how to throw a punch—
I don’t even see him move.
One second I’m running, the next there’s an iron grip on my wrist and the world spins, and then my back is against the cool stone of the archway and there’s a hand clamped over my mouth.
“Stop.”
The voice is low. Familiar. Ice and velvet wrapped around a command.
My eyes fly wide.
No.
No, no, no—
The hand loosens, just enough for me to breathe, and I find myself staring up into a face I never thought I’d see again.
Ice-blue eyes. Sharp jaw. Gold hair catching the late afternoon light like he’s been personally blessed by the sunset.
My rescuer.
He’s here.
He’s HERE, and he’s the one who’s been—
“Y-You.”
Something inside my chest gives way at the sight of him. His expression is thunderous, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin, and his eyes—
I’ve never seen him look at me like this.
Like he’s furious.
Like he’s terrified.
Like he wants to shake me until my teeth rattle.
“Do you have any idea,” he says, his voice a low growl that vibrates through the hand still pressed against my shoulder, “how foolish that was?”
All I can do is bite my lip. Hard. Because now that the adrenaline has worn off, my body is made to pay every ill-advised move I’ve made in the past five minutes, and my side is hurting like I was shot all over again.
“You charged.” His grip tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to make his point. “At a stranger. With nothing. No weapon. No plan. No thought for what might happen if it wasn’t me.”
“I—I’m sorry, I just—”
“What if it had been him?” His voice is soft and calm. Terrifyingly so. “What if it had been Braxton? What would you have done then, Mira? Screamed at him? Hoped someone would hear?”
“I wasn’t thinking—”
“Clearly.”
“I was scared, and I just—I couldn’t take it anymore, and—”
Wait a minute.
My brain finally catches up with my mouth.
What right does he have to question me like this when...when...
“You’re the reason I’m scared in the first place,” I cry out. “You’re the one stalking me for no reason—”
“Did I say I didn’t have one?”
Everything becomes clear the moment he says this, and it just makes me feel so much worse—
“You’re here because of Braxton.”
Because it’s clear that my rescuer feels burdened to protect me.
Again.
“The police told you about him?”
I nod. “They’ve already warned Dane and me—” Is it just my imagination or did he stiffen when I mentioned Dane’s name? “So if that’s what you’re worried about—”
“It’s not.”
My words stutter to a stop.
“I’m here because I want to talk to you.”
“You want to talk to me,” I echo.
“Yes.”
“But it’s not about Braxton?”
Before he can answer, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and when I take it out, it’s Dane’s name flashing across the screen.
“I should—”
“Don’t answer it.”
I blink up at him. “It’s just Dane—”
“Exactly.”
I...have no idea how to decipher that.
But anyway.
“This won’t take a—hey!”
The moment I try lifting the phone to my ear, things.
..happen. Or maybe my rescuer is inhumanly fast or I’m the one who’s unbelievably slow because the next thing I know, my back is against the wall again, and he’s caging me in with his body, one hand flat against the stone beside my head, the other curled around my wrist.
“W-What are you doing?”
“I told you.” His voice has dropped to something low and rough, and his face is so close I can see the individual shards of blue in his eyes. “I came here to talk.”
“Then let’s talk after I answer—”
“No.”
“But—”
“Do you like him?”
The question hits me like a splash of cold water.
“E-Excuse me??”
“Dane.” His jaw tightens again, that muscle jumping. “He picked you up at the wake. Do you like him?”
I’m almost tempted to think he’s jealous.
Almost.
But since I remember just in time that this is also the same man who thinks I’m ugly—
I let out a nervous laugh even as I wonder why the buzzing panic inside of me always goes quiet like...like this man is my refuge.
Stop it, Mira.
Like seriously.
STOP.
I refocus on his question and decide to take it at face value. “Of course I like—”
His mouth covers mine before I can finish the sentence, and my brain just...stops.
My rescuer...
He’s...kissing me.
Kissing!
Me!
And his lips are so firm and demanding, and is it just me or does his kiss also taste of—wait, wait, wait!
This can’t be happening.
He thinks I’m ugly, and now he’s kissing me?
He wants to marry me off, but now he’s kissing me?
There’s just so, so many questions, all of them impossible to answer, and that’s what gives me just enough strength to push against his chest.
“S-Stop!”
He pulls back immediately, but he doesn’t let me go. His hands are still bracketing me against the wall, and his breathing is uneven, and when he finally speaks—
“Why?”
The tautness of his tone makes my heart for some reason, and instead of telling him that I’ve asked him to stop because I don’t care for his kisses—
“B-Because you think I’m ugly!”
I find myself blurting out the truth—
“I never said that.”
And now I’m the one he’s making out to be the liar between us?
“Yes, you did!”
“When then?”
“You...you might not have said it exactly like that, but when you said I wasn’t the type to seduce—”
“And I still think that. You’re too innocent to be capable of seducing anyone.”
Innocent?
That’s what he meant by saying I’m not the type to seduce?
Not ugly but innocent?
And if that’s the case, then is it safe for me to assume he thinks the opposite, and that I’m actually pret—
Focus, Mira!
Whether he thinks I’m ugly or innocent isn’t the point. Because he did say something else—
“What about wanting to marry me off?”
And that part I definitely didn’t misunderstand.
“So you do speak French,” he murmurs.
“Don’t change the sub—”
“Why did you never tell me you speak French?”
“You never asked.”
“I’m asking now.”
“I—” This isn’t how this conversation is supposed to go. I’m supposed to be the one asking questions. “Stop changing the subject—”
“Then stop giving meaning to words you were never meant to hear.”
“Are you saying you lied?”
“And stop accusing me of something I never will be.”
“So you’re not a liar, but you deny—”
“I’m not denying saying what you heard.”
“So you really wanted to marry me off.”
“I did.”
Two words.
Just two words, and I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest.
“At that time.”
Three words now.
Just three words, and the sun inside my heart starts shining again.
His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone so gently it makes my throat tight. I should push him away. I should demand more answers. I should do something other than stand here melting into his touch like I have no self-respect whatsoever.
But my body has apparently staged a mutiny against my brain, and all I can do is stare up at him and wait.
“I wanted to marry you off because that’s how my people used to solve things.” His thumb traces my jaw, featherlight. “I thought I’d find you someone safe. Someone capable of protecting you. Someone who deserved you in ways I never could.”
My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear myself think.
“But now?” I whisper.