Chapter 6 #2
The library is a sanctuary, warm and dim, the noise a low murmur compared to the cafeteria’s chaos.
It smells like paper and dust and stress.
I hide in the stacks, finding a carrel in the back where the silence wraps around me like a heavy shroud.
The walls of the little study cubicle hug my shoulders on either side, and something in me finally loosens, just a fraction.
I open a textbook, but I’m not reading. The quiet gives the thoughts more room to spiral, a tempest just waiting to break.
Slammed him. The word echoes. Violence.
About me.
The two thoughts collide. He saw me at the bar. He heard Rylan talking about me. And he… he snapped.
He dented a locker for me.
In my head, I line it up like evidence on a board, trying to make it make sense.
Fact: he put his hand on another player’s throat.
Fact: it happened because my name was in Rylan’s mouth.
None of it feels good.
The thought isn’t comforting. It’s terrifying. It’s a claim. A dark, possessive, violent claim.
Heat flickers low in my stomach—traitorous and wrong—twining with the fear until I can’t distinguish where one ends and the other begins.
I thought I left that behind. I thought Briarcliff was a safe haven.
Violence follows me. Even here.
I tilt my head back against the cinderblock and stare at a water stain on the ceiling tile, breathing slow, counting my pulse in my throat.
He protected you, the treacherous part of my brain whispers.
No, the survivor screams back. Violence is violence.
My ex used his hands to take. To pin. To coerce. Declan used his hands to… stop Rylan from speaking. To stop him from taking.
The logic is there, a thin, razor-sharp line distinguishing the two. One was predation; one was defense.
But in the dark, fear doesn’t know the difference. It just sees the rage. It just sees the size of him and the damage he can do.
Staying would be easier. It would also be surrender.
By the time the overhead lamps flicker on, casting long shadows across the rows, my muscles are cramped and my eyes burn. The quiet isn’t a blanket now; it’s a cage.
I pack my bag, skin crawling, and push back out into the cold.
The freezing air hits my face, a welcome slap. My breath fogs in thick white plumes. I tuck my chin into my scarf and round the corner onto the main quad—right into a wall-sized poster for the next Titans game.
A slick, corporate-blue promo shot. The team in full gear, helmets off, eyes hard. The goalie crouched low in front, mask in hand. Him. Declan. The camera caught him mid-glare, eyes sharp, jaw clenched.
My father’s name is at the bottom, under COACH. It glows like a warning label.
I stop, breath catching in the cold. That look. That glare. It splinters a flash-image across my vision—hands gripping my wrist, pinning it too tight.
You owe me for this room, baby. You owe me for the drinks.
My heart stammers. That was taking.
Then another voice overlays it. Low. Dangerous. Lock your doors.
That was giving.
I shake my head hard, a violent jerk to clear it. Stop. You’re not there. You’re here. You’re safe.
But the word feels like a lie.
I don’t mean to walk past the rink. It’s out of my way. But my feet carry me there anyway, like I’m caught in an undertow I can’t resist. Curiosity is too soft a word. It’s compulsion. I need to see for myself what kind of monster I’m sharing a campus with.
This isn’t just about noise anymore. It’s about seeing who he is when no one’s watching.
It’s dusk. The sky is a deep, bruised purple. The arena lights burn a hazy, pale yellow through fogged glass. It looks quiet. Empty.
I pause on the sidewalk, hidden in the shadow of the neighboring arts building. My breath hangs in the air, a pale ghost.
I hear it, even from here.
Clack.
A sharp, echoing report.
Then a long, scraping hiss. Shh-shh-shh.
The sounds are distinct, separate. The violence of the puck hitting the boards, and the rhythm of the skates slicing ice.
I move closer to a side door and peer through the wired-glass window. The metal frame bites cold into my fingers.
He’s there. Declan.
Alone on the ice, in full gear. He shouldn't be here—the rumors said he was sent away—but looking at him, I know nothing could keep him out.
He drops into a butterfly, pads slamming the ice with a heavy thud. Then he stands.
Tap. Tap.
Stick against the posts. A metronome.
He skates a tight, small circle, blades carving white lines. His movements are economical, precise, like the arena is a dark cathedral and this is his liturgy.
He looks like he did during the game. Calm. Focused. Untouchable.
A wall of controlled stillness. A monk in armor.
Then he turns, and he fires a puck against the boards. CRACK.
The sound is gunshot loud. It vibrates through the glass against my fingertips.
The monster.
He turns his head, scanning the stands, even though they’re empty. The same slow sweep as before, the same systematic check of exits and angles. Habit. Hypervigilance. Paranoia. Survival. I don’t know which.
Maybe all of them.
I press closer to the glass, my breath fogging the wire-reinforced pane. I know he can’t see me clearly like this—outside lights behind me, ice glare in front of him—but when his scan crosses my side of the arena, my body still reacts.
I jerk back from the window, heart slam-dancing against my ribs, flattening myself into the shadow of the doorway like a criminal caught spying.
How can he be both? The silent, watchful monk who follows a ritual and the violent force who dents steel?
My pulse trips over itself, caught between the urge to bolt and the awful recognition of that constant scanning. That need to know where every exit is. I know what it’s like to live as though danger is always in the room, even when it’s empty.
The contradiction sits like a cold knot in my stomach. He’s dangerous. I can feel it.
My body screams at me to run, to put as much distance as possible between me and that kind of uncontrolled, possessive rage.
And I hate—hate—that part of me, a small, stupid, broken part, feels safer knowing he’s near.
Because it’s a betrayal. Because it’s a lie.
That feeling—that flicker of “safe”—is the most dangerous thing of all. It’s what lets the monster in. It’s what kept me from leaving that room the first time he put his hand on the door.