Chapter 1 Kieran
Kieran
“I stand amid the roar of a surf-tormented shore.” Edgar Allan Poe
Walking into the hospital room, Deirdre is the first thing my eyes search for. She looks peaceful. The machine is still breathing for her, chest rising and falling in a rhythmic, regular pattern.
Claire looks like she hasn’t slept in days, and yet, it’s only been a little over eighteen hours since Deirdre arrived here.
She’s slumped in one of the vinyl chairs beside Deirdre’s bed, her arms crossed, her eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of Deirdre’s breathing beneath the blanket.
The sterile light of the fluorescent lights overhead washes her out, making her look ten years older.
Her lips are tight, and I can see how hard she’s trying to keep it together—for Deirdre. For me.
She recognizes my presence as soon as I step into the room.
“She moved her hand,” she whispers when I step toward the bed. “Just a twitch. That stupid nurse just shrugged it off, saying it could’ve been nothing.”
She squeezes her eyes shut, frustrated. “She’s wrong, right? It couldn’t have been nothing. She’s coming back to us, right?”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. I sink into the chair across from her and stare at Deirdre’s pale face, the bruises blooming along her temple like ink spilled in water.
“I thought she was gone,” I say eventually, my voice like gravel. “I mean, she was for a moment.”
Claire’s eyes finally meet mine, and she gently strokes my hand in assurance. “Me too. But you got to her just in time.”
The door creaks open, and the familiar scent of burnt espresso and cardboard wafts in before I even see him.
“Morning,” Gabe says, holding up a cardboard drink carrier. “Didn’t know what you wanted, so I brought one black coffee, macchiato, chai tea, and an Americano. Take your pick.”
“Chai tea for me, please.” Claire lets out a weak laugh, reaching for one. “You’re an angel.”
“Doubt that,” he mutters, his eyes drifting to me as I take the cup of black coffee without a word. “You look like hell, McKnight.”
I nod. I feel worse. Sleep eluded me last night, and anytime I closed my eyes and started to drift off, I would see her lying on the floor.
“She needs to wake up,” I murmur, barely able to get the words out. They hang in the air like a dark storm cloud waiting to erupt.
Nobody says anything for a long time. The machines keep beeping. The fluorescent light hums and flickers above our heads. And Deirdre doesn’t move.
It’s hard to believe you’re still breathing with how still you are. Machines click and sigh beside me, taking the breaths you can’t. A nurse just came in to check your IV. I asked if there was any change.
She said no.
I wasn’t allowed to stay last night. Claire told me to go home and get some sleep. Gabe even offered to drive me. The tiny nurse forced me away. If I had my choice, this hard chair would have my ass imprinted on it. I can’t leave you again.
My hand is cramping from writing, but I keep going because it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m still connected to you. Like if I write long enough, maybe you’ll hear me through my written words. Maybe you’ll wake up.
My mind keeps dragging me back to times I saw you at Salvation. Not the first time. The second. That night I really saw you.
You weren’t doing much—just wiping down the bar, hair tied up, tank top hugging your frame, a smudge of something glittery on your cheekbone from someone else’s makeup.
You didn’t look glamorous, but it was a stark contrast from the first night I saw you walk in, when you looked like you would rather blend into the walls of the club.
I remember thinking you looked…tired. Guarded. But God, you were beautiful, in the way that half the room paused as you walked by.
I was halfway to the back office before I stopped myself and turned around just to watch you from the shadows. Not like a creep. Not like a man sizing you up like you were prey.
I just…watched. Mesmerized.
There was a sadness in the way you moved, like you didn’t want anyone to really see you. But I did.
I saw the way your eyes drifted toward the exit every few minutes, like you were counting the hours until you could breathe again.
Vincent had told me at the last meeting we had that “She’s not like the others. She’s determined. Different from most college girls. Works hard, is attempting to pay for Cornelia with the tips. Pretty risky, I’d say.”
My body froze at the word Cornelia. She was going to be a student at the school where I teach?
As if Vincent could read my mind, “Don’t go starting trouble, Kieran.”
I remember telling him I wasn’t trouble.
I was lying.
Because from that night forward, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.
I didn’t approach you. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t even let you catch me watching.
But my attraction—whatever it was—started curling its way into my chest like serrated coils.
And I knew if I ever touched you, I wouldn’t be able to stop.
Now I sit here, looking at your pale face, split lip, the dark bruise crawling along your cheekbone and temple.
I’d give anything to go back to that night. To walk up to you and say something. To put myself between you and whatever was coming.
Instead, I’m sitting here writing in this goddamn notebook while your fingers lie limp beneath the blanket, your wrists taped with tubes.
You used to wipe glasses behind the bar with those hands. Tuck your hair behind your ear with them. Grab onto me while I bury myself inside you.
I just want you to open those eyes. Just one look. Just something.
I swore to myself that night I wouldn’t put myself in your path, I wouldn’t touch you, because I respected you, and I was a dangerous storm of pain that would swallow you whole.
But now I’d give anything just to hold your hand.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I cringe when I see the name on my screen.
President Sheridan: Good Morning, Professor. You do remember you have to teach the winter mini session starting Monday? I need to see your curriculum prep. Or are you too occupied?
It’s the same fucking curriculum every fucking winter session.
Gritting my teeth at the tone of his text, I exhale.
Kieran: Yes. I will be there shortly. It is only 7:30 a.m. I’m not far from the university.
President Sheridan: How is Miss Ravencroft? Pity how someone could have so little respect for human life.
I don’t like his demeanor. On exam day in the classroom, he seemed off. Like he was sniffing around for information, and that comment about Brandon Danforth. Then it’s almost as though the attack added more to his suspicions, and like Claire said, it didn’t help me being there.
Playing dumb, I send a vague response.
Kieran: You would have to ask her roommate, Miss Thompson. I will see you soon, Sheridan.
Day 3: Friday
The snow outside my office window hasn’t stopped since last night.
Thick flurries coat the courtyard like powdered sugar.
It’s quiet. The campus feels like a ghost town, and the world has slowed to a crawl.
Almost everyone’s gone—most of the students have gone home for break—including some of the staff.
Except me.
I sit at my desk, staring at the mini session syllabus I’ve been trying to finalize for the past hour.
Just two weeks. Just one course. I should be able to focus.
I should be able to do my damn job. It’s just a repeat of last year’s mini, but of course, Sheridan wants an updated version.
I should just change the date and hand it over.
But every time I try to focus, my eyes drift to the notebook sitting on the corner of my desk. The black one I stole from her dorm. The one I’ve started filling with my own pages, my own memories, like I’m borrowing her voice in the hope it’ll bring her back.
With a long exhale, I push the syllabus aside and pull the journal closer. My fingers curl around the pen like they always do when I feel words crawling under my skin. Guilt. Want. Fear.
She’s still unconscious.
And I’m still drowning.
When the pen meets the paper, the words start to flow.
I saw you again that night at Salvation—mid July, maybe the second week of the month.
It had been almost two months since you started working there.
You had shed some of that wary tension you used to carry in your shoulders.
Still cautious. Still distant. But your smile came easier.
Your laughter didn’t sound rehearsed anymore.
You were behind the bar this time. Talking to Gabe.
Not just talking—laughing. That low, husky laugh I didn’t know you had in you until then. It was the kind of sound that made you turn your head even if you weren’t listening. I was in the shadows, as usual. Watching you when I knew I shouldn’t be.
Gabe leaned in close to say something, and you shoved him with a playfulness about you. His grin widened. That easy rapport between you two—it was natural. It pissed me off more than I’d like to admit.
Word from Vincent was that you had been staying with him for a bit, crashing on his couch until your dorm assignment kicked in. Said it made more sense than paying rent. He said you felt safe with him.
Safe.
I should’ve been glad you had someone. But I wasn’t. I hated it.
I hated the idea of you falling asleep on his couch while I kept my distance like I was supposed to. I hated that Gabe got to see you in your tired, messy, off-guard moments. That he made you laugh like that. That he didn’t have to pretend he wasn’t drawn to you.
But most of all, I hated that I had no right to feel anything about it.
I kept reminding myself I was a Professor at the same fucking university you were attending. That I was older. That you were off-limits. It would ruin both of our careers.
But the truth is—I was already too far gone.
I should’ve looked away. I should’ve let you belong to someone else. I should’ve walked into the back office and forgotten your name.
Instead, I watched you for another twenty minutes.
I think I already knew then—I was never going to let you go.
Kieran
I close the journal and press my thumb to my eyes, willing the tension away. My shoulders are tight. My head’s pounding. I need coffee. Or sleep. Or—
A knock.
Then the door opens without waiting for an answer.
“Professor McKnight,” comes the smooth, clipped voice that raises every alarm in my body.
I glance up and see him standing in the doorway—President Sheridan, wrapped in his usual smugness like a bespoke suit.
His eyes sweep the room with too much interest. Land briefly on the journal before flicking back to mine.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything too…personal,” he says, stepping inside like he owns the place.
I sit straighter, closing the notebook with careful fingers.
“What can I help you with, President Sheridan?”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just tying up a few loose ends before the short semester officially resumes. You know how chaotic these mini’s can be. I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been…quite distant since the fall semester concluded.”
I say nothing.
He lets the silence stretch, then taps his fingers on the back of one of the chairs across from me. “I mean, it’s been a rather eventful week. Very unfortunate, what happened to Miss Ravencroft.”
My jaw clenches. I don’t even like hearing her name roll off his tongue.
He leans forward slightly. “Of course, one can’t help but notice your…involvement.”
There it is.
The unspoken accusation.
I match his gaze. “She’s a very good student, with mountains of potential in this field. I care about my students.”
He lets out a small hum. “Of course you do.” Then, after a beat: “Still, the university prefers its faculty to keep…professional boundaries. Especially when under the spotlight.”
I stare at him. “Is there something you’re trying to say, sir?”
“Not at all. Just offering a friendly reminder.”
He turns and strolls toward the door. “Enjoy your winter session, Professor. I’ll be checking in.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
And for the first time all day, I let my fist slam down on the desk.
Because I know what he’s doing.
And I know I won’t let him get away with it. Not with her.
Not ever. Not again.