LYRA

I don't sleep.

How the fuck am I supposed to sleep knowing Rhys Hawthorne has a key to my room? That he stood over my bed, watching me, taking pictures while I was completely vulnerable?

By the time dawn breaks, I've made a decision.

I'm going to report this.

Photo. Note. Everything.

He might be untouchable, but there are rules. Even at Blackwood Elite University, there have to be consequences for breaking into someone's room. For stalking. For whatever the fuck he thinks he's doing.

At seven AM, I'm standing in the campus security office, the photo and note in a manila folder I found in my desk drawer. My hands are steady even though my insides are churning.

The security officer—a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a wedding ring—listens to my story with increasing concern. He looks at the photo. Reads the note. Frowns.

"This is serious, Miss Solis. Breaking and entering, stalking behavior—"

"Can you do something about it?"

He hesitates.

That hesitation tells me everything I need to know.

"We'll file a report," he says carefully. "Document everything. But I have to be honest with you—Mr. Hawthorne is... well, he's a significant donor to the university. His family funds half the scholarship programs, including—"

"Including mine."

The words taste like ash.

"I'm not saying we won't investigate," he continues, but his eyes say exactly that. "I'm just saying that these situations can be... complicated."

Complicated.

Right.

Code for: you're nobody, and he's Rhys fucking Hawthorne, so guess whose side the university is going to take?

"File the report," I say, standing. "Document it. Because when this escalates—and it will—I want it on record that I tried to stop it."

He nods, looking relieved that I'm not pushing harder. "We'll be in touch."

I walk out knowing they won't be.

By second period—Economics 301—I understand exactly how fucked I am.

The lecture hall is massive, tiered seating that holds two hundred students. I always sit in the back corner, as far from the spotlight as possible. My usual survival strategy: invisible, quiet, unremarkable.

Today, that strategy fails spectacularly.

I'm twenty minutes into Professor Mitchell's lecture on supply and demand curves when the door at the back opens.

Every head turns.

Because of course they do.

Rhys Hawthorne walks in like he owns the place—which, given his family's donations, he basically does. Twenty minutes late. No apology. No acknowledgment of the disruption. Just that careless confidence that comes from never having to explain yourself to anyone.

He's wearing black today. Black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, black trousers that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, black leather shoes that click against the floor with each deliberate step.

He looks like sin wrapped in expensive fabric.

Professor Mitchell pauses mid-sentence, clearly annoyed but equally clearly unwilling to call him out. "Mr. Hawthorne. Nice of you to join us."

"Traffic." Rhys's voice carries through the hall, smooth and unapologetic.

It's bullshit. There's no traffic between the student housing and the academic buildings. But no one challenges him.

He scans the room, and I know the exact moment he finds me.

His storm-gray eyes lock onto mine, and that cruel smile curves his lips—the same smile I saw yesterday before he slammed me against the wall and wrapped his hand around my throat.

My stomach drops.

No.

Please no.

He doesn't sit in his usual seat—front and center, where all the girls can drool over him and all the guys can worship him.

He climbs the stairs.

Directly toward me.

I'm in the back corner. There are dozens of empty seats. Literally dozens.

He takes the one directly behind me.

I hear the scrape of the chair, feel the displacement of air as he settles into the seat, feel the weight of his presence like a physical thing pressing against my back.

Professor Mitchell resumes the lecture, but I can't focus on a single word.

All I can feel is him.

His presence overwhelming. Suffocating.

His breath on my neck when he leans forward.

"Pay attention, sweetheart." His voice is low, meant only for me. "Wouldn't want you to fail."

My spine stiffens. My hands clench around my pen hard enough that my knuckles turn white.

"I know you can hear me," he continues, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Your shoulders just tensed. Your breathing changed. You're very aware of me, aren't you?"

I don't answer.

Don't turn around.

Don't give him the satisfaction.

"That's okay," he murmurs, and his breath ghosts across my neck, making goosebumps rise on my skin. "You don't have to admit it yet. I have time. All the time in the world to break down those walls you've built."

His finger traces up my spine, so light I might have imagined it.

Except I didn't imagine the way my body responds—the shiver, the involuntary arch away from his touch, the way my breath catches.

"Sensitive," he observes. "Good to know."

I spend the rest of the lecture frozen in place, hyperaware of every movement he makes. Every shift in his seat. Every breath. Every time he leans forward and his chest brushes my back.

It's torture.

Deliberate, calculated torture.

And he's enjoying every second of it.

When the lecture finally ends—ninety minutes that feel like ninety hours—I grab my bag and try to leave quickly. Merge with the crowd. Disappear into the mass of students flooding toward the exits.

But Rhys is faster.

I make it to the stairwell—the same one I use every day because it's less crowded than the main stairs—before his hand wraps around my wrist and yanks me backward.

"Where are you going so fast, sweetheart?"

His voice is dark. Dangerous.

I try to pull away. "Let go—"

He doesn't.

Instead, he uses my momentum against me, spinning me around and slamming me against the concrete wall hard enough that the impact steals my breath.

The stairwell is empty. Everyone else took the main exits.

We're alone.

His hand slams beside my head, caging me in. His other hand grips my hip—hard, possessive, his fingers digging in through the fabric of my sundress hard enough to bruise.

"We need to establish something—"

"Don't touch me—"

He cuts me off by pressing his entire body against mine.

Every. Single. Inch.

His chest against mine. His hips pinning me to the wall. His thigh forcing between my legs, spreading them, making room for himself in a space I didn't give him permission to occupy.

"Your body says something different than your mouth, sweetheart."

His hand slides from my hip to my ass, gripping possessively. Claiming. His fingers splay wide, and even through my dress, I can feel the heat of his palm, the strength in his grip.

I try to shove him away. "Get off—"

"You're trembling." His voice is low, observant, clinical. Like he's cataloging every response my body has to his proximity. "Pupils dilated. Breathing fast."

His face is so close I can see the darker ring around his storm-gray irises. Can smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine that shouldn't smell as good as it does.

"Fear or arousal?" His lips ghost along my jaw, barely touching, just close enough that I can feel his breath on my skin. "Let's find out."

His hand starts sliding up my thigh.

Under my dress.

Slowly. Deliberately. Giving me time to stop him.

Except I can't move.

I'm frozen, pinned between the concrete wall and his body, watching his hand disappear under the cream fabric of my sundress, feeling his fingers skim over my skin, leaving fire in their wake.

No.

Fuck no.

I slap him.

Hard.

The crack echoes in the stairwell, sharp and violent.

His head turns from the impact, and I see the red mark blooming on his cheek where my palm connected.

For a second—one terrifying second—I think I've made a terrible mistake.

His jaw clenches. His eyes darken to something between rage and lust. His hand on my thigh tightens, fingers digging in.

Then he looks back at me.

And smiles.

It's not a nice smile.

It's the smile of a predator who's just been given permission to play with his prey.

"Do that again," he says, his voice dropping to something dark and rough, "and I'll bend you over right here and fuck you until you can't walk."

My heart is racing. My breath coming in short gasps. "You wouldn't dare—"

"Try me, sweetheart." His hand slides higher, his fingers brushing the edge of my underwear. "I'll do it with the whole fucking school watching if it proves you're mine."

His thumb strokes along the seam of my panties, and I hate—hate—that my body responds. That I can feel myself getting wet. That some traitorous part of me wants to know what would happen if I didn't stop him.

"You're already wet." His voice is triumphant. "I can feel it through the fabric. Your body knows who it belongs to, even if your mind is still fighting."

"I don't belong to—"

"Rhys."

The voice comes from the top of the stairs.

Damon Knight stands there, hands in his pockets, black eyes taking in the scene with zero expression. He doesn't look surprised. Doesn't look concerned. Just... observant.

"Not here," Damon says quietly.

Rhys doesn't move immediately. His fingers linger on my thigh, his thumb still stroking that maddening pattern against my underwear. His eyes hold mine, and I see the promise there.

This isn't over.

Then he pulls back.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Dragging his body against mine as he steps away, making sure I feel every inch of him, making sure I know exactly what I'm missing.

His hand trails down my thigh as he withdraws, and when he finally steps back completely, I can still feel the ghost of his touch burning on my skin.

He leans in one more time, his lips brushing my ear.

"Tonight, sweetheart. I'm coming for you."

Then he's gone.

Walking up the stairs like nothing happened. Like he didn't just assault me in a stairwell. Like he didn't just threaten to fuck me in public.

Damon watches him go, then looks back at me.

"Lock your door," he says. "Not that it'll matter."

Then he follows Rhys, leaving me alone in the stairwell.

Trembling.

Wet.

Furious.

And terrified.

Because I believe him.

He's coming for me tonight.

And I have no idea how to stop him.

I skip my afternoon classes.

I can't focus. Can't think. Can't do anything except replay what happened in that stairwell over and over in my mind.

His hand on my thigh.

His fingers brushing against my underwear.

The way my body responded despite my mind screaming no.

You're already wet.

I hate that he was right.

I make it back to my dorm and lock the door—deadbolt, chain, everything. Then I check the window. It's on the third floor, and there's no fire escape, no ledge, no way for anyone to climb up.

Unless Rhys Hawthorne has fucking superpowers, he's not getting in through the window.

But Damon's words echo in my mind.

Lock your door. Not that it'll matter.

What did that mean?

How did Rhys get in last night?

I search my room methodically. Under the bed. In the closet. Behind the furniture. Looking for cameras, microphones, anything that would explain how he knew I was asleep, how he knew what I was wearing.

Nothing.

But I know he was here.

The photo proves it.

My phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

I stare at it, my stomach sinking, knowing—knowing—who it is before I even open the message.

UNKNOWN: Missing me already, sweetheart?

My hands shake as I type back.

ME: Leave me alone.

The response is immediate.

UNKNOWN: No. By the way, that sundress you're wearing? The cream one with the tiny flowers? It's my new favorite. But I prefer what you sleep in. That oversized t-shirt that falls off your shoulder. Very tempting.

He can see me.

Right now.

I spin around, searching my room frantically. Where's the camera? Where is he watching from?

UNKNOWN: You won't find it. I'm very good at what I do. Now stop panicking and sit down. You're making yourself anxious, and I don't like seeing you upset.

ME: Then STOP stalking me!

UNKNOWN: Can't do that. You're mine, sweetheart. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be.

ME: I'm NOT yours. I don't even know you.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

UNKNOWN: You do know me. You just don't remember yet. But you will. I'll make sure of it.

What the fuck does that mean?

Before I can respond, another message comes through.

UNKNOWN: I'm coming over at midnight. Be ready.

ME: I won't let you in.

UNKNOWN: You won't have a choice. Sleep well, sweetheart. Or don't. I prefer you exhausted. You're less likely to fight me when you're tired. -RH

The messages stop.

I block the number.

Two seconds later, a new text from a different unknown number.

UNKNOWN: Blocking me won't work. I have unlimited resources and unlimited patience. See you at midnight. -RH

I throw my phone across the room.

It bounces off the wall and lands on my bed, intact but taunting.

He's fucking with me.

Playing games.

Proving he has all the power and I have none.

I look at the clock.

6:47 PM.

Five hours and thirteen minutes until midnight.

Five hours and thirteen minutes to figure out how to stop a man who has unlimited money, unlimited power, and apparently unlimited access to my life.

I grab my phone and call the one person I trust in this god-forsaken university.

"Lyra?" My friend Kieran's voice is warm, concerned. "You okay?"

"Can I stay with you tonight?"

"Of course. What's wrong?"

"I'll explain when I get there."

I throw some clothes in a bag—enough for tonight and tomorrow. Grab my toiletries. My laptop. My textbooks.

Then I take one last look at my room.

At the place that was supposed to be safe.

And I leave.

If Rhys Hawthorne wants to break into my room at midnight, he can do it.

But I won't be there.

Let him play his games with an empty room.

Kieran lives off-campus in a small apartment he shares with his boyfriend. It's cramped but cozy, and most importantly, it's not Blackwood housing.

Rhys Hawthorne can't access the building without a key.

I think.

I hope.

"So," Kieran says, handing me a cup of tea and settling onto the couch beside me. "Want to tell me why you're hiding from Rhys Hawthorne?"

"How did you—"

"Everyone saw what happened in the entrance hall yesterday. And the video from the stairwell is already circulating."

My stomach drops. "There's a video?"

"Someone filmed it from the floor above. You can't see much—just him pinning you to the wall. But the audio is clear enough."

Do that again, and I'll bend you over right here and fuck you until you can't walk.

Oh god.

"It'll blow over," Kieran says gently. "Tomorrow there'll be some new scandal and everyone will forget."

"He won't forget."

"No," Kieran agrees. "He won't. So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

And that's the truth.

I don't know how to fight someone who has all the power.

Someone who's already inside my head.

Someone who promised to come for me.

And keeps his promises.

My phone buzzes.

UNKNOWN: Nice try, sweetheart. But running won't work. I know where you are. I always know where you are. Sleep tight. Tomorrow's going to be interesting. -RH

I show Kieran the message.

He goes pale.

"Lyra... maybe you should report this to the police."

"And tell them what? That a billionaire heir is stalking me? You think they'll care?"

"It's worth trying—"

"I already tried campus security. They filed a report and basically told me there's nothing they can do."

Kieran is quiet for a long moment.

Then he pulls me into a hug.

"Stay as long as you need. We'll figure this out."

But we both know the truth.

There's nothing to figure out.

Rhys Hawthorne has decided I'm his.

And men like him don't take no for an answer.

I just have to hope I'm strong enough to survive whatever he has planned.

I don't sleep.

Even in Kieran's apartment, even with the door locked and the windows secured, I can't relax.

Because I keep thinking about that message.

I know where you are. I always know where you are.

How?

How does he know?

Is he tracking my phone?

I turn it off. Pull out the SIM card. Bury it in my bag.

But the damage is done.

He knows I ran.

And tomorrow, he's going to make me pay for it.