LYRA

I stay at Kieran's for two nights.

Two nights of sleeping on his couch, jumping at every sound, checking my phone obsessively for messages that don't come.

Rhys Hawthorne goes silent.

No texts. No calls. No appearances in my classes.

It's almost worse than the stalking.

Because I know he's out there. Watching. Waiting. Planning whatever fresh hell he has in store for me.

On the third day, Kieran gently suggests I go back to my dorm.

"You can't hide forever," he says, and he's right.

I have classes. Assignments. A life I can't put on hold just because some psychotic billionaire has decided I'm his new obsession.

So I go back.

Campus security installed a new lock while I was gone—their pathetic attempt at making me feel safe after I filed that useless report. The maintenance guy hands me two shiny new keys and assures me that "only authorized personnel" have copies.

Right.

Because that worked so well the first time.

I thank him anyway and lock the door behind me, engaging the deadbolt and the chain for good measure.

Then I turn around.

And freeze.

My room has been... rearranged.

Not destroyed. Not trashed. Just... moved.

My textbooks are stacked differently on my desk—tallest to shortest instead of the chaotic pile I left them in. My closet is organized by color, my dresses hanging in a perfect gradient from cream to sage to dusty blue.

Even my bed is made—corners tucked in with military precision, pillow fluffed and centered.

No.

No no no no no.

I walk further into the room on numb legs, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.

There's a note on my pillow.

Cream cardstock. Masculine handwriting I'm starting to recognize.

My hands shake as I pick it up.

You sleep on your left side. You kick the blankets off around 3 AM. You were dreaming last night—said my name twice. Were you dreaming about me, sweetheart? -RH

The note falls from my fingers.

He was here.

While I was at Kieran's apartment, thinking I was safe, thinking I'd escaped him—he was here. In my room. Touching my things. Organizing my life like he has any right to.

And worse.

You were dreaming last night—said my name twice.

I wasn't here last night.

Which means he was watching me at Kieran's.

Somehow, impossibly, he was watching me sleep in someone else's apartment and I didn't even know it.

How?

How the fuck is he doing this?

I tear my room apart looking for cameras. Rip the sheets off my bed. Pull books off shelves. Check every corner, every shadow, every possible hiding spot.

Nothing.

But I know they're there.

Hidden so well I can't find them. Watching me right now, probably. Recording my panic. My fear.

My phone buzzes.

UNKNOWN: You won't find them. I told you—I'm very good at what I do. Now stop destroying your room and sit down. You're making a mess, and I don't appreciate having to clean up after you. -RH

I want to throw my phone.

Want to scream.

Want to run again, even though I know it's useless.

Instead, I do the only thing I can do.

I call campus security.

Again.

They send the same officer from before.

He looks at my rearranged room with a frown, reads the note with increasing concern, listens to my story about being watched at my friend's apartment.

"Miss Solis," he says carefully. "I understand you're frightened. But without concrete evidence—"

"The note is evidence!"

"It's a piece of paper with writing on it. There's no proof Mr. Hawthorne wrote it."

"It's signed with his initials!"

"Which could be faked by anyone trying to cause trouble."

I stare at him. "You're not going to do anything."

"We've upgraded your lock—"

"And he got in anyway!"

The officer shifts uncomfortably. "I'll file another report. Document everything. But unless you have video evidence or witnesses—"

"He IS the evidence! He told me he was coming for me. He's been texting me from multiple numbers. He cornered me in a stairwell in front of other students!"

"The stairwell incident was investigated. Several witnesses said it looked consensual—"

"CONSENSUAL?" My voice cracks. "He had me pinned against a wall!"

"Miss Solis." The officer's voice is gentle but firm. "I understand you're upset. But making accusations against someone like Mr. Hawthorne without solid proof can have serious consequences. For you."

The threat is subtle but clear.

Drop it, or face retaliation.

I'm on my own.

"Get out," I say quietly.

"Miss Solis—"

"I said get out."

He leaves, taking his useless report and his empty promises with him.

I lock the door behind him and slide down to sit on the floor, my back against the wood, my arms wrapped around my knees.

This is my life now.

Stalked by a man with unlimited resources and unlimited audacity.

Unprotected by the very systems that are supposed to keep me safe.

Alone.

My phone buzzes.

UNKNOWN: I'm sorry you're upset. But you need to understand—I'm not going anywhere. You can file a hundred reports. You can change a thousand locks. You can run to every friend you have. It won't matter. I'll always find you. Because you're mine, sweetheart. And I take care of what's mine. -RH

I block the number.

Five seconds later, a new message from a different number.

UNKNOWN: Stop blocking me. It's annoying. And it won't work. I have more numbers than you have patience. -RH

I turn my phone off completely.

Throw it on my bed.

And try to figure out how to survive this.

That night, I barely sleep.

Every sound makes me jump. Every creak of the building. Every footstep in the hallway.

I've wedged a chair under my doorknob in addition to the locks. Checked the window three times. Left the bathroom light on so the room isn't completely dark.

Pathetic attempts at security that won't stop someone with Rhys's resources.

But it's all I have.

I finally drift off around 2 AM, exhausted and wired at the same time.

And wake to the feeling of being watched.

My eyes open slowly, my body still heavy with sleep, my brain trying to process what woke me.

Then I see him.

Rhys Hawthorne sits in the chair beside my bed—the same chair I wedged under the door handle.

Watching me in the darkness.

Storm-gray eyes catching the faint light from the bathroom, his expression unreadable.

I scream.

The sound rips from my throat, raw and terrified and desperate.

He doesn't move.

Doesn't flinch.

Just sits there, one ankle crossed over his knee, arms relaxed on the armrests, like he has every right to be here.

"Scream all you want," he says calmly. "No one's coming. I made sure of that."

I scramble back on the bed, pressing myself against the headboard, my heart threatening to explode out of my chest.

"Get out—"

"No."

He stands slowly, deliberately, and I track every movement like prey watching a predator.

He's wearing black again. Black t-shirt that clings to his lean frame. Black joggers. Barefoot.

Like he dressed for comfort.

For staying a while.

He walks to my bed with measured steps and sits on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight.

"I told you I was coming for you."

"This is breaking and entering—"

"Call the cops." His smile is cruel in the darkness. "I own half the police force in this city. See how far it gets you."

I believe him.

God help me, I believe every word.

He reaches out, and I jerk back, but there's nowhere to go. My back is already against the headboard. I'm trapped on my own bed with a man who's made it clear he doesn't respect boundaries or laws or basic human decency.

His fingers brush my cheek, and I slap his hand away.

"Don't fucking touch me—"

"I'll touch you whenever I want."

His hand wraps around my ankle before I can pull away.

And yanks.

Hard.

I slide down the bed with a gasp, my body going horizontal, my head hitting the pillow as he drags me closer.

"And soon," he continues, his voice dropping to something dark and rough, "you'll beg me to."

I try to kick him.

He catches my other ankle easily, his reflexes faster than mine, his strength overwhelming.

Then he spreads my legs.

And settles between them.

"No—"

"Fight me, sweetheart." His hands slide up my calves to my thighs, holding me open. "I love it when you fight."

I'm only wearing sleep shorts and a tank top—thin fabric that does nothing to hide how exposed I am, how vulnerable.

His weight presses me into the mattress, his hips settling against mine, and I can feel him.

All of him.

Hard. Ready.

Waiting.

"Get OFF—"

"Make me."

His hands slide higher, fingers hooking into the waistband of my sleep shorts.

"Or better yet," he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear, "let me show you what your body really wants."

His hand reaches the edge of my shorts, starts to pull them down.

I twist violently, trying to throw him off, but he's too heavy, too strong, too fucking sure of his welcome.

"Rhys—"

"Say my name again." His fingers slip under the fabric. "I like how it sounds when you're scared."

"Please—"

"Begging already? We haven't even started."

Keys jingle in the hallway.

We both freeze.

A voice calls out—female, young, uncertain. "Hello? Campus security said I'm supposed to—"

The door starts to open.

Rhys is off me in a heartbeat.

One second he's between my legs, his hands on my body, his breath on my skin.

The next, he's gone.

Just... gone.

Like a ghost.

I sit up, gasping, looking around wildly.

The window is half open.Did he just fucking jump down from three flights?. The door is still opening. There's nowhere he could have—

My new roommate steps into the room, pulling a rolling suitcase behind her.

She's petite, blonde, wearing designer everything and looking around with barely concealed disgust.

"Oh," she says, taking in my rumpled appearance, my wild eyes, my heaving chest. "Did I interrupt something?"

I can't speak.

Can't process what just happened.

Rhys was here. In my bed. Between my legs.

And now he's not.

"I'm Madison," the girl continues when I don't answer. "Campus security said you requested a roommate after some... incident?"

Right.

The one thing campus security actually did—assigned me a roommate so I wouldn't be alone at night.

Fat lot of good it did.

Rhys got in anyway.

Got out anyway.

And I still have no idea how.

"Lyra," I manage finally. "I'm Lyra."

"Cool." Madison doesn't sound like she thinks it's cool. She sounds like she'd rather be anywhere else. "Which bed is mine?"

I gesture numbly to the empty bed across the room—the one that was supposed to be storage space until they decided I needed a babysitter.

Madison starts unpacking, chattering about classes and parties and some guy named Brett, and I tune her out completely.

Because there's something on my pillow.

Another note.

Hidden under the corner where Madison can't see it from her angle.

I grab it with shaking hands.

Tomorrow. I won't stop next time. -RH

My fingers crumple the paper.

He was here.

In my locked room.

With a chair wedged under the door.

With new locks that "only authorized personnel" have keys to.

And he got in.

Got out.

Without making a sound.

Without leaving a trace.

Except for the note.

And the memory of his hands on my body.

And the promise that next time, he won't stop.

Madison keeps talking, oblivious to my silence, unpacking her designer clothes and setting up her side of the room like this is normal.

Like I'm not sitting here on my bed, holding evidence that I was just assaulted in my own room and no one will do anything about it.

My phone—still off, still on my desk—suddenly lights up.

I stare at it.

I turned it off.

I know I turned it off.

But it's on now, the screen glowing with a new message notification.

UNKNOWN: Sweet dreams, sweetheart. I'll be watching. Always watching. -RH

Madison finally notices I'm not responding.

"You okay? You look kind of... freaked out."

I look at her—this stranger who's supposed to make me feel safe, who has no idea what she just walked into.

"Yeah," I lie. "Just tired."

She shrugs and goes back to unpacking.

And I sit there, holding the note, staring at my phone that turned itself on.

Knowing that tomorrow, Rhys Hawthorne is coming back.

And this time, he won't stop.