LYRA

I wake up the next morning to find Madison's side of the room completely empty. Bed stripped. Desk cleared. Closet open and bare. Like she was never here at all.

There's a note on her pillow. Not from Rhys this time—the handwriting is feminine, looping, apologetic.

Sorry. They offered me a single in the luxury dorms with no housing fees for the rest of the year. I couldn't turn it down. Hope you understand. -M

I crumple the note in my fist. Of course. Of fucking course. Rhys got rid of my roommate less than twenty-four hours after she moved in. Probably had someone from the university call her with an offer too good to refuse, knowing she'd take it without question, without caring that she was leaving me alone and vulnerable.

Because that's what he wants. Me alone. Isolated. With no witnesses to whatever he has planned.

I should be terrified. And I am. But I'm also furious. This obsessive, stalking bullshit has gone on long enough. If campus security won't help me, if the police won't help me, then I'll do what I should have done from the beginning.

I'm getting a restraining order.

The university has legal services for students—free consultation, help filing paperwork, all funded by tuition and donations. I make an appointment for that afternoon, skip my morning classes, and show up at the legal aid office with every piece of evidence I have. The notes. Screenshots of the texts. A written timeline of every incident. Photos of my rearranged room.

The lawyer assigned to my case is a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and sensible shoes. She listens to my story, reads through my evidence, and I watch her expression shift from concern to discomfort to something that looks almost like pity.

"Miss Solis," she says carefully, setting down the stack of notes. "I understand this situation is distressing. But I have to be honest with you—getting a restraining order against Rhys Hawthorne is... unlikely to succeed."

"Why not? I have evidence. Multiple incidents. He's broken into my room, sent threatening messages, physically cornered me—"

"All of which would be compelling evidence against anyone else." She removes her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose. "But Mr. Hawthorne's family donates millions to this university. His father sits on the board of trustees. Their legal team consists of some of the best attorneys in the country."

"So what? He gets to stalk me because he's rich?"

"I'm not saying it's right. I'm saying it's reality." She looks at me with genuine sympathy. "A restraining order requires proof of credible threat. His lawyers will argue that these notes are gifts, that the texts are flirtation, that the physical encounters were consensual or misunderstood. They'll drag your reputation through the mud. Question your motives. Suggest you're doing this for attention or money."

My hands clench in my lap. "I don't want his money."

"I believe you. A judge might not. And even if you did get a temporary order, enforcing it would be nearly impossible. Who's going to arrest Rhys Hawthorne? The campus security he funds? The city police his family has on retainer?"

"So I should just give up? Let him do whatever he wants?"

"I'm saying pick your battles carefully." She slides a business card across the desk. "This is a women's advocacy group that specializes in stalking cases. They might have more resources, more options. But against a Hawthorne?" She shakes her head. "You'd have better luck suing God."

I take the card with numb fingers. Thank her for her time. Walk out of the office with the taste of defeat bitter on my tongue.

The message is clear. Rhys Hawthorne is untouchable. And I'm on my own.

My phone buzzes as I'm crossing the quad. I don't even check the number anymore. I know who it is.

UNKNOWN: How did your little legal consultation go, sweetheart? I could have saved you the trip. There's no escaping me. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be. -RH

I want to throw my phone into the fountain. Want to scream. Want to do something other than stand here feeling powerless while he watches my every move, knows my every plan before I even execute it.

Instead, I shove my phone in my bag and head to my afternoon class. Economics again. The one Rhys shares with me.

I'm dreading it. Expecting him to sit behind me again, to whisper threats and promises in my ear, to make the entire ninety minutes a special kind of torture.

But when I walk into the lecture hall, he's not alone.

There's a blonde in his lap. Literally in his lap, her ass perched on his thighs, her arms draped around his neck, giggling at something he's saying. She's beautiful in that effortless way rich girls are—perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect everything. Wearing clothes that cost more than my tuition.

Rhys sees me enter. I watch his eyes track my movement across the room, watch that cruel smile curve his lips.

Then he kisses her. Right there, in front of everyone, his hand tangling in her blonde hair, pulling her closer, making a show of it.

Making sure I see.

My stomach twists. I don't know if it's disgust or something worse. Something I refuse to name.

I take my usual seat in the back corner, pull out my laptop, and pretend I don't notice. Pretend it doesn't bother me. Pretend I don't care that the man who's been obsessing over me, stalking me, claiming I'm his is now publicly making out with someone else.

The blonde finally slides off his lap when Professor Mitchell starts the lecture, moving to a seat beside him, her hand possessively on his thigh.

I force myself to focus on the lecture. Supply curves. Demand elasticity. Economic principles that have nothing to do with the chaos my life has become.

My phone buzzes silently in my bag. I ignore it. It buzzes again. And again.

After the fifth buzz, I finally check it. Multiple messages from multiple unknown numbers.

UNKNOWN: Jealous yet?

UNKNOWN: Her name is Cassidy. Trust fund baby. Daddy owns half of Manhattan.

UNKNOWN: She's pretty, isn't she? But she's not you.

UNKNOWN: I'm going to fuck her tonight. Going to bend her over and imagine it's your cunt I'm ruining.

UNKNOWN: Do you hate that it makes you jealous, sweetheart?

I shove my phone back in my bag with shaking hands. He's fucking with me. Playing games. Trying to get a reaction.

I won't give him one.

After class, I see him in the hallway. Cassidy is gone, but there's a redhead now. Different girl. Same desperate eyes. Same hands all over him.

He kisses her against the lockers, slow and deep and deliberate, his eyes opening mid-kiss to find me in the crowd.

He's watching me while he kisses her.

Making sure I see.

Making sure I know this is for my benefit.

I turn and walk away, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache.

That night, I see photos on social media. Rhys leaving a party with a brunette. His hand on her lower back. Her looking up at him like he hung the moon.

My phone explodes with messages.

UNKNOWN: She looked like you in the dark. That's the only reason I could get hard.

UNKNOWN: Bent her over in the back of my car. Fucked her from behind so I didn't have to see her face.

UNKNOWN: The whole time, I was imagining it was you. Your cunt. Your ass. Your screams.

UNKNOWN: Does that disgust you? Or turn you on?

I block every number. But new ones keep appearing. He has unlimited resources. Unlimited numbers. Unlimited ways to get under my skin.

I don't sleep that night. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, hating him. Hating myself for caring. Hating that some small, traitorous part of me wonders what it would be like to be the girl he actually wants instead of the one he tortures.

The next morning, I see him in the campus coffee shop. Another girl hanging on his arm. Dark hair this time, petite, wearing a dress so short it's basically a shirt.

But his eyes aren't on her. They're on me. Always on me.

I order my coffee and try to leave quickly. But he's faster. He always is.

"Lyra." His hand wraps around my wrist before I make it to the door, pulling me to a stop. "Did you get my messages?"

I yank my hand away. "You're disgusting."

"And you're wet." His eyes darken, that predatory smile spreading across his face. "I can smell it on you, sweetheart. You hate me, but your body wants me anyway."

"That's not—"

His hand shoots out faster than I can dodge, grabbing my wrist and yanking me close. So close I can smell his cologne, feel his breath on my face, see the flecks of darker gray in his storm-colored eyes.

"You hate that I fucked other girls," he says quietly, for my ears only. "You hate that you care. You hate that it made you jealous."

"I'm not jealous of your desperate groupies—"

"Liar." He spins me around so fast I don't have time to react, pins me face-first against the wall beside the exit. His body presses against my back, every hard plane of him molded to every soft curve of me. "You were thinking about it all night. Wondering what I was doing to them. Wondering why I won't do it to you."

Students are walking past. Staring. Some filming. This is going to be all over social media in minutes.

"People are watching—"

"Let them watch." His hand slides around to my stomach, fingers splaying possessively over the fabric of my sundress. "Let them see who you belong to."

His other hand is braced beside my head, caging me in. I can feel him pressed against my ass, can feel exactly how much he's enjoying this.

"You think I want those other girls?" His lips brush my ear. "I fucked them because I can't have you yet. Because you keep running. Keep fighting. But it didn't help. Nothing helps. Because the whole time, all I could think about was you."

His hand on my stomach slides lower. Not under my dress. Not yet. Just resting there, a promise and a threat.

"I could prove it right now," he murmurs. "Slide my hand into your panties. Show everyone in this coffee shop exactly how wet you are for the man you claim to hate."

My breath is coming fast. Too fast. My heart racing. My body betraying me in every possible way.

"I bet you're soaked," he continues, his voice dropping to that dark, rough tone that makes my thighs clench involuntarily. "I bet if I touched you right now, you'd be dripping for me. All that hate, all that resistance—your cunt knows the truth even if your mind won't admit it."

I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything except stand here pinned against the wall while he says filthy things in my ear and dozens of students watch.

"Say the word," Rhys whispers. "Say you want me to touch you. Say you want me to fuck you. And I'll clear this room and take you right here on this table."

Something in me snaps. The fear. The anger. The humiliation of being toyed with for days.

I drive my elbow back hard into his ribs. Not hard enough to really hurt him—he's too fit, too trained for that—but hard enough to make him grunt and loosen his grip.

It's all I need. I twist out of his hold and run. Out of the coffee shop. Across the quad. Back to my dorm.

I lock the door. All the locks. The deadbolt. The chain. The new lock campus security installed.

Not that any of it matters. He's gotten in before. He'll get in again.

I pace my room, my hands shaking, my body still humming from his proximity. From his words. From the way he pressed against me and promised things I absolutely do not want.

Except my body does want them. That's the worst part. My brain knows he's dangerous. Knows this is wrong. Knows I should be filing police reports and running as far from Blackwood as possible.

But my body responded when he touched me. Got wet when he whispered those filthy promises. Ached when he walked away.

I'm so lost in my thoughts that I don't notice the change in air pressure. Don't hear the door open even though I know I locked it. Don't sense his presence until his voice cuts through the silence.

"You're going to pay for that, sweetheart."

I spin around. Rhys stands in my doorway, the door closed behind him, all my carefully engaged locks mysteriously open.

He looks different tonight. Dangerous. The playful cruelty from this afternoon is gone, replaced by something darker. Hungrier.

He's wearing all black again. Black t-shirt that stretches across his chest. Black jeans that hang low on his hips. His hair is disheveled, like he's been running his hands through it.

His storm-gray eyes are locked on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"How did you—the locks—"

"I told you. Locks don't work on me." He steps further into the room, and I instinctively step back. "You can buy a hundred locks. Change them a thousand times. It won't matter. I'll always get in."

"You can't just—"

"Can't I?" He keeps walking forward, slow and predatory, and I keep backing up until my legs hit the bed. "I've been in this room a dozen times. Watched you sleep. Touched your things. Left you notes. And you still haven't figured out how."

"The cameras—"

"Are very well hidden. And not just in here." His smile is cruel. "I've been watching you everywhere, Lyra. The coffee shop. Your classes. Your friend Kieran's apartment. That women's advocacy group the lawyer recommended? I already made a donation large enough that they won't touch your case."

My stomach drops. "You're insane."

"I'm obsessed." He corrects, still moving closer. "There's a difference. Insanity implies I don't know what I'm doing. But I know exactly what I'm doing. I'm claiming what's mine."

"I'm not yours—"

"Yes, you are." He's right in front of me now, close enough to touch. "You've been mine since the moment I saw you. Since I watched you walk across that entrance hall with your head down, trying so hard to be invisible. Since I saw my necklace around your throat and knew—knew—that you were the one I've been searching for."

"What are you talking about—"

His hand shoots out, grabbing the necklace, his fingers wrapping around the delicate silver pendant. "This. Where did you get this?"

"I don't know! I've had it since—"

"Since when?" His voice is sharp now, urgent. "Since when, Lyra?"

"Since I was eleven! Since the accident! Since I woke up in a hospital with no memory and this was the only thing they said belonged to me!"

Something flickers in his eyes. Recognition. Pain. Something I can't name.

"You don't remember," he says quietly. More to himself than to me.

"Remember what?"

But he doesn't answer. Instead, he releases the necklace and cups my face with both hands, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones.

"It doesn't matter," he says finally. "You'll remember eventually. Or you won't. Either way, you're mine now."

Then he kisses me. Hard. Demanding. His tongue invading my mouth before I can protest, his hands holding my face still so I can't pull away.

I should fight. Should bite him. Should knee him in the balls and run.

But I don't. God help me, I don't. Because his kiss is devastating. Consuming. Like he's trying to crawl inside me and claim every piece.

When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard.

"Tomorrow," he says, his thumb tracing my bottom lip, "I'm going to fuck you. I'm going to make you scream my name. I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."

"No—"

"Yes." He kisses me again, quick and brutal. "And you're going to beg for it. Because your body already knows what your mind won't admit. You want me, Lyra. You want me as much as I want you."

Then he's gone. Walking out of my room like he owns it. Like he owns me.

The door closes softly behind him. All the locks engage with soft clicks—deadbolt, chain, the new lock.

Like he's locking me in. Keeping me safe. Keeping me his.

I sink onto my bed, my fingers going to my lips where I can still feel his kiss burning.

Tomorrow, he said. Tomorrow he's coming for me.

And I have no idea how to stop him.

Or if I even want to.

_______
To know what really happened you should read Rhys's pov before judging.