LYRA

I don't sleep after Rhys leaves.

How can I? My lips still burn from his kiss. My body still hums with unwanted arousal. My mind keeps replaying his words on an endless loop.

You'll remember eventually. Or you won't. Either way, you're mine now.

What the fuck did that mean? Remember what? And why does he care so much about my necklace—this simple silver pendant I've worn for six years without thinking twice about it?

I touch it now, running my fingers over the smooth metal surface, trying to find some hidden meaning. Some clue about why Rhys Hawthorne looks at it like it belongs to him.

But it's just a necklace. The only connection I have to a past I can't remember.

I finally give up on sleep around midnight, pulling out my laptop to work on an economics paper that's due next week. Anything to distract myself from thinking about storm-gray eyes and the promise he made.

Tomorrow, I'm going to fuck you.

My thighs clench involuntarily at the memory of his voice, dark and rough and absolutely certain.

No. Absolutely not. I'm not letting that happen. I'll barricade my door. I'll stay at Kieran's again. I'll do whatever it takes to avoid being alone with Rhys Hawthorne and his devastating hands and his filthy mouth and his complete disregard for the word no.

I'm three paragraphs into my paper when I hear it.

Keys in my lock.

My blood turns to ice.

It's 2 AM. No one should be at my door. No one should have keys. Campus security changed the locks. I'm the only person who should be able to get in.

But the deadbolt turns. Then the chain slides free—impossible, since it can only be disengaged from the inside.

Then the door opens.

Rhys Hawthorne steps into my room like he owns it, closing the door softly behind him. He's still wearing all black, but he's changed clothes since earlier. Black henley now, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms roped with lean muscle. Same black jeans. Same predatory grace.

In his hand, he's holding a key ring. Multiple keys. Shiny and new.

"Get out or I'm calling the police—"

"Go ahead." He pulls out his phone with his free hand, never breaking eye contact. Dials. Puts it on speaker.

It rings twice before a male voice answers. "Hawthorne. It's two in the morning. This better be good."

"Officer Martinez. Sorry to wake you." Rhys's voice is pleasant, casual. Like he's calling to chat about the weather. "Just wanted to give you a heads up—you might get a call from my girlfriend tonight. We had a fight. She's being dramatic, threatening to involve the police. Just ignore it if she calls, yeah? Couple's spat. Nothing serious."

There's a pause. Then: "Understood. Anything else?"

"That's it. Thanks, Martinez. Give my regards to your wife."

"Will do. Night, Rhys."

Rhys hangs up. Slides his phone back into his pocket. Looks at me with that cruel smile.

"Want to try again?"

I'm shaking. With rage. With fear. With the horrible understanding that he's right—calling the police won't help. They're on his payroll. In his pocket. They'll take his side over mine without question.

"What do you want from me?" My voice cracks on the last word, betraying how terrified I am.

"Everything." He walks toward my bed with measured steps, and I instinctively scramble back against the headboard. "Your fear. Your anger. Your body. Your memories. Your surrender." He sits on the edge of my bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. "Starting with answers about that necklace."

His hand wraps around my ankle before I can pull away, his grip firm and warm through the thin fabric of my sleep shorts.

"I don't owe you—"

He yanks. Hard. I slide down the bed with a gasp, my back hitting the mattress, my head barely missing the headboard as he drags me toward him.

Then he's over me. Moving with that predatory speed I'm starting to recognize. One hand capturing both my wrists, pinning them above my head with effortless strength. His body settling over mine, his weight pressing me into the mattress.

"Yes, you do." His free hand goes to the necklace, fingers wrapping around the silver pendant possessively. "This is mine. I want to know why you have it."

"I don't know! I've already told you—I've always had it—"

"Liar." His hand slides from the necklace to my throat. Not squeezing. Just resting there. A reminder of how vulnerable I am. How easily he could hurt me if he wanted. "You remember something. I can see it in your eyes every time I get close."

"I don't remember anything—"

"Bullshit." His thigh forces between my legs, spreading them, making room for himself. "Your pupils dilate when I touch the necklace. Your breathing changes. Your pulse races." His thumb presses against the point where my heartbeat is thundering in my throat. "Your body knows something your mind has blocked out."

"That's not—that's just fear—"

"Is it?" He grinds his thigh against me, and I hate—hate—that I'm wet. That my body responds to him even when my brain is screaming danger. "Your body remembers. Even if your mind doesn't."

I try to twist away, but his grip on my wrists tightens, and his thigh presses harder against my core, creating friction that makes me bite back a moan.

"Get off—"

"Soon, sweetheart." His voice drops to that dark, rough tone that makes heat pool low in my belly. "Soon I'm going to get you off. Again and again until you're screaming my name and begging for more."

His hand slides from my throat down my body—over my tank top, feeling the curve of my breast, the dip of my waist, the flare of my hip. Touching me like he has every right. Like my body belongs to him.

"But first," he continues, his fingers playing with the waistband of my sleep shorts, "you're going to stop lying to me."

"I'm not lying—"

"Then why do you look at me sometimes like you recognize me?" His fingers slip just under the elastic, not going further, just resting there. A promise. A threat. "Why do you freeze when I call you ? Why does your hand go to that necklace every time you're scared?"

"I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Yes, you do." He leans down until his lips brush my ear. "Somewhere in that beautiful, stubborn head of yours, you know exactly who I am. You know why this necklace matters. You know why I can't fucking stay away from you no matter how hard I try."

His hand slides a little higher under my shorts, his fingers skimming the sensitive skin of my lower belly.

"Tell me," he demands. "Tell me what you remember."

"Nothing! I remember nothing before I was eleven. I woke up in a hospital with head trauma and amnesia and this necklace was the only thing they said belonged to me. That's all I know!"

He goes very still above me. His hand freezes. His breathing changes.

"Head trauma," he repeats slowly. "From what?"

"A car accident. They said I was hit by a car. I don't remember it. I don't remember anything from before."

Something flickers in his eyes. Pain. Recognition. Grief so raw it makes my breath catch.

"You were hit by a car." His voice has changed. The cruel edge is gone, replaced by something that sounds almost... broken. "Jesus fucking Christ. You were hit by a car and I didn't—I couldn't—"

He releases my wrists suddenly and sits up, running both hands through his hair. His chest is heaving like he just ran a marathon.

I should move. Should scramble away while he's distracted. But I'm frozen, watching him unravel in front of me.

"Rhys?" His name falls from my lips before I can stop it.

He looks at me, and the expression on his face is devastating. Raw and vulnerable and nothing like the cruel, controlled predator I've come to expect.

"You really don't remember," he says quietly. "This whole time, I thought—I hoped—but you really don't remember anything."

"Remember what?" I sit up slowly, pulling my knees to my chest. "What am I supposed to remember?"

For a moment, I think he's going to tell me. I can see the war playing out in his eyes—the need to make me understand fighting against something else. Something that looks like fear.

Then the moment passes. His expression shutters. The vulnerability disappears behind that familiar cruel mask.

"Nothing." He stands abruptly, backing away from the bed. "It doesn't matter."

"It obviously does—"

"I said it doesn't matter." His voice is sharp now. Final. "You don't remember. Fine. I'll make you want me anyway. I'll make you mine without the past."

He walks toward the door, and I should be relieved. Should be grateful he's leaving without following through on his threats.

But instead, I feel... confused. Frustrated. Like I'm missing something crucial. Like the answer to why Rhys Hawthorne is obsessed with me is right there, just out of reach, locked behind a wall of forgotten memories.

He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, looking back at me over his shoulder.

"Tomorrow," he says, and the cruel edge is back in his voice. "I'm still coming for you. And next time, I won't stop just because you don't remember. Next time, I'm going to fuck you until you can't think straight. Until the only thing you remember is my name."

"Why are you doing this?" The question bursts out before I can stop it. "If I don't remember whatever you think I should remember, why do you care? Why me?"

He turns fully to face me, and the look in his storm-gray eyes makes my breath catch.

"Because you saved me once," he says simply. "And I've been trying to save you back ever since. But I'm not a hero, Lyra. I'm not going to be gentle or patient or understanding. I'm going to take what I want. And what I want is you. All of you. Your body, your mind, your memories—everything."

"You can't just take—"

"Watch me."

Then he's gone. The door closes softly. All the locks engage from the outside—click, click, click.

Locking me in. Or locking everyone else out. I'm not sure which.

I sit there on my bed, my heart racing, my body still humming with arousal I wish I didn't feel, my mind spinning with questions I don't have answers to.

You saved me once.

When? How? From what?

And why can't I remember?

I touch the necklace again, this time with different intent. Trying to trigger something. Some memory. Some flash of recognition.

But there's nothing. Just a blank space where my childhood should be. Just emptiness and the vague sense that I'm missing something important.

My phone buzzes on my nightstand. I grab it automatically, expecting another threatening message from one of Rhys's burner numbers.

But it's from a number that kind of resembles my own number.How the fuck is it possible?  A video file.

I click it with shaking hands.

It's me. Asleep. Filmed from above, just like the photo from that first night. But this time I'm restless, tossing and turning, clearly dreaming.

And talking.

"No," dream-me mumbles. "Don't go. Please don't go."

There's a pause. Then, so quiet I almost miss it: "Rhys."

The video stops.

A message pops up immediately.

UNKNOWN: You dream about me, sweetheart. Every night. Your body remembers what your mind has forgotten. And soon, I'm going to make you remember everything. -RH

I drop the phone like it burned me.

He's right. I do dream about him. Or at least, I dream about someone. A boy with gray eyes who makes me feel safe. Who I'm always trying to protect. Who I'm always losing.

I thought they were just nightmares. Random trauma from my accident manifesting in weird ways.

But what if they're not nightmares? What if they're memories?

And if they are memories... what does that mean about Rhys Hawthorne? About his obsession? About the necklace?

About me?

I lie back down, but I know I won't sleep. Not with these questions circling my mind like vultures. Not with the memory of his hands on my body and his broken voice saying you saved me once.

Not with the knowledge that tomorrow, he's coming back.

And this time, he's not going to stop.

I should be terrified. Should be planning my escape. Should be doing something—anything—other than lying here with my hand on the necklace he claims is his, wondering what I've forgotten.

Wondering who I used to be.

Wondering if the girl I was seven years ago would have wanted this. Would have wanted him.

My phone buzzes one more time.

UNKNOWN: Get some sleep, sweetheart. You're going to need your energy. Tomorrow, I'm going to ruin you. And you're going to let me. Because deep down, where your memories hide, you already know you're mine. You've always been mine. -RH

I want to throw my phone. Want to scream. Want to cry.

Instead, I close my eyes and let myself wonder, just for a moment, what it would be like to stop fighting. To let Rhys Hawthorne catch me. To surrender to whatever this is between us—this twisted, obsessive, terrifying thing that feels like more than stalking.

That feels, impossibly, like fate.

But I'm not ready for that. Not ready to give in. Not ready to let him win.

So I'll fight. Tomorrow, when he comes for me, I'll fight.

Even if part of me—the part that dreams about gray eyes and whispers his name in my sleep—doesn't want to.