LYRA

I spend the morning avoiding Rhys.

It's not easy. He's everywhere—leaning against my building when I leave for class, sitting three rows behind me in the lecture hall, watching me from across the quad with those storm-gray eyes that see too much.

But he doesn't approach. Doesn't corner me in stairwells or text me filthy promises. Just watches with that patient, predatory focus that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

It's worse than the stalking. At least when he was actively tormenting me, I knew what to expect. This silent observation feels like the calm before a storm. Like he's waiting for something.

I find out what at lunch.

The cafeteria is packed—hundreds of students crammed into the massive space, the noise level deafening as people shout over each other to be heard. I grab a salad and a bottle of water, planning to eat quickly and disappear back to the library where I've been hiding between classes.

I'm halfway to an empty table in the corner when someone steps into my path.

He's tall, athletic, with an easy smile and warm brown eyes. Wearing a Blackwood hoodie that looks brand new. I don't recognize him, which means he's probably one of the transfer students who started this semester.

"Hey," he says, his smile widening. "You're Lyra, right? From Economics?"

I nod cautiously, already anticipating where this is going and dreading it.

"I'm Marcus. Just transferred from Stanford." He runs a hand through his sandy blond hair, looking almost nervous. "I've been wanting to talk to you for a week, but you're always rushing out of class before I can catch you."

"I have a lot of work," I say, trying to edge around him without being rude.

He moves to block my path again, but it's not aggressive. Just... persistent. "I was wondering if maybe you'd want to grab coffee sometime? There's this place off campus that supposedly has amazing espresso, and I don't really know anyone here yet, so..."

He trails off, waiting for my answer. Looking hopeful. Normal. Like a regular college guy asking out a girl he's interested in.

Under any other circumstances, I might say yes. He seems nice. Safe. Uncomplicated.

But these aren't normal circumstances.

"I don't think—" I start to say.

"She's taken."

The voice cuts through the cafeteria noise like a blade. Low. Rough. Absolutely certain.

Rhys Hawthorne appears beside me so suddenly I don't see him coming. One second I'm alone with Marcus, the next Rhys is there, his presence overwhelming, his eyes locked on Marcus with an intensity that makes the other guy take an involuntary step back.

"I was just asking if she wanted coffee," Marcus says, trying for casual but his voice wavers slightly. He's recognized Rhys. Everyone recognizes Rhys. "If she has a boyfriend, she can tell me herself—"

"She can speak for herself—" I start to say.

Rhys doesn't let me finish. His hand shoots out, grabs my face—fingers splayed across my jaw, thumb pressing against my cheek—and yanks me toward him.

Then he kisses me.

Not a gentle kiss. Not a request. A claim.

His mouth crashes onto mine, brutal and demanding. His tongue invades before I can close my lips, before I can protest, before I can do anything except gasp against his mouth.

I try to push him away. My hands come up to shove against his chest, but he's immovable. A wall of muscle and determination that doesn't budge no matter how hard I push.

His hand fists in my hair—tangling in the strands, pulling just hard enough to tilt my head back, to open me up to him even more.

He kisses me harder. Deeper. His other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me flush against him so I can feel every inch of his body pressed against mine. So everyone watching can see exactly how thoroughly he's claiming me.

I can hear the cafeteria going quiet around us. Hundreds of conversations dying. Phones coming out to record. But Rhys doesn't stop. Doesn't ease up. Just keeps kissing me like he's trying to prove a point to every single person watching.

When he finally pulls back, I'm gasping for air. My lips are swollen. My hair is a mess from his grip. My entire body is trembling with a confusing mixture of rage and arousal.

The entire cafeteria is silent. Three hundred students staring at us. Some with their phones out, recording. Others just gaping. All of them witnesses to what just happened.

Rhys doesn't look at them. His eyes are on me, dark with possession and satisfaction.

Then he turns to address the room, his voice carrying easily in the shocked silence.

"Now everyone knows." He speaks slowly, clearly, making sure every word is heard and understood. "She's mine. Anyone who touches her answers to me."

The threat is implicit but unmistakable. This isn't a boyfriend staking a claim. This is a predator marking territory. Warning off competition.

Something in me snaps. The humiliation. The powerlessness. The way he just kissed me in front of everyone without permission, without caring what I want.

I slap him.

Hard.

The crack echoes through the silent cafeteria like a gunshot.

His head turns from the impact, a red mark blooming on his cheek where my palm connected. For a second, nobody moves. Nobody breathes. Three hundred witnesses watching to see what Rhys Hawthorne will do when someone hits him in public.

He turns his head back slowly, deliberately. Looks at me with those storm-gray eyes that have gone dark and dangerous.

Then he smiles. That cruel, predatory smile I've come to recognize as a warning.

"I'm not yours—" I start to say, my voice shaking with fury.

He catches my wrist before I can pull away. Yanks me close until his lips are against my ear, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

"Yes, you are. And tonight, I'm going to prove it."

Then he releases me and walks away. Just like that. Leaving me standing in the middle of the cafeteria with everyone staring, my wrist burning where he grabbed it, my lips still tingling from his kiss.

Marcus has disappeared. Smart guy. Probably decided I'm way too much drama to be worth a coffee date.

I grab my salad and water with shaking hands and walk out of the cafeteria with as much dignity as I can manage. I can feel hundreds of eyes tracking my movement. Can hear the whispers starting as soon as I'm out of immediate earshot.

By the time I make it back to my dorm, the video is already everywhere. #HawthornesClaim is trending on campus social media. People I've never met are commenting on my relationship status. Speculating about how long we've been together. Whether the slap was real or staged.

My phone won't stop buzzing with notifications. Friends asking if I'm okay. Strangers asking for details. A few brave souls asking if Rhys is really as good a kisser as he looks.

I turn it off and throw it on my bed.

I should be furious. Should be planning how to fight back. How to make Rhys Hawthorne pay for humiliating me in front of the entire school.

But all I can think about is the way he kissed me. The way his hand felt in my hair. The way my body responded even as my brain screamed at me to stop.

And the promise he made. Tonight, I'm going to prove it.

I don't leave my room for the rest of the day. Skip my afternoon classes. Ignore the knocks on my door from concerned friends. Just sit on my bed, staring at the wall, waiting for nightfall.

Waiting for Rhys.

But he doesn't come.

Eight PM passes. Nine. Ten. Midnight.

No keys in the lock. No messages. No Rhys Hawthorne appearing in my room like a ghost.

Just silence.

It's almost worse than his presence. This waiting. This not knowing.

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

I wake to my phone buzzing. I must have turned it back on—though I have no memory of doing it.

There are dozens of notifications. But the one at the top makes my blood run cold.

A news alert from the campus safety app.

Vehicle vandalism reported in North Parking Lot. Red Honda Civic, license plate ending in 4729, found with extensive damage. Owner urged to contact campus police.

Marcus drives a Honda Civic. I've seen him park it in North Lot while I was getting back to my dorm.

I scroll through my notifications with shaking hands until I find what I'm looking for—a message from an unknown number with a photo attached.

The photo shows Marcus's car. Or what's left of it. Every window is smashed. The hood is crumpled like something heavy was dropped on it repeatedly. The tires are slashed. And spray-painted across the driver's side door in bright red letters:

TOLD YOU SHE WAS MINE

There are more photos. Marcus's dorm room—furniture overturned, belongings destroyed, the same message spray-painted on the wall above his bed.

And a video. Marcus himself, sitting in what looks like a police station, his face pale, a bandage on his forehead. He's talking to someone off camera, his voice shaking.

"I don't know who did it. I came back from dinner and everything was destroyed. My car, my room, everything. There was a note—" His voice breaks. "It said to stay away from Lyra Solis or next time would be worse."

The video cuts off.

A new message appears.

UNKNOWN: I warned him. I warned everyone. You're mine, Lyra. And I don't share. -RH

I stare at my phone, my hands shaking so hard I almost drop it.

He did this. Rhys did this. Destroyed someone's property. Terrorized a student. Left threatening notes.

All because Marcus asked me out for coffee.

I should be terrified. Should be calling the police. Should be doing something.

Instead, I'm pulling on clothes and marching across campus to the building where I know Rhys lives. Where Adrian and Damon also have rooms in that obscenely expensive penthouse suite their families rent.

I don't have a plan. Don't know what I'm going to say. Just know that I need to confront him. Need to make him understand that this isn't okay. That he can't just destroy people's lives because they talk to me.

The building has security, but I slip in behind a group of drunk students coming back from a party. Take the elevator to the top floor. Find the door marked "Penthouse Suite."

And knock.

It's four in the morning. No one should be awake. But the door opens almost immediately.

Damon stands there in low-slung sleep pants and nothing else, his black eyes taking in my appearance with zero surprise.

"He's in his room," Damon says, stepping aside to let me in. "Third door on the right. Fair warning—he's in a mood."

I don't ask what that means. Just push past him and head down the hallway he indicated.

Rhys's door is closed. I don't bother knocking. Just turn the handle—unlocked, because of course it is—and shove it open.

Rhys is sitting at his desk, still fully dressed despite the late hour. He's staring at multiple computer monitors showing what looks like security camera feeds. As I watch, he clicks through different angles of the same location.

My dorm building.

He's watching my room. Right now. Even though I'm standing here in his.

He doesn't turn around when I enter. Just speaks without looking away from the screens.

"Took you longer than I expected. I thought you'd be here by midnight."

"What did you do?" My voice is shaking. "Marcus's car, his room—"

"I destroyed them." He finally turns to look at me, and his expression is completely calm. Matter-of-fact. "I warned him. I warned everyone. But he didn't listen. So I made an example of him."

"You can't just—people will find out it was you—"

"Let them." He stands, moving toward me with that predatory grace. "Let them all know what happens when someone touches what's mine. I don't give a fuck about consequences."

"I'm not a possession—"

"Yes, you are." He backs me against the door I just came through, his hands slamming on either side of my head. "You're mine. I've told you this. I've shown you this. But you keep fighting. Keep pretending this isn't inevitable."

"You destroyed someone's life—"

"I showed restraint." His voice drops to something dark and dangerous. "If he'd actually touched you, he'd be dead. A totaled car and some broken furniture? That's me being merciful."

I stare at him, seeing the absolute truth in his eyes. He's not exaggerating. Not making empty threats. If Marcus had actually touched me—if that coffee date had happened—Rhys would have killed him.

"You're insane," I whisper.

"I'm obsessed," he corrects, the same distinction he's made before. "And you're going to accept it. Because this—" he gestures between us, "—isn't going away. I'm not going away. You can fight me, you can hate me, you can slap me in front of the entire school. But it won't change the fact that you're mine and I'm going to keep you."

"Be grateful I showed restraint," he says quietly, his thumb brushing my bottom lip. "If he'd actually touched you, he'd be dead."

The certainty in his voice makes my blood run cold. And the worst part—the absolutely terrifying part—is that I believe him.