LYRA

I can't stop thinking about him.

It's been three days since the rainstorm. Three days since Rhys walked away and left me standing there with more questions than answers. Three days since I watched that video of him smiling and laughing and being someone completely different than the dark, obsessive man who's been haunting my life.

And I hate it.

Hate how my eyes scan every crowd looking for storm-gray eyes and dark hair. Hate the disappointment that sinks into my chest when he's not there. Hate how my body has started to recognize his presence before my mind does—that electric awareness that makes my skin prickle and my pulse race.

Hate that I wore his jacket to bed last night because it smells like him and made me feel safe instead of scared.

I'm losing my mind. That's the only explanation. Stockholm syndrome or some psychological break brought on by weeks of relentless pursuit. Because I shouldn't be thinking about my stalker with anything other than fear and disgust.

But when I close my eyes, I see him in that video. See the genuine smile. The playful teasing. The gentle way he treated Lilia like a beloved sister.

That's who he could be with you, if you'd let me.

His words echo in my head on repeat, making me wonder things I have no business wondering. Like what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of that gentleness. That devotion. That fierce protectiveness turned toward care instead of possession.

I shake my head, trying to clear it, and pull out my laptop. If I can't stop thinking about Rhys, I can at least do something productive with my obsession.

I start researching the necklace.

It's simple enough that it should be easy to trace—delicate silver chain, small pendant with an intricate design that looks almost like intertwined vines or maybe abstract flames. But hours of reverse image searches and jewelry databases turn up nothing. No matches. No similar designs. Nothing.

Either it's custom-made, or it's so old that it predates online records, or it never existed in any official capacity at all.

Which makes sense if Rhys is telling the truth about giving it to me as a kid in the foster system. A twelve-year-old boy wouldn't have had access to custom jewelry. It was probably something cheap he found or stole, something small enough to hide and precious enough to give away.

The only thing he had from his past, according to the character notes I've been mentally assembling. His only possession of value.

And he gave it to me.

Why?

I touch the pendant, running my fingers over the familiar grooves, trying to trigger some memory. Some flash of recognition. Anything.

But there's nothing. Just the same blank space that's existed since I woke up in that hospital at eleven years old with no memory of anything before.

My research spiral gets interrupted by my eight AM class—Advanced Microeconomics, one of the harder courses in my major. I grab my bag and head out, my mind still churning through possibilities.

The hallway is more crowded than usual, students lingering between classes, clustered in groups. I'm weaving through them, head down, focused on getting to class on time, when I smell it.

Smoke.

Not the distant smell of someone smoking outside. Thick, acrid smoke filling the hallway, making my eyes water and my throat close.

My head explodes with pain.

It's instant and devastating, like someone drove a spike through my skull. The hallway tilts. Fragments flash behind my eyes—fire, screaming, running, can't breathe can't see can't think—

I sway, my legs going weak, the ground rushing up to meet me.

Strong arms wrap around me before I hit the floor.

"Lyra." The voice is a command. Familiar. Rhys.

But I can barely hear him over the roaring in my ears, the pain splitting my head in half, the memories that aren't quite memories trying to claw their way to the surface.

Fire. Smoke. Terror. Someone screaming sunshine run fucking run—

"Lyra, look at me." His voice changes, the command cracking into something that sounds like panic. "Fuck. Lyra, can you hear me? Stay with me, sweetheart."

I try to answer but my head hurts too much. The fragments keep coming, disjointed and terrifying. Flames licking up walls. Hands shoving me toward an exit. The smell of gasoline and burning wood and fear.

I press my hands to my head, trying to make it stop, and hear myself screaming without meaning to.

"Damon!" Rhys's voice, sharp and desperate. "Call the infirmary. Now."

I feel myself being lifted, cradled against a chest that's moving too fast, like he's running. Or maybe that's my heartbeat. I can't tell. Everything is pain and smoke and fragments of a past I can't quite reach.

"Stay with me," Rhys is saying, over and over. "Please stay with me. I've got you. You're safe. Just stay with me."

His voice is the only anchor I have, the only thing that feels real in the chaos inside my head. I grab onto it, focusing on the familiar roughness, the genuine fear underneath.

He's scared. Rhys Hawthorne, who's never shown me anything but cruel certainty, is terrified.

For me.

The thought cuts through the pain just enough for me to force my eyes open. His face swims into view above me—storm-gray eyes wild with panic, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping, pale in a way I've never seen him.

"There you are," he breathes. "Stay awake. We're almost there."

Then everything goes black.

When I wake up, I'm in the university infirmary. White walls, antiseptic smell, uncomfortable bed with scratchy sheets. An IV in my arm pumping fluids I probably don't need.

And Rhys in the corner.

He's sitting in one of those awful plastic chairs, his body angled toward me but maintaining distance. Like he wants to be close but doesn't trust himself to get closer. His elbows are on his knees, hands clasped, head bowed. He looks exhausted.

He also looks like he hasn't moved in hours.

When he notices I'm awake, his head snaps up. Our eyes meet across the room, and I see relief flash across his features before he shutters it away.

"You're awake." His voice is carefully neutral. Nothing like the panic I heard earlier.

"What happened?" My throat is dry, the words coming out raspy.

"Some asshole thought it would be funny to set off smoke bombs in the hallway." His jaw clenches. "You had what looked like a panic attack. Passed out. I brought you here."

Panic attack. That's what they're calling it. Not a trigger. Not fragments of suppressed memories trying to surface. Just a panic attack.

"Who was it?" I ask. "The guy with the smoke bombs?"

"Already taken care of." Something dark flashes in his eyes. "He won't be a problem anymore."

I should ask what that means. Should be concerned about what "taken care of" entails when Rhys Hawthorne says it. But I'm too tired to care.

"The doctors said you can go," Rhys continues. "They checked you over. No physical trauma. Just recommended rest and avoiding triggers." His lips twist on the word triggers, like he knows it's more complicated than that.

"You've been here the whole time?" I don't know why I ask. Don't know why it matters.

"Yes." No elaboration. No excuse. Just simple confirmation.

"Why?"

"Because you were hurt." He says it like it's obvious. Like there's no other possible response to me being in pain. "And I needed to know you were okay."

Something in my chest tightens. I want to tell him to leave. Want to maintain the walls I've been trying to build. But I'm so tired, and he looks so wrecked, and some part of me that I'm trying very hard to ignore is glad he stayed.

"Thank you," I say quietly. "For catching me. For bringing me here."

He nods once, sharp and final, then stands. "I'll go tell the nurse you're awake so they can discharge you."

Then he leaves, maintaining that careful distance, and I'm left alone with the echo of his panic and the memory of strong arms catching me before I fell.

They discharge me an hour later with instructions to rest and stay hydrated and come back if the headaches persist. I make it back to my dorm as the sun is setting, exhausted in a way that goes bone-deep.

I take a long shower, washing away the antiseptic smell and the lingering anxiety. Change into sleep shorts and my oversized t-shirt. Crawl into bed even though it's barely eight PM.

I'm asleep before my head hits the pillow.

And I sleep well. Better than I have in weeks. Deep, dreamless sleep that feels like my body finally letting go of tension I didn't know I was carrying.

Or at least I think it's dreamless.

Until something wakes me.

I don't know what. There's no sound, no obvious disturbance. Just that primal instinct that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. The feeling of being watched.

My eyes open slowly, my body still heavy with sleep. The room is dark except for the faint glow of streetlights through my window. Everything looks normal. Familiar.

But something feels wrong.

I sit up carefully, scanning the room. The door is locked—I can see the deadbolt engaged from here. The closet is closed. Nothing looks disturbed.

But I can't shake the feeling that someone is here. Or was here. Or is watching.

My gaze drifts to the window, and I freeze.

There's a figure outside. Three stories down in the courtyard, standing in the pool of shadow between streetlights. Just standing there. Looking up.

At my window.

At me.

Even from this distance, even in the darkness, I recognize him.

Rhys.

He's watching me with an intensity I can feel even from here. Not moving. Not hiding. Just standing there in the open, staring up at my window like he has every right to.

Our eyes meet through the glass, and I see his lips move. Forming a single word I can read even though I can't hear it.

"Revenge."

My heart stops.

Revenge. For what? What did I do to him? What could an eleven-year-old girl possibly have done to deserve seven years of obsession and stalking and this twisted, consuming attention?

I want to look away. Want to close the curtains and pretend I don't see him. But I'm frozen, caught in his gaze, my mind racing with questions I don't have answers to.

Then he's gone. Just turns and walks away, disappearing into the shadows like he was never there.

I sit there for a long moment, my heart pounding, trying to make sense of what just happened.

Revenge.

What does that mean?

I finally tear my gaze away from the window, and that's when I see it.

On my bed, placed carefully on my pillow where I would have noticed it immediately if I'd been looking.

A single black rose.

My breath catches.

The door was locked. The window is three stories up with no fire escape. There's no way for anyone to get in.

But the rose is there. Real and undeniable. Its petals are perfect, unfurling darkly against my white pillowcase. No note this time. No explanation.

Just a black rose that shouldn't exist and a single word mouthed through glass.

Revenge.

I pick up the rose with shaking hands, my mind spinning. Black roses mean different things. Death. Farewell. Rebirth. Revenge.

Or in the language of flowers, they can mean "you are mine" in the darkest possible way.

I should throw it away. Should call campus security even though I know they won't do anything. Should do literally anything other than sit here holding this impossible flower and wondering what Rhys Hawthorne wants revenge for.

Instead, I find myself looking at it more closely. The stem has been carefully stripped of thorns. Like he didn't want me to get hurt touching it. Like even in this dark gesture, he's trying to protect me.

My phone buzzes on my nightstand.

I already know who it is before I look.

UNKNOWN: You don't remember what you did. But I do. I remember everything. The pain. The loss. The seven years of searching. And now that I've found you, I'm going to make you feel everything I felt. Every moment of fear. Every second of longing. Every desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, you were still alive. That's my revenge, sweetheart. Making you feel what I felt. Making you want me the way I've wanted you. Making you love me the way I've loved you. And then, when you finally do, when you finally remember or fall for me anyway, I'm never letting go. -RH

I stare at the message, my chest tight with emotions I can't name.

This isn't about punishment. Not really. This is about a twelve-year-old boy who lost someone important and spent seven years trying to get her back. This is about pain and longing twisted into obsession. This is about love so desperate and consuming that it's become something dark.

I look at the black rose again, seeing it differently now. Not a threat. A symbol.

Death of the girl I was. Rebirth as someone who remembers. Revenge that looks like making me feel everything he's felt.

Making me love him back.

My phone buzzes again.

UNKNOWN: Keep the rose, Lyra. Every time you look at it, remember: I'm not the villain in this story. I'm the boy who tried to save you and lost you anyway. I'm the one who's been searching. I'm the one who never forgot. And I'm the one who's going to make you mine again, no matter what it takes. Sleep well, sweetheart. I'll be watching. I'm always watching. -RH

I set the rose carefully on my nightstand where I can see it from my bed. Let my phone drop beside it.

And lie back down, staring at the ceiling, my mind full of questions.

What happened seven years ago? What did he try to save me from? What did I do that he calls revenge? And why does the word "again" in "make you mine again" feel like the most important part of his message?

I don't sleep for the rest of the night.

Just lie there with a black rose on my nightstand and the ghost of smoke in my lungs, trying to remember a past that refuses to surface.

Trying to understand the boy who became a monster trying to find me.

And failing at both.