After a while, Julian fakes a yawn. “I’ll be in the lounge,” he says, voice lazy. “Try not to lose yourself in the paperwork. Or the girl.”
He leaves, footsteps silent on the ground.
I finish the folder, then sit back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. The brass lamps make the shadows dance. I watch them, counting the seconds.
I replay the library in my mind: the smell of her hair, the heat of her skin, the way she trembled but never begged. I replay the look in her eyes, just before I let her go.
Flexing my hands, I stretch the memory of her body in my grip.
She will be mine. One way or another.
My phone chimes.
Bam: she’s going to the gym. *wink wink*
And just like that I’m thinking with my cock and not my head as I rush down the library stairs towards the athletic center.
Chapter 5: Eve
Imakeitbackto my dorm without seeing anyone, which feels like a win. I drop my bag, strip off my blouse, and stand in front of the mirror, searching for proof of the library incident. Handprints, bruises, a phantom outline of Colton’s grip. There’s nothing, just the same skin, the same white scars on my thigh, the same haunted look in my eyes.
I need to move. I need to outrun what happened.
I change into workout clothes: gray leggings with a frayed seam at the knee, a men’s t-shirt loose enough to hide how thin I’ve gotten. My sneakers are knockoff and the tread is almost gone, but I lace them tighter and double-knot just in case. There’s a stain on the hem of the shirt, one I could never get out.
The walk to the gym is short, maybe two minutes, but my nerves tighten with each step. I keep expecting Colton to be there, waiting in the shadows, ready to grab my wrist and remind me that my only value is how well I can be owned. He isn’t, but the possibility stalks me the whole way.
The gym is crowded. Bright lights, too many mirrors, every machine occupied by perfect bodied assholes in compression gear and designer shoes. The air smells like rubber, sweat, and the bite of lemon cleaner. No one looks at me, but I can feel the judgment from the instant I swipe my ID and squeeze past a pack of basketball boys hogging the benches. Their laughter follows me.
I pick the treadmill at the very end, nearest the emergency exit. I set it to incline and start slow, walking until my legs warm up, then running, then sprinting. I slam my hands on the rails and force myself not to look up, not to check the reflection, not to watch for him. The only thing I want is to sweat out the memory of his hands on my neck, his voice in my ear.
“You don’t get to leave until I say so.”
I run harder.
Each footfall is a slap, a metronome to drown out the rest of the world. I can’t hear anything but my breath, the rush of blood, the mechanical whine of the belt under me. At mile one, my lungs burn. At mile two, my vision goes a little blurry at the edges. I don’t stop.
Sweat crawls down my spine, beads on the back of my neck. I wipe it with the hem of my shirt, leaving a streak on my cheek. My hands are cold, white-knuckled on the rails, but the rest of me is hot. Too hot. I turn the incline higher, punish myself for existing, for not fighting back, for needing him to stop when I should have wanted to kill him.
At the far side of the room, something moves.
I keep running, but I look. He’s there. Colton. Of course he is. He’s got a towel slung over one shoulder, arms bare, black tank tight across his chest. He’s not even pretending to lift. He just stands by the weights, staring at me through the mirrors.
I drop my gaze, but I can feel him.
My pace stutters, and I almost trip. The machine wobbles, and for a second I think I might go down, face-plant on the track and shatter the rest of my pride. I catch myself, slow to a jog, then a walk. My hands shake, sweat pooling in the creases of my palms.
I glance back up. He hasn’t moved. The look on his face isn’t anger or amusement. It’s hunger. Not the easy kind you can satisfy with a sandwich or a snarky insult. The kind that waits.
That prowls.
A group of girls passes by, matching leggings and perfect hair. They glance at me, then at him, then giggle behind their hands. I want to be invisible, but Colton makes sure I never am.
The gym starts to empty. The basketball team leave, the girls vanish into the locker room, the front desk kid puts in earbuds and ignores the world. It’s just me, Colton, and the hum of overhead lights.
I drop to a walk and check my time. Forty-two minutes, which is a personal record, but the only thing I’ve managed to escape is the feeling in my chest. My legs are rubber, my feet numb, but I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me weak.
I turn off the machine, hop down, and nearly buckle. My knees don’t want to support me. I stagger to the water fountain, fill my bottle, and drink too fast, ice water splashing onto my shirt. I wipe my chin, and when I look up, he’s closer.
