The sound of my name on his lips slices through me.
How—how does he know my name?
My heart thunders, too loud, drowning out even the faint buzz of the bathroom lights. I fumble with my phone, fingers trembling as I type.
Why are you following me?
I shove the screen toward him, my pulse racing like a warning siren.
He doesn’t even take it. Just lets his gaze drop, then lift again, eyes steady, pinning me like I’m the only thing in this room.
“I’m not following you,” he says, calm, detached, as if this isn’t terrifying. As if we’re discussing the weather. “I’m exactly where I intended to be. You just happened to walk into it.”
Bullshit.
The word screams inside me, but my throat is locked. I try to move back, but there’s nowhere else to go.
His eyes narrow, and when he speaks again, my name drips from his tongue like he’s testing it, owning it. “Now, it’s your turn to answer my question, Lucas.”
He tilts his head. “Who’s Tyler?”
I blink. The words don’t even register at first. Then the weight of it hits me. He knows about Tyler, How?
The floor seems to tilt beneath me, my knees threatening to give. And just before I think I’m going to fall, his arm catchesme, firm around my waist. Making a soft gasp escape. My body collides with his, solid heat burning through layers of fabric. His scent rushes over me, burrowing under my skin. His hold on me makes my body react in ways I have not felt before, and it’s overwhelming. The closeness, the control, the way he holds me steady. Impossibly solid.
“Who. Is. Tyler?” His voice is patient, but colder now. I shiver.
My hands fumble over my phone clumsily.
He’s my friend.
My thumb hesitates before I add,
Don’t hurt him.
Something flickers in his gaze—offense, maybe, or amusement. I can’t tell. He steps back, releasing me from his heat, and the air feels colder without it.
“I don’t hurt people without reason, Lucas.” His stare lingers, sharp and unreadable. “Don’t give me one.”
The words crawl under my skin, part warning, part promise.
My thumbs fly across the screen again.
Do you go around beating and threatening people?
He doesn’t answer. But his eyes glint, the faint curl of his lips betraying something dangerously close to amusement.
My chest tightens. I shove my phone into my pocket, desperate to leave, to breathe. I push past him—one step, two—before his hand grabs my arms forcefully.
A pained gasp leaves me, and everything shatters.
The bathroom vanishes. Suddenly, I’m somewhere else. The floor tile becomes rough wood beneath my knees. The white walls twist into shadows, and laughter rings out—sharp, cruel, echoing in my skull. Hands, too many hands, gripping, yanking, tearing. My scalp burns, my cheek stings. My lungs seize as I choke on sobs, on pain. It hurts, stop, it hurts. I’m back there, trapped.
No. No. No.
“Lucas.”
The voice slices through the haze like lightning. It’s a command. But also a lifeline. His hand tightens—not painful, grounding. “Look at me.”
