I bite the edge of my pillow, a sharp, needy heat pooling in my stomach. He’s being so attentive it’s dizzying. It’s a complete 180 from the silent, brooding giant who used to mock me.
Val: Everything really is fine, Devlin. How are you?
The reply that comes back makes my breath hitch.
Devlin: Want to know the honest truth?
Devlin: Part of me wanted to blow my brains out after you left
Devlin: and part of me’s been fucking in heaven ever since you came for me
I drop the phone onto the duvet, gasping.
I have to pace the room twice, checking on Clover the rabbit’s water level on my laptop and my report just to ground myself, before I can reply.
Val: I’m really sorry I ran off and behaved like that. It’s just all so uncertain. It’s as if I don’t know what I can or can’t do.
I sit up straight in bed, the sheets bunching around my waist, when the phone chimes again.
Devlin: there’s no uncertainty when it comes to us
Devlin: not the slightest bit
Devlin: when you’re with me, you can do whatever you like
My throat tightens. Us. He said it again. I’m floating, caught in a current I have no hope of fighting.
Devlin: We need to have a serious talk. So there’s no uncertainty left for you. Tomorrow. I’ll come and pick you up after lunch.
Val: Okay. I’ll be waiting!
But the universe apparently has other plans. An hour later, my phone pings with a frustrated follow-up. The away match was rescheduled. They’re leaving tonight. Two days of silence. I try to be the supportive “not-quite-boyfriend,” telling him it’s fine and we’ll meet when he’s back.
Then, the final message:
Devlin: Don’t go anywhere tonight. Stay in your room. I’ve asked someone to keep an eye on you while I’m gone. I mean it, Val. Don’t make me worry.
I stare at the screen, my smile fading into a frown. Someone is keeping an eye on me? The possessive, obsessive maniac. He’s worse than Sasha ever was. I don’t reply. I’m not a pet, and I’m certainly not a damsel.
* * *
I eventually drift into a restless sleep, dreaming of dark eyes and heavy hands.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
I bolt upright, my heart leaping into my throat. It’s 2:14 AM. At first, I think it’s my alarm, but then I realize it’s the high-pitched notification from my laptop. The motion sensor for the rescue center.
I scramble for my computer, my fingers trembling. The grainy night-vision feed flickers to life.
In the corner of the room, near the supply shelf, one of the transport boxes lies on its side, as if it’s been shoved.
“No,” I whisper.
I don’t call security—there’s no time, and the campus guards are notoriously slow. I throw on a hoodie and my sneakers, grabbing my keys and sprinting out the door.
The night air is biting, the campus a graveyard of shadows. I run toward Building C, my breath hitching in my chest. If anyone hurts those animals, I’ll kill them myself.
I reach the back entrance. The building is an old stone structure, and the rescue room is on the “ground floor,” thoughit’s elevated about five feet above the actual pavement. I approach the heavy metal door, my ears straining.
