Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
I think of the virginity contest, the thousand dollar pot, Kayleigh’s wolfish grin as she goads us all on. It suddenly feels so middle school, so bloodless. None of us could have survived five minutes with someone like Liam Thomas. My guess is that he puts Jake Namors to shame because the boy’s all smooth surface and practiced cocky smile, but would probably faint if confronted by real, animal need.
The thought makes me giggle, then shiver; the cold night crawls under my hoodie, skitters down my spine. Somewhere, a sprinkler kicks on, hissing. I move toward the south end of campus, past the looming brick mass of the science building, where the air smells faintly of cut grass and the weird chemical tang of melting plastic. Every light is a punch of yellow, every shadow a black hole.
I pass under the clock tower, the big hands stuck at 2:38. My phone buzzes again, a new text from Stella: “u alive? or just passed out in the stacks?” I thumb out a quick “still breathing” and pocket the phone, not ready to speak to anyone. Not yet.
At the edge of the quad, the path narrows, curling past the shuttered windows of the Faculty Club. The building is a looming, Tudor-style beast, all pointed eaves and stained glass, and by night it’s the darkest place on campus. The motion lights are dead, or maybe someone killed them on purpose, because the whole place glows only with blue moonlight.
I slow down here, footfalls soft in the gravel. The air is heavy with the smell of blooming lilacs, so sweet it nearly masks the reek of stale cigarettes. There’s a single light on in the Faculty Club’s upper window—a lone lamp burning in what must be an office or study. Below, at ground level, the shadows seem to fold inward, denser than anywhere else.
The dorm is far behind me now, and the tension in my muscles begins to fade, replaced by a prickling curiosity. My body, still thrumming with leftover adrenaline, drags me forward.
Tonight, the world feels thin, like I could step through the shadows and into something entirely different, and maybe never return.
The path outside the Faculty Club is a stripe of ghostly gravel, moonlit and sharp, a little seam stitched between worlds. My breath hitches as I step into the deep shadow where porch lights refuse to follow, the only illumination the silver run-off from the windows above. The world is so still, so utterly arrested, that I can hear the ruffle of every leaf, the distant chime of a city bus, the tick of my own heart.
That’s why the collision is so shocking.
He’s just there, out of nowhere—a tall, solid mass in a suit that’s so perfectly fitted it might as well be painted on. My face smashes into his chest at full speed, and for a split second I’m sure my nose will break.
“Oof!” I grunt, swaying on my feet. But his hands are on my shoulders before I can stagger back, steadying me with exactly the right amount of force. Not too gentle, not too rough.
I look up, and for a moment all I can see is teeth. White, even, and grinning, not with humor but with something darker and hungrier. Then I see the eyes: blue, and not just blue, but the fierce, uncanny blue of heated fire. In the moonlight, they cut straight through me.
“Easy,” he says, and his voice is smoother than whiskey, with a rough edge that scrapes the underside of my soul.
I try to stammer out an apology, but my tongue has liquefied. There’s a smell—something expensive and woody, with an undertone of sex that isn’t cologne but skin. The man is older, but in a way that amplifies rather than dulls his power. If anything, he looks more dangerous than Liam Thomas, more likely to set off alarms and not care if he does.
We’re frozen together for a single, ragged breath. His hands tighten on my shoulders, and for a moment I’m sure he’s going to scold me or tell me to get lost, like every other authority figure in my life.
“Um,” I stutter like a hopeless dork. “Hi.”
But the man isn’t turned off by my stammering. Instead, he pulls me in. Not gently, not asking permission, just the full, animal certainty that I will follow.
He guides me deeper into the alcove, out of sight of any windows or security cameras, and plants my back against the brick wall. There’s nothing said, not a word, but I can feel everything he means: want, need, and something more feral. His hand cups the back of my neck and pins me there, just hard enough to remind me that I am—right now—helpless and soft and entirely his.
It should scare me. It doesn’t. Instead, I feel my body switch tracks, the same way it did outside my dorm door an hour ago. There’s a pulse between my legs, a low, steady ache that makes my knees threaten to fold.