Because if I don’t, Vincent will send someone who won’t care about keeping her safe.
And I can’t let that happen.
Even if it costs me everything.
35
Lexi
The dorm is quiet. Too quiet in that oppressive way that makes every small sound feel magnified—Scarlett’s soft breathing, the distant thump of bass from someone’s speaker three floors down, a hum of something electrical.
I stand by the window, forehead pressed against the cool glass, watching the streetlights blink through the blinds. My reflection stares back at me—hollow-eyed, exhausted in a way that goes deeper than lack of sleep. It’s the kind of tired that sits behind your eyes, in your bones, a weight you can’t shake no matter how long you rest.
I wanted so badly for this year to be my fresh start, to be normal, and not feel this way, but here I am.
My phone glows in my hand. I scroll through my messages, reread a text from Thea asking if I’m really okay, if I want to talk. My thumb hovers over the delete button and I press it before Ican overthink the tone, before I can parse whether she’s asking out of guilt or genuine concern.
The image of an older man with gray hair and a beard, standing in the doorway of this very room flashes in my mind.
Old man, beard, watching.
Scarlett’s voice echoes in my head, panicked and certain. But I force it away, rationalize it. She’s probably dreaming of weird shit. She’s probably just stressed about the new school year and not really knowing her roommate, letting her imagination run wild.
I lock my phone, the screen going dark. Turn off the lamp. The room plunges into shadow broken only by the ambient glow from outside.
My bed feels colder than I remember when I climb in. The sheets are crisp, almost hostile against my skin. I pull the comforter up to my chin and try to find a comfortable position, but everything feels wrong.
I roll over, staring at the wall, trying to convince myself that this is just normal. Just the trauma hangover. Everyone feels watched after being through hell, right? It’s a natural response to stress, to fear, to having your sense of safety shattered.
Sleep comes in fragments—brief snatches of unconsciousness interrupted by hypervigilance, by the sound of every footstep in the hallway, by the creak of old building settling.
When I finally sink deeper, finally let go, the dreams are dark and formless.
And warmth blooms.
Something solid pressed against my back, I think. I blink my eyes open. Am I imagining it?
A breath ghosts against my neck, raising goosebumps. “Hey, baby.”
The whisper cuts through the fog of sleep. A voice I know. A voice that makes my heart both skip and steady at the same time.
I jerk upright, heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I see Koa. He’s lying next to me in my narrow dorm bed, half in shadow, his features harsh in the thin light leaking from the hallway through the crack under the door.
He’s bruised. One eye is swollen, the skin around it purple-black. His lip is busted. His nose is bruised. Holy hell.
“Koa—” My voice comes out breathy, shocked. “What are you doing here? Are you okay?”
He shifts closer, and I catch the wince he tries to hide. He leans his forehead against mine, and I’m hit with the smell of him—motor oil and iron and something sharp that might be adrenaline still burning through his system.
“Worried about me?” he asks, and there’s something vulnerable in his voice.
I nod because my throat has closed up, because seeing him like this—broken and bleeding and here—does something to my chest.
His tone softens, just a fraction. “Sorry I couldn’t––”
“Don’t be sorry.” The words tumble out. “You tried. You—” I think of him fighting Revan and Atticus, outnumbered and outmatched. “You got hurt because of me.”
He grabs my wrist and brings my hand to his ribs. “Show me how grateful you are.”
