Chapter 7

Seven

I drummed my fingers against my thigh, glancing at the clock on the wall for what had to be the hundredth time. Practice had run over, and Coach wasn’t one to wrap things up just because we’d hit the scheduled end time. My jaw clenched as he gave us another rundown on defense strategy, the urgency pulsing in my chest growing by the second.

It had been hours since I’d left her there in the basement. Too long.

Kira was probably waiting, wondering if I’d forgotten her. I’d be lying if I said the thought didn’t make me anxious. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I’d planned everything carefully. We had a routine, something solid—something that gave her stability, something that reminded her she was mine.

But now, my carefully crafted plan was slipping out of my control, and every second I wasn’t there felt like a crack in the foundation.

The clock’s hand ticked with agonizing slowness, and finally, when Coach let us go, I was the first one out. “Owen! Grab the bags for us, will you?” Liam called after me, grinning as he lobbed his duffle over.

I gritted my teeth, but my mask stayed intact. “Sure,” I replied, catching the bag and hoisting it over my shoulder. With one last look at the clock, I headed to the locker room, feeling the tightness in my chest. I shouldn’t have agreed. I should have brushed him off, made up some excuse.

She’d been down there alone, waiting, and I’d been here.

I tossed the bags into the locker room, peeling off my skates as quickly as possible. All around me, my teammates laughed and joked about plans for the night, their carefree chatter grating on my nerves. They had no idea what it was like to have something—or someone—that mattered so much. Someone who was tethered to you, held tight by invisible strings of need and trust. I wondered if they’d ever felt that pull, that sense of ownership that could consume you, if you let it.

People around me thought relationships were about trust, shared secrets, and stability. I’d tried that once—half-heartedly—and it hadn’t felt like this, hadn’t felt real. What I had with Kira was real because she needed me; she’d let herself be vulnerable in ways that others couldn’t even begin to comprehend. She was fragile and strong in that delicate way, with a sharpness that made her unique, something I’d molded and kept safe.

After I helped Liam get his gear loaded up, I was finally out the door and on my way. As I drove, my mind drifted back to the first time I’d really noticed her, the spark of something raw and untouched that had drawn me in like a magnet.

Kira was unlike anyone else I’d known. She didn’t try to impress me, didn’t look at me with wide-eyed admiration like most people did. No, she seemed to resist me—like I was just another face in the background. It infuriated me, but it fascinated me, too. And slowly, I’d chipped away at that shell, watched as she began to trust me, watched her open up in little ways that fed the obsession growing inside me.

But it hadn’t always been enough. Sometimes, I’d wanted more—to see her break, to see her need me so much she couldn’t think of anyone else. And maybe, in those moments, I’d gone a little too far, pushed her just past the edge of comfort. But I was just helping her see what she needed, what she could be, if she just let herself go.

But she never did, not fully. That’s why I’d had to show her, in more concrete terms, that she was mine.

I parked the car and slipped out, glancing over my shoulder as I pulled my hoodie up and moved quickly across campus. The science building was quiet, secluded, and hardly used anymore since the new labs were built on the east side of campus. I liked that it was off the radar. The fewer people who knew about this place, the better.

I jogged up the steps, my thoughts flashing back again to how it had started. Kira was unlike anyone else, that quiet defiance of hers digging under my skin until I couldn’t ignore it. She hadn’t made it easy at first—she’d kept her distance, careful, cautious, always a little too quick to turn away. It was like she was afraid of letting anyone close, afraid of letting me close.

So, I had made her see me. I showed her what it felt like to be the center of someone’s world, and then I would pull back just as she started to settle. Her reactions—the way her face would fall or her voice would falter—only made me crave more, like a fix I couldn’t get enough of. Every time she leaned in, I’d inch away, keeping her suspended between security and uncertainty. I was her high and her low, and I loved it.

The door to the building creaked open as I pushed my way inside, the stale air a familiar scent I’d come to associate with the best part of my day. As I moved down the hall, I let the memories drift through my mind like a reel of film: the way she’d looked at me in class, the way she’d opened up, letting her guard down in those moments when she thought I was genuine. And maybe I was. For her, at least, in some strange way.

But some part of her had always held back. No matter how close I got, no matter how much I let her see of me, there was a piece of her that resisted. It was maddening. That’s why I’d pushed her harder, made her understand that she couldn’t hide from me. She belonged to me—mind, body, soul. And yet, I’d still catch that flicker in her eyes sometimes, that hint of defiance.

That hint of defiance was what kept me on edge. It was why I’d locked the door to that basement room every time I left, knowing she was still clinging to some ghost of an escape plan, even if it was just in her head.

The hallway was dark as I moved quietly toward the basement stairs, my senses alert, listening. It wasn’t until I rounded the corner and softly opened the door, so as not to disturb her if she was resting, that I saw her—up ahead, the faintest hint of movement. My steps slowed as instinct kept me silent, almost predatory.

My breath stilled as I took in the scene: Kira, perched on a stack of rickety old chairs and desks, straining toward the narrow window set high in the wall. Her fingers were wrapped around the frame, muscles tense as she tried to pull herself up, inch by inch, the desperation etched into every line of her body.

What the fuck…?

A dark thrill shot through me, a strange, conflicting mix of anger and admiration. She was really trying to escape. After everything I’d done to show her, to teach her, she still thought she could leave. That she could pull herself up and out of my reach, like I was nothing more than some shadow she could brush away.

I watched her, every muscle in my body taut as I assessed the scene. She had no idea I was so close, just a few feet away. I could hear her breathing, quick and shallow, every strained exhale a testament to her desperation.

As I watched, I didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. I just stood there, watching as the urge to let her struggle, let her reach for that sliver of hope built inside me. There was something darkly satisfying in knowing that, even now, even with her best effort, she was still mine. She could try all she wanted—claw and climb and pray for an escape—but she’d never really get away.

Because no matter how high she reached, no matter how much she tried to pull herself out of this, I’d be there.