35. Oakley

Chapter 35

Oakley

" H oly fuck," he says, and I don't think I've ever heard panic in his voice the way I do now. "Come here," Jeremiah's voice is clipped, and I know it's because he's worried. My teeth chatter violently, and all I see is rage in his eyes. He moves with purpose, closing the distance between us in quick strides, and he has me in his arms, cradling me against his chest.

"Are you hurt?" His tone is measured, but there's an edge of urgency. He looks down at my torn dress, but I've managed to cover my breast. I know what he's thinking, and I need to put his mind at ease.

"He didn't get a chance…" I trail off before telling him, "I'm okay, just cold," I mutter, feeling the sting of tears I refuse to let fall. "Really fucking cold."

"Hang on." His words are a promise, and for a moment, the fear ebbs away, replaced by the certainty that with Jeremiah here, I'll make it out of this.

"Thanks for coming for me," I add, attempting another shaky smile. I don't need to ask him if he's found Mr. Bryant or if I'm still in any danger. I know with Jeremiah I'm always safe. He's always got my back. He always shows up.

Without a word, he scoops me up, lifting me effortlessly. My body curls against his chest, seeking out the warmth that radiates from him. His grip is firm yet gentle, holding me tightly against him.

"Of course I did, baby. You called. You're going to be fine," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.

The freezer door closes behind us with a soft thud. Jeremiah's steps are sure, as he moves us further away from my would-be tomb. I cling to him, my fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. A chill still bites at my skin, but his presence is all I need.

"I'm going to fucking kill him," he says, his voice low and edged with concern. I think that he's mostly talking to himself, because by the tone of his voice, he's already made up his mind.

We emerge into a slightly warmer room, the oppressive feeling left behind us. Jeremiah sets me down carefully on what I assume is a tote full of books. I don't look around. All I want to focus on is the man in front of me. Jeremiah's hands linger for a moment longer than necessary as they brush down my sides and I lean into him. I need this. I need him. Jeremiah pulls back, his green eyes locking onto mine, seemingly searching for any signs of distress.

"That dress has to go," he says, already reaching for the hem.

"Excuse me?" I quip, raising an eyebrow despite my shivering.

"Trust me," he replies, his tone brooking no argument. "I need to get you warm. We'll deal with everything else later. You're my priority, bunny. "

He strips the freezing cold dress from my body, his movements quick and almost sterile. But there's a gentleness there, a carefulness that speaks volumes. As his hoodie envelops me, its scent and warmth seeps into me, chasing everything away.

"Better?" he asks, his hands rubbing my arms briskly to generate heat.

"Much," I breathe, feeling a flush of gratitude and something deeper, more primal.

"I want you to smell like me, so you'll remember I'm always watching." And then Jeremiah's arms are around me, warming me up even more. I need to ask him about Mr. Bryant and if he made it to where he was going before I called him, but I don't have it in me. I don't know if my eyelids or arms feel heavier. I feel like I've been dragged by a truck, and all I want right now is to crawl into bed, preferably with my boyfriend.

"Did he hurt you anywhere? Do you need to go to the hospital?" Jeremiah finally asks, his large hands sliding down my back and then back up in the most comforting motion.

"No," I shake my head, trying to steady my racing heart. "Cindy came back and spooked him before he could. And then I guess you showed up." I lean up, kissing him chastely on the mouth before saying, "Thanks for saving my ass, pretty boy."

"I always will, bunny," he replies. "I'm never letting you out of my sight again. I swear to fucking God."

"I'm going to hold you to that," I say, my voice softer now, filled with every ounce of love I have for Jeremiah Blackwood.

Jeremiah's voice cuts through the silence. "The fuckhead who attacked you that night is gone. He'll never touch you again. He'll never make you scared."

I pull back slightly, looking up at him. His emerald eyes are hard, resolute, and I see a flicker of something dangerous there.

"And that motherfucker who locked you in the freezer? He's injured. I didn't finish him off because I needed to find you, but I'm going to."

"He's gone…" I trail, my mind racing. The implications are clear, but I need to hear it. Need to know exactly what he means.

"Yeah," he nods, his gaze unwavering. "You're safe now, bunny. I promise." Jeremiah's warmth wraps around me like a blanket. "Baby, talk to me," he murmurs, his voice a comforting rumble against my ear. "What happened tonight? Is he the one who sent the flowers, and those fucked up pictures?"

"Do you remember him?" I ask, my voice trembling but gaining strength with each word. Jeremiah shakes his head no, and I'm not surprised. Jeremiah didn't pay much attention to anything in high school besides football and me. "He said he picked me because I was obsessed with you and—" I cut myself off because I don't even want to repeat it.

"Go on," Jeremiah prompts, his tone steady, encouraging.

"After I left high school, he found me online. When I stopped using the cam site, I guess that made him snap, and he found me here," I continue, shuddering at the memory. "He didn't get to touch me, not really, but God, the way he looked at me…it was like he thought I belonged to him."

"Son of a bitch," Jeremiah mutters, his grip tightening protectively.

"It's okay," I shake my head, feeling relief wash over me. "You found me in time."

"That bastard," Jeremiah growls, anger etching itself into his tone. He pulls back slightly, just enough to look me in the eyes.

"We're okay," I assure him, my voice barely above a whisper. "I knew you'd come for me."

"He's not going to hurt you again," Jeremiah vows, his eyes burning with intensity. "I promise you that."

"I know you won't let anything happen to me," I manage to say, my voice cracking under the weight of my emotions. "I love you."

"I love you more than anything. I'd burn the whole fucking world down to protect you," he replies, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face.

"I know you would," I murmur, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with being away from downstairs and everything to do with the boy I've loved in one form or another my entire life. We stay there, locked in a moment that I'll remember for the rest of my days.

"I just...I want to see him before you kill him," I manage to say, though my voice trembles.

"Trust me, bunny, you will get to say and do whatever you want to that fucker." His words are laced with a promise, a vow that he's made to himself as much as to me.

Finally, we reach the top of the stairs leading to the main level of the library. Jeremiah pushes the heavy door open with a rough shove, his other hand never leaving mine. Graham is leaning against the far wall and my breath catches in my throat as my eyes lock onto the figure slumped by his feet.

Mr. Bryant. The man who wanted to torture me before he killed me is now motionless. His once confident posture is now reduced to a pitiful, injured heap. Blood stains his khakis, and his glasses lie shattered on the ground beside him. A groan escapes his lips as he tries to lift his head, his eyes narrowing as they focus on us.

"Miss Ashford…" he rasps, his voice a twisted mockery of the authority he once held. "What...what's going on?"

"Shut up," Jeremiah snaps, stepping between us, his body a protective barrier. "Not a single soul alive here is going to fall for your attempt at being coy."

Emotions churn within me—fear, anger, disgust. Seeing Mr. Bryant so vulnerable, so powerless, stirs something deep inside me. I take a step forward, my legs trembling but resolute.

"Just why?" The words slip from my lips, sharp and accusatory. "Why did you do all this?"

"Oakley, please…" His voice is pathetic, pleading. "I never meant to hurt you. I just...I couldn't help myself."

"Couldn't help yourself?" I repeat, bitterness coating my tongue. "You stalked me, invaded my life, made me feel unsafe in my own skin. And you think that's an excuse?"

"He's not worth your time. He's a forked tongue," Jeremiah interjects, his voice hard.

I hold up a hand, my gaze never leaving Mr. Bryant's pitiful form. "I need to hear it from him. I need to understand."

"Oakley, I'm sorry," Mr. Bryant whimpers, his face contorting in pain. "I was obsessed. You were just so...perfect."

"Perfect?" The word feels like a slap. "I'm not your fantasy. I'm a person. And you have no power over me anymore."

He flinches at my words, the reality of his actions crashing down on him. I feel a surge of anger and a strange, liberating sense of justice. This man who had terrorized me is now nothing more than a broken shell. And I am no longer his victim .

"Oakley," Graham says, finally giving a voice to his presence. "Is there anything you want to say to him?"

I turn to Mr. Bryant, who still lies crumpled, his eyes flicker with fear and desperation. My breath catches; I can almost taste the bitterness of what's about to happen. I don't speak, I don't have time to before Jeremiah is moving in front of me, eyeing Mr. Bryant with so much scorn in the world plastered on his face.

I almost feel bad for the beady-eyed little man…almost.