39. Victoria

The cool Englishmorning nips at my skin as we move across campus, slowly, steadily, in no rush, not dawdling. Cian is right beside me, his hand in mine, his presence a silent promise of protection. Gianluca trails just behind, eyes scanning the street randomly, like he’s expecting trouble to jump out from behind the neatly trimmed hedges.

Who knows? Maybe it will.

It’s the not knowing that fucks me off and freaks me out. I don’t know who this second player is, and it’s driving me to distraction. It’s a dangerous place to be, and I’m trying to focus, but my thoughts keep drifting back to the man I watched entering my place long after the fact.

“My first class isn’t for another hour,” I murmur, but my mind is nowhere near the lecture halls awaiting us. It’s on the stalker, this bastard who thinks they can watch me, threaten me. I tilt my head slightly, catching Luke’s eye. It’s time for him to make his move soon.

“Right,” Cian says, tight-lipped, a nod of agreement as we hit the quad and Luke veers off into the crowd with no fanfare.

No one watches him go; we just go about our business. “Union?” I ask brightly, trying to lighten the sour mood everyone is in from worry and little to no sleep.

“Sure,” Cian says.

I know he’s already had a skinful this morning, but I don’t give a fuck. I’ve seen him focus on a dime, half-cut.

I let out a slow breath, trying to steady the nerves that jangle like alarm bells in my chest. I could do with some liquid courage myself and even at this hour, the Student Union, our fucking place, will serve us, no questions asked.

Cian’s hand grips mine before he lets go, a fleeting touch, but it’s enough to spark warmth in my cold veins. Gianluca’s gaze shifts, following the movement. He is always watchful, as if he’s waiting for a sign, even from the most mundane interactions. But his expression doesn’t change. He’s a statue carved from the same stone as the gothic buildings that surround us.

Entering the Union, we are hit with more than a handful of students deciding to start their day with a drink as well. That’s what I love about this place. There is no judgment, just plain old mafia kids going about their day, however they see fit.

“Three shots,” Cian calls out to the guy behind the bar, his voice low. The bartender, a bloke who’s seen enough not to raise his eyebrows at anything, nods and gets pouring.

I slide onto a stool, leather creaking beneath me, trying not to think, just drink.

The shots slide across the bar, clear liquid sloshing in tiny glasses. I grab one and toss it back without a second thought. The burn is immediate, a trail of fire down my throat. Cian does the same, his jaw tightening just for a second before he sets his glass down with a clink.

“Fuck,” Gianluca mutters under his breath and follows suit.

We don’t talk; we drink.

Another round is ordered with a vague gesture from Cian. Silence is our shared language at the moment; heavy and dense between us as we down our poison in sync.

After the third round, I feel my head buzz nicely, and my confidence is restored. I leap off the stool and gesture to the two men to follow me out. My hand feels empty without Bonnie, and I frown, unable to believe I left her behind. That doesn’t bode well. My head is only clear with the ironic haze of alcohol.

Still, I’ve got my stiletto knife at my back, so if things get shady, I’m armed and fucking dangerous.

Cian’s close on my left, Gianluca a silent shadow to my right as the campus sprawls out before us, old stone and ivy, a gothic maze hiding more than just scholars and lecture halls.

We thread through crowds of students, their laughter and chatter a world away from the tight coil of tension in my gut as we slide into the lecture hall, a sea of ignorance around us. I pull out a pen, notes, and the trappings of normalcy. Cian takes the seat beside me, claiming space, a barrier between me and the rest. Gianluca stays outside to keep lookout, but the lecture goes off as it normally would. This waiting for the other shoe to drop is driving me crazy, but then, so is wishing for your world to be yanked out from under you.

The lecturer drones on. Words float past, fleeting and unimportant. I scribble lines in my notebook, meaningless loops and swirls that tether me to this chair, to this moment.

Cian’s hand finds mine under the table, a silent language of solidarity. Not a word passes between us, none needed. We’re locked in this together, a silent pact forged in the crucible of shared danger.

The minutes drag, each second a deliberate tick toward an uncertain future as I wonder how Luke is getting on back at home. There have been no alerts. Cian is checking his phone almost constantly, so I’m guessing all is quiet on the Western Front.

When the lecture finally ends, students flood out, a rush of bodies and noise. We rise, Cian’s hand still clasping mine, a lifeline in the chaos. Gianluca falls into step with us, a shadow flanking my other side.

“One down,” Cian murmurs.

We make our way through the campus, walking with purpose. Cian’s eyes scan the surroundings, not missing a thing. Gianluca casually rests his hand near the hidden weapon under his jacket. I can almost feel its weight, a cold promise for protection or retribution.

Our footsteps are silent on the concrete as we pass by other students chatting and laughing. It all seems normal, but in reality, we are anything but. The threat hangs over us, unseen but always present.

As we enter another building, we try to blend in with the academic setting. But even as we sit down and the professor starts speaking, we remain alert and ready for anything. In this world, every moment could lead to violence, and each breath feels like a countdown to confrontation.

Like a cat on a hot tin roof, when the second lecture eventually ends, I huff out a breath and glare at Cian. “This is ridiculous,” I hiss. “I hate it.”

“I know,” he says. “Trust me.”

“Where to?” Gianluca asks.

“Psych, round the back.”

He grimaces. “We take the long way.”

“I’ll be late. The long way is like a fifteen-minute walk. I’ve got five. These two classes are a bitch.”

“Fine,” Cian mutters as we split from the crowd. Cian, Gianluca, and I cut through a path, one that circles around the back of the old building.

They’re scanning the shadows, searching for threats as I keep my eyes in front.

Ping.

Ping.

The soft sound is followed by the two men on either side of me dropping to the ground.

“No!” I roar, but a hand clamps over my mouth as an arm locks around my waist. I’m dragged backwards, my heels digging into the dirt, trying to find purchase. Kicking out, I connect with something solid as I fight. I can’t see blood, so the men aren’t dead. Just tranq’d and in no position to help me out of this mess.

“Shhh...” A voice hisses in my ear.

Panic claws at my insides. I twist, struggle to reach my knife, but the grip is like iron. My mind screams, my body fights, but I’m trapped.

My instincts flare, and survival mode kicks in. I thrash, a wild animal caught in a trap, desperate for freedom. Boots flail, aiming for shins, for anything. I’m not going down without a fight.

“Be still,” the voice snarls.

I’m trying to figure out who it belongs to. All I know is who it isn’t. It’s not Asher Quinn.

“Who are you?” I grit out, my words muffled by the gloved hand over my mouth.

His grip tightens, but fuck that. I won’t be still. Won’t be silent. I twist, buck, but his hand is a vice over my mouth and his arm around my waist is like steel. Each breath is a battle, I bite down hard on his palm through the glove. He curses, his grip tightening as he drags me, back towards the old building.

“Stop fighting,” he commands, voice rough like gravel.

He flings a fire door open, and it bounces off the wall with a loud thud. The hall he drags me into is dark, so there’s no witnesses to this hell.

I kick out my legs again, connecting with something solid - maybe his knee. He grunts and falters but doesn’t release me. Instead, he pulls me further into the hall where I’m hidden from view, and no one can hear my cries for help. Every muscle in my body strains against him as he forces me backward.

“Be quiet now, or it will only get worse,” he threatens.

Worse? My mind races with dark possibilities. But I refuse to give in to fear, I will keep fighting until I can gut this fucker and anyone else who is working with him.

My pulse throbs in my throat as adrenaline floods my system and reality bitch slaps me in the face that I’m not getting away from him. Not until he lets me go. He knows how to grip a person so they can’t escape, especially seeing as he is at least a foot taller than me and twice as wide. His hand clamps down harder, glove against lips, silencing me. I thrash, nails scoring skin, desperate for a gasp of air, for sound. He’s a shadow, shapeless in the dim corridor, his strength monstrous.

“Easy now, petal,” he mocks, venom lacing the words.

Petal.

That word enrages me beyond anything I could previously fathom, and that rage burns through the alcohol, burns the tedium of lectures and the haze of exhaustion. I find clarity in that rage, and I stop.

“Good girl,” he almost purrs as I quit fighting. All I’m doing is losing the energy I’ll need to fight once we get wherever the fuck he’s taking me.

He spins us and the stage looms, a gaping maw in the gloom.

The doors underneath are open and I’m guessing that is my final destination. I just hope it’s not my final final destination.

“Game over,” he whispers, a declaration of doom.

Then nothing but silence, the kind that screams.

But I’m not done. Not yet.