Arielle had never been so aware of her own heartbeat.
It pulsed in her throat, in her ears, in her trembling hands as she walked across campus. Every step felt monitored, every shadow a set of eyes waiting to swallow her whole. She hated herself for knowing exactly whose eyes they were.
Adrian Wolfe's.
For days now, he had wrapped himself around her existence like a chain she couldn't break. He was there when she left the dorm, when she stepped out of class, when she tried to lose herself in the library stacks. Always close enough to touch, but never far enough to escape.
She wanted to scream at him, tell him to stop, to leave her alone. But the words always died before reaching her lips, suffocated by the look in his eyes—the certainty, the claim, the kind of dangerous obsession that made her feel both hunted and… noticed.
And now, as she rounded the corner of the art building, she saw him again.
He was leaning against the low stone wall, the autumn wind catching strands of his dark hair. His gaze lifted the moment she appeared, sharp and unrelenting, as though he'd been waiting only for her.
Her chest tightened.
She should turn around. Pretend she hadn't seen him. But the second her body twitched toward retreat, his voice cut across the space between them.
"Run, and I'll follow, estrella rota."
The foreign words slid down her spine like ice water. Another name. Another secret threaded into his obsession.
She froze. "Don't—don't call me that."
Adrian pushed away from the wall, his stride measured, deliberate. Students passed around them, but he didn't care. His focus was absolute, suffocating.
"You wear the names I give you," he said softly. "You don't get to refuse them."
Her throat tightened. "I'm not your anything."
He stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze. His eyes searched hers, dark storms pulling at every defense she tried to hold.
"You've been mine since the rain," he murmured.
Her breath hitched. "What?"
"The bus stop. The sketchbook you clutched like it was your lifeline. Do you remember?"
Her chest constricted. A flash of memory struck her—fourteen years old, standing in the rain with her sketchbook pressed against her chest, shivering as cars roared past. She hadn't noticed anyone there. Not then.
But he had been. Watching. Collecting.
Her knees weakened. "That… that was years ago."
"And I've been waiting ever since." His lips curved, not in a smile but in something darker. "Seven hundred and thirty-two days. Do you know what it's like to want something for that long and finally have it within reach?"
Her stomach twisted. She wanted to shout at him, to tell him he was insane. But the intensity in his voice made her falter.
He reached out, brushing the back of his fingers against her cheek. She flinched, but he only tilted his head, studying her as if she were a painting he'd memorized a thousand times yet still found something new in.
"You make me wait another day, and I'll lose my mind," he whispered.
Her voice cracked. "Then maybe you should."
For the first time, his smirk faded. His jaw tightened, his gaze narrowing as though she'd just challenged the unchallengeable. The air between them grew sharp, electric.
And then, without warning, he leaned closer, his lips hovering just above her ear. "Careful, little dove. I like you when you're fragile, but I might like you more when you fight."
Her body locked in place.
Before she could respond, his hand dropped to hers, wrapping around her trembling fingers. He didn't drag her, didn't force her. He just walked—and somehow, her feet followed.
---
The art building loomed around her, tall windows casting fractured light across the polished floors. Adrian didn't stop until he reached the end of a quiet hallway, where an abandoned studio sat open, the smell of turpentine faint in the air.
He pushed the door wider and gestured inside. "After you."
Arielle hesitated. Every instinct screamed to run. But those instincts had been screaming since the moment she met him, and she was still here.
She stepped inside.
The room was empty except for scattered easels, paint-stained stools, and canvases stacked against the far wall. Dust motes floated in the sunlight streaming through the tall window, catching in the air between them.
Adrian closed the door softly behind him. The sound echoed louder than a slam.
Her chest rose and fell too fast. "Why are we here?"
"Because no one will interrupt us," he said simply.
Her heart stuttered. "That's not a good thing."
"For me, it is." He stepped closer. "For you… it depends how long you keep pretending you don't feel it."
"I don't—"
He cut her off with a look, the kind that pinned her words in her throat. His hand reached for the strap of her bag, sliding it off her shoulder and setting it gently on the stool. The gesture was oddly careful, like he was stripping her armor piece by piece.
"You draw when you can't breathe, don't you?" he asked, his voice low.
Her stomach clenched. "How do you—"
"I know everything," he said flatly. "Every sketch you've thrown away. Every page you've torn. I've seen them all."
Her blood ran cold. "You… you've been going through my things?"
"I've been keeping pieces of you," he corrected. "Keeping what you discard, because even what you throw away is precious to me."
Her knees buckled. She gripped the edge of a table to steady herself, her breath shallow.
"You're insane."
He tilted his head. "If obsession is insanity, then yes. I'm insane for you."
The silence pressed heavy, unbearable.
She wanted to scream at him, to shove him away, but her body refused. Because beneath the terror, something darker stirred—a pull she hated herself for feeling. A part of her that wasn't entirely horrified.
Adrian's hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her skin, burning.
"Do you know what corazón perdido means?" he murmured.
She shook her head quickly, her breath catching.
"Good," he whispered. "I don't want you to know. Not yet."
Her chest tightened. "Stop calling me those names."
"No." His voice was final. "They're mine to give you. And one day, you'll beg me to tell you what they mean."
Her vision blurred with frustrated tears. "I hate you."
He smiled faintly. "No, you don't."
His hand dropped, but the absence was worse than the touch. He stepped back, watching her as though memorizing the way she shook, the way her lips trembled, the way fear and something else warred in her eyes.
Finally, he turned toward the door. "Go back to class, Arielle. Pretend you're normal for a little longer."
Her chest heaved. "And you?"
He looked over his shoulder, his smile dangerous. "I'll be wherever you are."
Then he was gone.
---
That night, Arielle lay awake in her narrow dorm bed, staring at the ceiling. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. Every name he whispered clung to her skin.
Lysandra. Svetlana. Estrella rota. Corazón perdido.
Names she didn't understand, names that didn't belong to her—yet felt branded into her bones.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She snatched it up, dread curling in her stomach.
Another message from the unknown number.
"Sweet dreams, little dove."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She turned her phone off, shoved it under her pillow, and squeezed her eyes shut.
But even in the silence, she could hear his voice.
And the worst part?
She wasn't sure she wanted it to stop.