Zara pov:
The world narrowed to the shape of him cutting through the pastel-tinted air of the ice cream parlour. My breath hitched, lodging like a shard of ice in my throat. I couldn't look away. It was like watching a storm roll in—beautiful, inevitable, and destructive.
A sharp, painful pinch on my forearm jerked my gaze down. Isa's fingers were dug into my skin, her face pale. "Zara," she hissed, the sound barely audible over the cheerful pop music. "Look at your spoon. Now. Don't let him see you staring."
I forced my eyes down to the melting mess of my sundae. "Why?" I whispered back, the word trembling.
"That's Soren." Her voice was a frantic, breathless rush. "He's not just one of the Kings, Zara. He's something else. In secondary school, a boy shoved past him in the hallway, stepped on his shoe. Just… stumbled into him. Soren followed him home. Broke his arm, three ribs, and fractured his eye socket. The boy's family moved away after. No charges. Ever." Her grip tightened. "He's Juniper's older brother."
The final piece of information landed like a physical blow. Juniper's brother. Elio's cousin. The blood tie wove him even deeper into the center of this web I was stuck in. My mind spun, the sugary sweetness in the air suddenly cloying and sickening.
The shadow fell over our table.
"Isa. Fancy meeting you here."
His voice was smooth, polished, with that sharp British clip. It was a voice meant for drawing rooms, not ice cream parlours. I kept my eyes glued to a brownie chunk drowning in whipped cream.
"Soren," Isa said, her voice impressively steady, though I felt her leg shaking against mine under the table. "Hi."
"Mind if I join you? Looks terribly cozy."
It wasn't a request. The scrape of a wrought-iron chair from the neighboring table was his only warning before he was sitting, sliding the chair between Isa and me, his body angling subtly but effectively to block me in. He smelled like the night outside and something exponentially more dangerous.
"So," he said, crossing his ankle over his knee, the picture of relaxed elegance. He directed his attention to Isa. "How's the design portfolio coming? Juniper mentioned something about a gallery show."
He was pretending. Pretending this was a casual chat. Pretending I wasn't sitting right next to him, my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest.
Isa answered, her words a little too fast, about textiles and concepts. I tried to be invisible, focusing on the slow drip of fudge down my spoon.
Then I felt it.
The brush of his hand against my outer thigh, under the cover of the tablecloth. It was deliberate. Not an accident. My entire body jolted, a full-voltage shock of pure adrenaline. I clenched my jaw, my fingers turning white around my spoon.
Isa glanced at me, frowning slightly at my sudden rigidity. I gave a tiny, forced shake of my head.
Soren's conversation with Isa didn't falter. He asked about her father, his tone dipping into a semblance of sympathy that made my stomach turn. All the while, his hand settled heavily on my leg, his thumb beginning a slow, torturous back-and-forth stroke along the inner seam of my jeans.
Heat flooded my face, a cocktail of terror and humiliating, unwanted awareness. I tried to shift away, but his grip tightened, pinning me in place. He was a cage made of one hand.
"—haven't seen Juni much lately, actually," Isa was saying, a confused worry entering her voice. "She's been… distant. Disappearing."
"Has she?" Soren mused. His thumb moved higher, pushing insistently against the denim. "How unlike her."
His fingers traced a scorching path, his touch somehow both impersonal and deeply intimate. He wasn't caressing. He was claiming. Mapping a territory. A silent reminder of the pantry, of what he knew, of what he could take. My breathing shallowed. Stars danced at the edge of my vision. I focused on Isa's voice, clinging to it as an anchor to the normal world that was crumbling around me.
Then he found it. The perfect, terrible pressure, applied with the precision of a safecracker. A bolt of pure, electric sensation shot through me, so intense it was pain, it was pleasure, it was a violation that went straight to my core.
A small, choked sound escaped me. I slapped my free hand over my mouth, but it was too late. My forehead thumped against the cool, sticky surface of the table as I curled forward, a wave of dizzying nausea and overwhelming sensation rolling through me.
"Zara!" Isa's voice cut through the fog. "Oh my god, are you okay? Is it the sugar? I told you it was too much!"
I couldn't speak. I could only breathe, in short, ragged pants, my body humming with the aftershock of his touch. Soren had removed his hand. The absence was its own kind of shock.
"Perhaps she needs air," Soren suggested, his voice dripping with a false, solicitous concern. "It is rather cloying in here."
"I'm—I'm fine," I managed to gasp, pushing myself upright. I couldn't look at him. I couldn't look at Isa. Shame was a fire in my veins. "Just… sudden headache. I need to go."
"I'll come with you," Isa said, already gathering her purse, her face etched with concern.
"No!" The word came out too sharp. I softened it, forcing a weak smile. "No, Isa, finish yours. Really. I just need to lie down. I'll call you." I was already sliding out of the booth, my legs watery. I had to get out. Now.
I didn't look back. I fled the parlour, the bell's cheerful chime mocking me as I burst into the cool evening air. I stumbled to my car, fumbling with the keys, my hands shaking so badly I dropped them twice.
Only when I was inside, the doors locked, the engine roaring to life, did I let out a sob. I drove without seeing, tears blurring the streetlights into streaks of gold. I drove until the manicured streets around campus gave way to the quieter rows of student housing.
Pulling up to my dorm, I slumped over the steering wheel, trying to steady my breathing. That's when I remembered. Isa. I'd left her there. With him. Guilt, sharp and acidic, cut through my panic. I had to go back.
Just as I reached for the gear shift, a sound cut through the quiet hum of the engine—a low, feminine moan, quickly stifled. It came from the back seat of the car parked next to mine, a sleek black sedan with tinted windows.
My blood ran cold. It wasn't my business. I should look away, drive off.
But curiosity, that fatal flaw, made me peer through the gap in the other car's front windows.
I saw a flash of familiar magenta-tipped hair. Juniper. She was tangled with a guy, their bodies pressed together in the shadows of the back seat. This guy was broader, with close-cropped dark hair and a sharp, familiar profile. As if sensing my stare, Juniper's head snapped up. Our eyes met through two layers of glass.
Pure, undiluted panic flashed across her face. She shoved the guy away from her as if he were on fire. He turned, and in the dim glow of the dashboard light, he turned, and in the dim glow of the dashboard light, I saw his face.
Grey eyes, sharp as broken glass, locked onto mine. Handsome, but in a way that felt surgical—all calculated angles and cold intent.
Recognition flashed in his gaze, followed by something darker. Annoyance. Then fury.
"Shit," he snarled.
Before I could move, he was out of the car. My door was wrenched open. A hand clamped over my mouth, fingers digging into my cheeks hard enough to bruise bone. He dragged me out and slammed me against the side of his sedan.
"You," he hissed, his face inches from mine. His breath smelled like mint and something sterile, like antiseptic. "You just couldn't mind your own business, could you?"
I tried to shake my head, tears already blurring my vision. His other hand came up, but not to hit me. It wrapped around my throat.
Not squeezing. Not yet. Just resting there, a promise.
"Do you know who you're looking at?" he whispered, voice low and venomous. "Do you know what happens to little mice who see things they shouldn't?"
Juniper scrambled from the back seat, her face pale. "Cassian, stop! She's my friend!"
"Your friend is a liability," he spat, not looking away from me. His thumb pressed into the hollow of my throat. I whimpered, the sound strangled. "She's a loose end. And I tie up loose ends."
"She won't say anything! I'll make sure of it!" Juniper pleaded, grabbing his arm.
He shook her off. "You don't make sure of anything, Juniper. That's my job." His fingers tightened. Just a fraction. Panic exploded behind my ribs. I couldn't breathe. My hands clawed at his wrist, but he was stone.
"Cas, you're hurting her!" Juniper's voice rose, frantic.
"I haven't even started," he said calmly, his grey eyes dead as they stared into mine. "If a word of this leaves your mouth, you won't make it to graduation. Do you understand? Nod if you understand."
I tried. I couldn't move. Black spots danced at the edges of my sight.
Juniper shoved him, hard. "You're choking her, you psycho! Let go!"
He didn't let go. His grip tightened further. The world began to tunnel, sound fading, his face blurring into a mask of cold fury. The last thing I saw was Juniper's terrified expression. The last thing I felt was the crushing pressure on my windpipe.
Then, nothing.
---
I woke in my own bed.
The darkness was thick, familiar. For a second, I thought it had all been a nightmare. The ice cream parlour. The hands under the table. The grey-eyed man.
Then I tried to swallow.
A raw, bruised pain flared in my throat. Memory rushed back, violent and suffocating. I choked back a sob, my hands flying to my neck. The skin was tender, swollen.
I wasn't alone.
A silhouette stood at the foot of my bed, tall and still, blending into the shadows near my closet. Watching.
A scream lodged in my damaged throat, coming out as a ragged whimper. I scrambled back against my headboard, sheets tangling around my legs.
"P-please," I rasped, the word scraping like sandpaper. "Please, just leave me alone."
The figure didn't move.
"I'm sorry," I cried, tears spilling hot and fast down my cheeks. "I didn't see anything, I swear. Please don't hurt me. Don't hurt Isa."
It stepped forward.
I flinched, squeezing my eyes shut, waiting for the hands, the pressure, the pain.
But instead of violence, a palm—warm and surprisingly gentle—cupped over my mouth, silencing my trembling cries. The touch was firm but not cruel. A strange, familiar scent cut through my panic. Soap. Leather. Cold night air.
Him.
My eyes flew open in the dark.
"It's me," a low voice murmured, close to my ear. Soren.
A hysterical, unexpected wave of relief washed over me. I went limp, a shaky exhale escaping against his palm. Soren. The realization shocked me. I was relieved it was him. The obsessive, predatory shadow I feared… was suddenly the safer option.
He felt me relax and slowly removed his hand. I heard the soft click of my bedside lamp.
Light flooded the small space.
And there he was. Soren, in rumpled black clothes, his pale hair messy as if he'd been running his hands through it. He wasn't smiling his usual twisted grin. He looked… focused. Almost human.
His eyes swept over my face, then dropped to my throat. His expression, which had been unnervingly calm, hardened instantaneously. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"Who," he said, his voice dangerously quiet, "laid hands on you?"
The shift was terrifying. The softness was gone, replaced by something lethal. This wasn't the violent anger of the grey-eyed man. This was colder. Deeper. More promises.
I shrank back, fresh tears welling.
He saw me recoil and closed his eyes for a second, a muscle working in his jaw. When he opened them, he'd banked the deadly fury, but it still smoldered beneath the surface.
"Tell me," he said, his tone forcibly softer, though it vibrated with restrained intensity.
I just shook my head, crying silently, clutching my blankets to my chin. I was too scared—of Cassian, of his threat to Isa, of the violence in Soren's eyes.
He watched me for a long moment, then did something I never could have predicted.
He sighed, the sound almost weary, and sat on the edge of my bed. Not touching me. Just… there.
"Alright," he murmured, more to himself than to me. "Alright, little ghost."
He reached over and turned off the lamp, plunging us back into darkness, but this time, his presence was a solid, known thing in the room. I heard the soft rustle of fabric, the shift of weight on my mattress.
"Go to sleep," he said, his voice a low rumble in the dark. "No one else is coming through that door tonight."
I didn't know if it was a threat or a promise. But exhausted, traumatized, and strung out on fear, my body betrayed me. The adrenaline seeped away, leaving a hollow, heavy fatigue. My eyelids grew leaden.
The last thing I was aware of, as I drifted into an uneasy sleep, was the faint warmth of another body lying beside mine on top of the covers, and the steady, watchful sound of his breathing in the dark.