What he doesn't know

I didn't go home.

The elevator spat me into the lobby, and I stood there shaking for a full minute before my legs remembered how to work. Gregory was watching. He knew I hadn't told Jace. He knew about the almost-kiss in the bedroom—the hands on the desk, the breath on my cheek, the way Jace looked at my mouth like it was the only thing he wanted in the world.

But if you kiss him again—if you even touch him—I'll make sure you regret it.

Again. He said again. Like we'd already kissed. Like he'd been close enough to see something that never actually happened.

The thought made bile rise in my throat. I shoved through the lobby doors and into the freezing night. The snow had stopped. The streets were wet and black and empty. Every shadow was a threat. Every parked car was Gregory Kingston waiting with my name on his lips.

I walked fast with my phone clutched in my pocket and my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my teeth. The library was still open. The library was safe—bright lights and security cameras and people who weren't violent drunks stalking college girls through the dark.

I didn't text Jace. I didn't call Marcus. I didn't do any of the things a smart person would do.

I went to work.

The campus library was a ghost town at nine o'clock on a Thursday. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The air smelled like old paper and floor wax. I found my usual corner on the third floor, tucked between the law reference section and a radiator that barely worked.

My hands were still shaking. I spread my textbooks across the table and tried to focus. Contracts. Torts. Civil procedure. Words that should have mattered, but all I could see was Gregory's name on Jace's phone. All I could hear was the text notification that had drained the color from his face.

Something was happening. Something between Jace and his father that I didn't understand. And I was caught in the middle of it—too close to run, too scared to stay.

My phone buzzed.

I nearly knocked my coffee across my notes. But it wasn't the unknown number this time.

Marcus: You okay? You looked upset when you left The Den.

I stared at the message. Marcus. Sweet, steady Marcus who had no idea what he was getting tangled in. I should tell him to stay away from me. I should tell him I was poison, that everyone who got close to me ended up ruined or dead or drowning in medical debt.

Instead, I typed back: I'm fine. Just tired.

Marcus: You're always tired. When's the last time you slept?

Me: I don't remember.

Marcus: That's not healthy.

Me: Neither is being a broke college student. I'll sleep when I'm dead.

Marcus: Or you could let someone help you for once.

I didn't reply to that. What was there to say? Help was a trap. Help was a loan you could never repay. Help was my mother believing my father would come back, right up until the day she died.

My phone buzzed again. Different notification. Unknown number.

My blood turned to ice.

Unknown: Working late at the library? Third floor. Law section. Brave girl.

I shot up from my chair so fast it clattered backward. The sound echoed through the empty stacks. I spun around, scanning the aisles, the shadows, the emergency exit at the end of the hall.

Nothing. No one.

He wasn't just watching. He was here. He'd been here. He knew exactly where I was sitting, exactly what floor, exactly what section. My chest seized. My vision blurred at the edges. I grabbed my bag and my books and I ran.

I didn't stop running until I reached the hockey arena.

It was the only place I could think of. The cleaning shift didn't start for another hour, but I knew the back door was always unlocked during practice. The players left it propped open with a broken hockey stick so they could sneak out for smoke breaks.

The arena was dark except for the emergency lights. Cold air poured off the ice. The stands were empty, thousands of seats staring down at nothing. I stood at the edge of the rink, gasping, my breath fogging in the darkness.

"You're not supposed to be here."

I spun around. Jace was standing in the tunnel entrance, still in his practice gear. Sweat dripped down his temples. His helmet was tucked under one arm. He looked exhausted and furious and confused all at once.

"Neither are you," I said. "Practice ended an hour ago."

"I stayed late."

"Why?"

He dropped his helmet on the bench. The clatter echoed through the empty arena. "Because I skate until I can't think anymore. It's the only thing that works."

"That sounds healthy."

"That sounds like something you'd say."

He walked toward me. Slow steps. Measured. Like he was approaching a wounded animal. I realized too late what I must look like—wild eyes, shaking hands, clutching my backpack like a shield.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"You're lying again."

"I'm not—"

"You ran all the way here. I saw you through the glass." He stopped inches from me. His chest was still rising and falling from practice. Up close, I could see the bruise on his cheek had faded to a dull yellow. "You were running like someone was chasing you. So I'm asking you one more time. What happened?"

My throat closed. The words were right there. Your father. The texts. He's watching me. He was in the library. He knows everything. But if I told him, he'd go after Gregory. He'd get himself hurt. He'd lose everything—the draft, the team, the future he'd clawed out of nothing.

"I can't," I whispered.

"Can't what?"

"Tell you."

His jaw tightened. His hands curled at his sides. "Why not?"

"Because you'll do something stupid."

"Stupid is what I do best."

"That's not funny."

"It wasn't a joke."

He reached out. I thought he was going to grab my wrist again, the way he did in his bedroom. But instead, his fingers brushed the strap of my backpack. Slowly. Carefully. He pulled it off my shoulder and set it on the bench beside his helmet.

"You're shaking," he said.

"I'm cold."

"You're scared."

I didn't deny it. I couldn't. My whole body was trembling, and it had nothing to do with the temperature.

"Whatever's happening," Jace said, "whatever you're not telling me—I'm going to find out. And when I do, I'm going to fix it."

"You can't fix this."

"Watch me."

The arrogance was back. The King persona, sliding into place like armor. But underneath it, I could see something else. Something desperate and real.

"Why do you care so much?" I asked. "I'm just your tutor. I'm just a paycheck."

"You're not just anything."

"Then what am I?"

The question hung between us. The same question I'd asked him in his apartment. The same question he still couldn't answer.

"I don't know," he said. "But I know I can't stop thinking about you. I know I almost put my fist through a wall when I saw you with Marcus. I know that when you walked out of my apartment tonight, I wanted to follow you." His voice cracked. "I know I'm not supposed to want this. Any of this. But I do."

The ice stretched behind us like a frozen ocean. The emergency lights cast long shadows across the stands. Jace Kingston was standing in front of me with his heart in his hands, offering it up like an apology.

"Wanting things isn't the problem," I said. "It's what you do with it."

"I know."

"I can't be another puck bunny, Jace. I can't be another girl you sleep with and forget about."

"You're not."

"How do you know?"

He stepped closer. His hand came up, and this time he did touch my face. His palm cupped my jaw, rough and warm. His thumb traced the edge of my cheekbone with a gentleness that made my knees weak.

"Because I've never felt like this before," he said. "Because you're the first person who's ever looked at me like I'm not a lost cause. Because when I'm with you, I don't feel like my father."

My heart cracked open. Right there in the dark arena, with the ice at our backs and the world falling apart around us.

"Jace—"

"I'm not asking for anything. I'm not asking you to trust me or date me or even like me." His forehead nearly touched mine. "I'm just asking you to stop lying to me. Whatever's happening—whatever you're so afraid of—I can handle it. Just tell me the truth."

I opened my mouth. The truth was right there, burning on my tongue. The texts. The stalking. The threat in the elevator.

And then my phone rang.

Unknown number.

Jace heard it. He saw my face. And before I could stop him, he grabbed the phone from my pocket and looked at the screen.

"Unknown?" He frowned. "Who is—"

"Don't."

"Sophie—"

"It's nothing."

"This isn't nothing. This is the third time I've seen you freeze when your phone buzzes. Tuesday night. Tonight in my apartment. Now." His eyes searched mine. "Who's texting you?"

I didn't answer. My lungs had stopped working.

Jace answered for me. He hit the green button and put the phone on speaker.

And Gregory Kingston's voice filled the arena.

"Hello, Sophie. I see you found my son. I told you what would happen if you touched him."

Jace went absolutely still. The color drained from his face. His grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles went white.

"Dad," he said. "What the hell are you doing?"

A pause. Then a laugh—low and drunk and ugly.

"Protecting you, son. Someone has to."

"You're not protecting me. You're stalking her."

"I'm warning her. She's trash, Jace. A broke little scholarship case who's only interested in your money and your draft pick. You think she cares about you? You think anyone does?"

Jace's hand was shaking. His whole body was shaking. But his voice was steady when he spoke.

"If you contact her again, I will destroy you. I'll go to the police. I'll go to the press. I'll tell everyone what you did to Mom. You'll never come near me or anyone I care about ever again. Do you understand?"

Silence. Then:

"You're making a mistake, son."

The line went dead.

Jace stared at the phone. Then at me. His expression was unreadable—rage and fear and something that looked a lot like heartbreak.

"How long?" he asked.

"What?"

"How long has he been doing this?"

I couldn't lie anymore. Not with his voice still echoing through the arena. Not with his hand still shaking.

"Since the first night," I said. "The night I met him in your hallway."

Jace closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were full of something I'd never seen before. Guilt. Pure, crushing guilt.

"He threatened you because of me," he said. "Because you're close to me."

"I'm not—"

"You are." He stepped back. Put distance between us. His walls were slamming back up, brick by brick. "And that means I can't be near you. Not until I fix this."

"Jace—"

"Go home, Sophie. Lock your doors. Don't talk to anyone." He grabbed his helmet and walked toward the tunnel. "I'll handle my father. And when it's done—if you still want to be my tutor—we'll finish the paper."

"And if I don't?"

He stopped. Looked back at me. His blue eyes were shattered glass.

"Then you'll be safer than anyone who ever loved me."

He disappeared into the tunnel. The door slammed shut. And I was left alone in the dark arena with the ice stretching endlessly behind me and the realization hitting me like a freight train.

Jace Kingston just chose my safety over everything.

And Gregory's next move was already on its way.