Chapter 1
The truce never lasted long. Whenever their hands brushed reaching for the same box, Evie would yank hers back as if burned, her skin prickling with a heat that had nothing to do with cardboard. Killian would mutter something sharp under his breath—words like “clumsy” or “useless” that sliced right through her—then quietly move the heavier crates for her when he thought she wasn’t looking. She noticed every annoying kindness, her pulse kicking up traitorously. He noticed every smile she tried to hide, his jaw tightening as if it personally offended him. Neither of them said a word about it, which somehow made the room feel smaller and warmer at once, the air thick with unspoken barbs and something dangerously electric.
I shifted my bag higher, the strap digging into my shoulder like it was trying to remind me that my life was a disaster. God, help me, I thought, staring at the back of some freshman’s head so I didn’t have to look around. I knew he was there. I could literally feel the air get colder, or heavier, or whatever happens when someone you hate is within a ten-foot radius. It was like my body had a Killian radar, one that flooded my veins with pure, seething rage—and something darker, stickier, that I refused to name.
It was Killian. It was always Killian.
I tried to dodge left, weaving through the crowd toward the trophy case, but he was already there, his broad frame blocking my path like he owned the damn hallway. He didn’t even have the decency to look at me when he did it. He shifted his weight, timed his step perfectly, and—crunch. His shoulder slammed into mine, solid and unyielding, the impact jolting through me like a live wire. The scent of his cologne—crisp, expensive, infuriating—invaded my space, making my head spin. My coffee did a little jump under the plastic lid, burning my thumb, and my teeth rattled.
“Watch it, Evie,” he murmured, that voice way too low and way too calm, the kind that slithered under my skin and made me want to scream into a pillow for three hours—or maybe shove him against a wall and demand why he affected me like this. “Some of us have somewhere to be.”
“Then go there,” I snapped, my heart doing this stupid, fast thudding thing because I was so annoyed. Furious. My skin still tingled where he’d hit me, a phantom ache that felt too good. “Preferably in another state. Or a different country. Just pick a direction that isn’t near me, you arrogant prick.”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I pushed past him, but I could hear his sneakers—those stupidly expensive, clean sneakers—hitting the floor right behind me, deliberate and unhurried. He wasn’t even passing me; he was just… lurking. Shadowing me like a predator toying with prey. I sped up, and he sped up, his presence a hot brand at my back. I slowed down to let a group of girls pass, and he hovered right over my shoulder, close enough that the heat from his body seeped through my thin sweater. It was like being haunted by someone who wore too much expensive cologne—and radiated way too much raw, magnetic pull.
He leaned in, and I could feel his breath near my ear, warm and mint-scented, sending an involuntary shiver racing down my spine. I hated myself for it, hated the way my body arched just a fraction toward him before I caught myself.
“You’re walking too slow. Again. It’s like you’re trying to be an obstacle,” he taunted, his lips so near they nearly brushed my hair, his voice a gravelly whisper that vibrated through me.
“And you’re breathing too loud,” I said, spinning around so fast I almost tripped over my own feet, my chest heaving. Real smooth, Evie. Our faces were inches apart now, his green eyes locking onto mine with that piercing intensity that made my stomach flip. “It’s like you’re trying to be a headache. Like, is this your hobby? Being the most exhausting, insufferable person on campus? God, I loathe you.”
Killian stopped. He didn’t look mad. He looked pleased, which was so much worse—like he’d peeled back my armor and liked what he saw underneath. That slow, crooked smirk crawled across his face like he’d won a bet with himself, his gaze dropping to my lips for a split second too long. He stepped into my space, way too close, forcing me to back up until the stone edge of the fountain was biting into the back of my legs. His chest nearly brushed mine, the air between us crackling with tension I could taste.
“You’re late for Calc, Evie,” he whispered, checking his watch like he was my damn keeper. Then he looked at my hair, then my face, with this look that stripped me bare, made me feel exposed and aching. “And you look like a mess. Wild hair, flushed cheeks... like you just rolled out of someone’s bed. Not that you’d know what that’s like.”
I am going to lose it, I thought, clutching my burning coffee cup, my knuckles white. The heat pooling low in my belly was pure betrayal. I am going to lose my mind—or jump him right here and ruin everything. I practically fell through the door, my face burning and my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. God, help me, I thought, because of course, the room was dead silent. The teacher was there, arms crossed, staring at the clock with that look that says your grade dropped a letter. All the other classmates were there, too—turned around in their seats, eyes darting between me and Killian like they were watching a car crash, whispers rippling like wildfire: “They’re at it again,” “Did you see how close they were?”
They’d been waiting for us, and I looked like I’d run a marathon through a windstorm while Killian stood behind me looking entirely too cool, too composed, his eyes still smoldering into the back of my skull. I guess he was right for once. We were late. We were so incredibly late for Calculus—the absolute worst class to ever exist in the history of education. I looked at the chalkboard covered in those jagged, miserable equations and felt like crying. It’s hard enough to learn math when your brain works normally, but trying to do it while Killian is sitting two rows back, probably burning a hole in the back of my head with that smug stare? Impossible. Every nerve in my body was attuned to him, hyperaware, like he was a storm cloud I couldn’t escape.
I scrambled for my seat, my bag hitting the corner of a desk with a loud thwack, and tried to disappear into my oversized sweater. I could hear Killian’s chair scrape against the floor as he sat down behind me, and I knew he was still smirking, that low chuckle barely audible but enough to make my fists clench. How am I supposed to survive another hour of this? My skin itched with the need to turn around and slap that look off his face—or pull him closer and see if his lips were as infuriating as his attitude. I tried to focus on the board, but the numbers were blurry tangles of ink.
It didn’t help that Killian was right behind me, finding new, microscopic ways to ruin my life—and light me up from the inside. First, it was the rhythmic click-click-click of his pen—timed perfectly to my heartbeat, fast and erratic. Then, he leaned forward enough so his desk bumped into my chair, over and over, a tiny vibration that traveled up my spine like a teasing caress, making my thighs clench involuntarily.
God, please, let me get through this, I prayed, but then I felt it. The cold tip of his pen dragging slowly across the back of my neck, right over my hair tie, tracing the sensitive skin there with deliberate slowness. It was ice and fire at once, a shiver ripping through me, heat flooding my core even as fury boiled in my chest.
It was the last straw. My eyes stung, and before I could stop it, a hot, fat tear rolled down my cheek and splashed onto my notebook, smudging the formula for a derivative I didn’t even understand. Then another one followed. I wasn’t even sad; I was so angry and overwhelmed—and shamefully aroused—that my body didn’t know what else to do. How could he reduce me to this? A trembling mess who hated him and craved him in equal measure?
“Is there a problem, Evie? Killian?” The voice of Mr. Henderson sliced through the room. I froze, wiping my face with my sleeve so fast I probably left a red mark, my breath hitching. He was standing there, chalk in hand, looking at us like we were a pair of broken appliances he was trying to fix. All of my classmates turned again—the “annoying duo” was at it again, their stares like knives, the whispers louder now: “She’s crying,” “What did he do this time?”
“What is it with you two?” Henderson sighed, dropping the chalk. “Always being the problem of the class. I shouldn’t have to send you to the office, but maybe I will, because you clearly can’t seem to focus, and you’re bothering the rest of your classmates.”
I felt the heat climb from my neck to my forehead, humiliation crashing over me like a wave. I wanted to open my mouth. I wanted to scream that it was him, that Killian was the one poking me, tormenting me, unraveling me thread by thread. That I was trying to exist without his constant, maddening pull. But I knew complaining wasn’t worth it. It would only make the problem worse. It would let Killian win. He’d get that look in his eyes—the one that said he’d successfully gotten under my skin, deep into my blood. He’d be the winner, and I’d be the loser crying in the front row, exposed and raw.
So I stared at my smudged notes, my throat tight, and said nothing while Killian sat back, radiating that “I’m innocent” energy that I hated more than anything else in the world—except maybe the twisted thrill it sparked in me. Mr. Henderson turned back to the board, the chalk screeching against the slate as he continued the lesson like nothing had happened. For a second, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I wanted the silence—the beautiful, empty silence where I could be a normal student who didn’t have a constant shadow, a nemesis who made my pulse race and my resolve crumble.
But silence never lasts when Killian is involved. It started again. Just a soft, sharp poke of his sneaker against the back of my ankle, the pressure firm and insistent. Then he did it again, a little harder, until he was practically resting his foot on my heel, the heat of his leg pressing through my shoe like a claim. I tried to pull my legs back under my chair, but my bag was in the way, and I ended up kicking the metal leg of the desk with a loud, echoing clang that made half the class jump.
“Stop it,” I hissed, my voice cracking enough for the whole front row to hear, raw with desperation and something perilously close to a plea.
“Stop what, Evie?” he whispered back, his voice sounding so fake-innocent it made my blood boil, leaning in so his breath ghosted my ear again. “I’m stretching my legs. Unless that’s bothering you... too much.”
The chalk snapped. Mr. Henderson didn’t even turn around at first. He stood there with his forehead pressed against the chalkboard, his shoulders rising and falling. When he finally spun around, his face was a shade of red I’d never seen before. He didn’t look annoyed anymore; he looked done.
“That’s it,” he said, pointing a shaking finger toward the door. “Both of you. To the office. Now.”
My stomach dropped into my shoes. “Mr. Henderson, I—”
“I gave you one chance, Evie,” he snapped, cutting me off. “And looks like it was a mistake, too. I should’ve sent you the first time you walked through that door late. So, now, go. Both of you. The principal will deal with you while I finally continue to teach Calculus in peace.”
I sat there for a heartbeat, stunned. This couldn’t be happening. I looked at Killian, expecting him to look worried, but he stood up, slung his bag over one shoulder, and gave me a look that said, ‘After you’—his eyes dark with challenge, lips twitching like this was all a game he was enjoying far too much. I gathered my things with trembling hands, feeling every single eye in the room on me, the weight of their judgment crushing. As I walked past the teacher’s desk, I felt like a total failure—messy, weak, trapped in this toxic orbit with the one person who could dismantle me with a glance. Now we were headed to the office, together, forced into even closer quarters, and for the first time, I was terrified of what came next: more hatred, more sparks, more of this inevitable pull I couldn’t fight. The air in the hallway felt sterile and suffocating, each step toward the principal’s office echoing the finality of our shared demise.
Killian led the way, his stride loose and infuriatingly confident, not a care in the world that our academic standing—and potentially our social standing—was actively being set on fire. I wanted to catch up to him and slap the composure right off his face, but my legs felt like lead. Every time he stopped and glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes flashing with that dark, inscrutable promise, I felt my resolve thin out, the hatred starting to feel less like a shield and more like a heavy, suffocating coat I couldn’t quite manage to take off. We were walking straight into the lion’s den, and the absolute worst part? I was starting to realize that the lion wasn’t the principal; it was standing right in front of me, waiting for me to finally stop running. The office doors loomed ahead, heavy mahogany sentinels guarding our fate, and as Killian reached out to push them open, he paused, his gaze lingering on mine for a second too long, the silence between us pulsating with a thousand unspoken accusations and the undeniable, terrifying reality that we were already way past the point of no return. We were trapped in a loop of our own making, and the only way out was to finally face the fire we’d been dancing around for years.
