The card reader doesn’t turn red, and it sure as fuck doesn’t beep. Instead, I hear an audible click as the door unlocks. My reflection in the glass looks like she is going to hurl as her eyes go wide.
Ian is still smiling as I turn and run.
21
Harlow
I skip the elevator and take the stairs, my book bag knocking against my back with each step.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Stormy,” Ian calls in a sing-song voice that sends a shiver shooting up my spine. He sounds much too happy and way too confident, like he’s Jack and I’m Wendy locked away at The Stanley Hotel.
What is it with murderous maniacs always enjoying the chase? More importantly, why am I thinking about Ian Beckett like he’s the star of my own personal horror film? Most importantly, why do I suspect my current state of breathlessness can’t just be blamed on my lack of cardio?
My mind races, my thoughts jumbled and chaotic, barely forming before they are run over and replaced.
Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump goes my book bag. Click-clack, click-clack go my shoes on the steps.
I stumble, nearly losing a shoe, and lurch, catching myself on the handrail. The wrought iron etched with filaments of gold cools my fingers.
I want to hit the pause button and catch my breath, but I’m sure Ian Beckett doesn’t do time-outs. I jerk forward, returning to my erratic rhythm.
I’m nearing the third flight, and I regret never taking William up on his workout offers. Each breath bursts past my lips with a wheezy whew sound like it’s relieved to be rid of me.
I want to be rid of me.
I am suffocating on dry land. My heart is in a race to see how quickly it can go from typical-teenage-diet to heart attack. The burn in my thighs hates everything and wants to go find a couch.
I should be in a ball, curled on the floor as the darkness takes hold, but I think it’s even too afraid to make an appearance at the moment. That, or maybe it knows there’s nothing to be afraid of, not from Ian anyway. Neither option is appealing to my already fraying sanity.
I hear Ian bound up the stairs. Even though I know I shouldn’t—even though I know it will slow me down—I peek over the edge of the rail as my feet hit the fourth floor and look down at the space between the winding staircase.
I am a mouse, and I have to know how close the cat is. More like I’m a mouse, and he’s a freakin’ lion…
I spot him quickly.
My mouth dries.
My hands tremble.
My belly...clenches.
Ian takes the stairs two at a time with an ease I wish I possessed, hardened determination on his face. He looks just like he does on the field, his back a strong, straight line, his brow slightly furrowed, his lips pursed in concentration. He exudes an easy, calm confidence.
It takes everything I have—every last drop of self-preservation instinct remaining—to cleave my gaze from him and hurl myself onward to the top and final floor.
I’m going to throw up. Or pass out. Or both.
Specks of white light dot my vision like snowflakes lingering in the air. My ears ring in a steady, high pitch.
I stagger forward, clutching my chest as though my fingers can somehow claw more air into my lungs.
My dormitory is at the far end of the hall, the very last room on the right. Normally, I like the seclusion it affords Molly and me. It’s situated in front of the shared bathroom, and we don’t have to go very far in our towels to get back to our dorm. Today, though, I despise the forsaken place.
I swear to God I hear the asshole whistling as the white spots spread until I see the world through static. My lungs squeeze like I wear the world’s tightest corset.
Yet, he is whistling, not even remotely winded. It’s pretty, melodic even. I am presently and forevermore offended.
He is close, probably on the last flight. He has without a doubt correctly assumed I am exhausted. Either that or he can hear my labored breathing, which falls somewhere between the barks of a walrus and the snores of a bulldog.
With the door to my dorm in sight, I lurch forward.
Sweat dots my brow.
Mucous clogs my already tight throat.
A jolt races up my spine, and I know it’s not just from the adrenaline coursing through my blood. It’s also from the thrill. The realization hits me in the gut, and I nearly freeze at the impact.
My fingers search for my key in my book bag. I find it easily in the front pocket, but Ian has reached the top of the stairs. He stares at me with a gleam in his gaze that causes my pulse to skyrocket into near tachycardia-level.
I fumble the key and drop it. Ian chuckles, soft in the quiet dormitory. I want anyone to open a door, to put an end to this madness, but there’s a fall festival two hours to the north. Nearly everyone is there, and I stupidly declined Molly’s invite to join her and her family.
I snatch the key from the floor and shove it into the lock. Ian is less than ten feet away now. He stalks forward, lazy confidence in his strides.
Everything about him is dark. His clothes, black and tailored, like he is the lead singer of a rock band. His obsidian hair, a little wild and tussled from his mild jog. His pupils bleeding into his irises so all I see is black.
A strangled yelp escapes me as the key sticks. I jiggle it in the lock.
Nothing.
I rattle it harder, and the lock gives.
We both freeze, and my gaze locks with his. He stares at me like I am his favorite ice-cream flavor and he just said fuck-it to his diet.
I make the first move, throwing the door open and launching myself inside. But he is fast—too fast!—and he catches the door
