Page 8

Just outside of Karloff Hall, a cool breeze rustles the fallen leaves around me. I pull my collar up, heading toward the quad's edge to clear my head. The campus is just waking up. There’re a few students jogging or carrying coffee while staring at their phones. I start to relax, feeling the tension drain out of my shoulders when someone behind me clears their throat.

"Excuse me? Teagan?"

I freeze.

A young guy with wild eyes and faded jeans, steps out from behind a stone pillar. He’s holding what looks like a thick photo album and a sharpie. My gaze drops to his white knuckles and the way he’s gripping the binder.

Something’s off about the guy, and it instantly puts me on edge.

"It’s you," the guy says. His voice is breathless. He closes the distance between us way too fast. "I knew you were coming here! I saw you in Twisted Hearts. I watched all sixteen episodes five times.”

I begin to automatically thank him, but I can’t seem to get the words out.

He cocks his head curiously. “You never reply to my messages on social media. I figured this was the only way I’d be able to meet you.”

How the hell did he know I was here? And how long was he waiting for me to leave my building. Cold dread swirls in my stomach. I glance around, eagerly looking for an escape.

The guy inches closer, waving his hand in front of my face. “Teagan, why don't you ever freaking reply? I came all the way here from California!"

"Hey, man, back up," I say, stepping backward. "I appreciate the support, but you need to give me some space."

"No, you don't understand, we're supposed to hit it off!" He lunges forward, grabbing my sleeve roughly.

"Let go!" I snap, tugging back.

The sound of tearing material cuts through the air as the stranger yanks violently on my sleeve, ripping the shoulder of the material wide open. I stumble backward and lose my balance. My heart pounds wildly against my ribs.

Before the stranger can reach for my arm again, a large, looming shadow engulfs us both.

A claw-tipped, purple hand clasps firmly around the guy's forearm, adding enough pressure to make him let go of my sleeve.

I gasp. What the hell? I didn’t even hear Ryker approach. Suddenly he was just there, stepping out of the shadows. He shoves the guy back.

The stranger stumbles, gasping as Ryker steps between us, using his large body and wingspan as a physical shield. I’m ashamed to admit the image is both terrifying and sexy as hell.

"My friend said to back up," Ryker growls. "You say you’re a fan, so show him some respect."

The dominant tone in Ryker's voice is undeniable. Peering around Ryker, I can see the moment he takes in the gargoyle’s appearance. He swallows hard as his eyes land on the flared arc of Ryker’s wings, and the large bulk of the monster in front of us. The younger guy’s face turns bright red before going pale. He stammers, stumbles back, and then turns on his heel. He sprints toward the other side of campus without even looking back.

Standing there in shock, I clutch my torn jacket. My body trembles, a million emotions washing over me.

Ryker stands guard for several more seconds, scanning the perimeter of the quad before slowly lowering his wings and turning to face me. His blue eyes drop to my ripped sleeve. It’s then I notice they’re actually glowing.

"Did he hurt you?" he asks, voice soft with concern. He reaches for me, and I swallow hard. I step closer, wanting to fall into his arms. Just minutes before I was angry that I was assigned a bodyguard. Now, I’m just grateful it’s Ryker.

"No. I'm… fine," I manage to say. I look down at my torn jacket. "Thanks for coming after me."

"It's my job," Ryker replies simply, but his face is soft. His hand still hovers just above my arm like he’s fighting this strange pull between us. Finally, he gestures back toward Karloff Hall with a slight tilt of his chin. "Let's head back inside."

Ten minutes later, we're back in the suite. Zay and Kieran have headed out, probably to the dining hall, leaving the common area quiet. I sit at the small dining table, staring blankly at my ruined jacket laid out in front of me. It's one of my favorite pieces, tailored to fit me just right, but now the seam in the shoulder is torn. Just looking at it makes me feel defeated.

Across the room, Ryker sits on the edge of the sofa, studying me.

He reaches into his duffel bag and digs around until he pulls out a small, metallic case. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he opens it.

“Is that a sewing kit?”

He nods before selecting a spool of navy thread and a needle. A part of me wants to laugh at the ridiculous image, while the other part of me is shocked he can grip the tiny thing with such thick fingers and large claws.