Page 19 of Stalk Me

"I appreciate the offer," I say, forcing a shrug. "But this isn't what I'm looking for."

"Neither am I." He reaches out, lightly brushing my cheek. "But that doesn't mean it can't be."

"Maybe." I pull away, the familiar mask settling into place. As much as I want to believe his words, they terrify me more than I could put into coherent thoughts. Each time I've let someone past my defenses, my parents have found new and creative ways to use my vulnerabilities against me. The bruises may have faded, but the lessons are permanently etched into my bones. "It's getting dark. We should head back."

Erik sighs but starts packing up without argument. We make our way down the trail in silence, the growing darkness making the descent more treacherous. This time, when he offers his hand over rough patches, I take it. His palm is warm and calloused against mine, the contact sending little sparks up my arm.

Back at the dorm, he walks me to my door like this is a real date instead of whatever fucked-up thing it actually was. We stand there awkwardly for a moment, the air between us charged with something I can't name. I fidget with my key, not entirely sure how to say goodbye to him.

"This was… nice." The word doesn't quite capture how I feel about this evening, but it'll have to do.

"Did Luna Queen just admit to enjoying something?" He smiles. "That has to be a first."

I chuckle. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Never." He looks at me, and I feel like he can see right through me. He takes a step closer, and for a wild moment, I think he might kiss me. Instead, he just tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers ghosting along my jaw. "Sweet dreams, Luna Queen. Try not to overthink everything for once."

I watch until he disappears around the corner, then slip into my room and lean against the closed door. My mind races as I replay the evening's events, trying to make sense of them. There are things he said that seemed meant just for me, such as openness and vulnerability like I've never experienced before. His words about choosing to stop using pain as a weapon hit particularly close to home. I've gotten so comfortable with my armor of chaos that I'm not sure I remember who I am without it.

Belle isn't back yet—probably still dealing with the Nicolas fallout. The room feels emptier than usual, the silence pressing in from all sides. I touch my cheek where Erik's fingers brushed, remembering the gentle way he'd looked at me on the cliff. The gesture reminds me of Shadow, how he used to press his face against my hand when I was crying. That same mix of comfort and terror, knowing that anything that gentle is bound to be taken away.

It would be so easy to fall for him, to let myself believe in the possibility of something real. But I've seen how quickly 'real' can turn artificial, how easily truth becomes another manipulation tactic. My parents taught me that lesson well, turning every genuine moment into ammunition for their next attack. Everything I touch eventually turns to ash, and I can't bear to watch it happen again.

I turn out the light and climb into bed, pulling the covers over my head. Tomorrow, I'll put these feelings away—bury them deep until they can't hurt me anymore. I'll go back to being Luna Queen, the girl who burns everything she touches, because at least then I'm the one controlling the flames. Because, for now, the one rule I follow is the most important of all: Trust nobody.

Still, try as I might, when I eventually fall asleep, it's Erik's face I see in my dreams. It's the memory of his smile in the sunset or the way he'd looked at me like I was something worth saving. Maybe that's the most dangerous thing about Erik Stone—he makes me want to believe I could be.

Breaking Point

The morning air is thick with ocean mist as I make my way across Shark Bay's courtyard. Last night's conversation with Erik still echoes in my mind—his invitation of friendship, the way he saw through my defenses. I hate how he makes me feel seen, how he refuses to play by the usual rules. Everyone has an angle here, a price they're willing to pay. So what's his?

A gust of wind whips my hair around my face, carrying the salt-tang of the sea. I don't want to pull my uniform skirt lower, even though it flaps around my legs. Everyone's looking, but I allow them to. I let them see me. I let them want me. Because unless I decide otherwise, that's all they'll ever get. Having that thought gives me chills. When did I become so detached from my own sexuality?

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Unknown number. But I know exactly who it is.

My fingers tremble slightly as I open the message. The screen shows a picture of Alex walking across his college campus with his shoulders hunched and his head down. He looks thinner than I remember. There are dark circles under his eyes that weren't there before. The date and timestamp show that it was taken yesterday. Below the image is a simple message: "Making new friends already? Be careful who you trust."

Another image loads—this one of Alex in a car with someone else, a young woman with auburn hair. The window is cracked, her mouth open in a laugh, hand up like she's preparing to push Alex away. Another new friend. Maybe a new girlfriend.

Bile rises in my throat. They're watching me. Of course they are. Did they see me with Erik on the cliff? Do they know about our conversation in the library? My parents' reach extends far beyond this island, their network of eyes and ears reporting my every move. If I say one wrong thing to the wrong person, Alex will pay for my mistake. One more reason for me to keep quiet and not let anyone in.

I delete the message, but the image is already burned into my brain. Those few words make my skin crawl because they sound like a direct threat. Every friend is a weak spot. There is a weakness in every connection. The worst thing about my parents' way of dealing with people is that it works so well. They've always been very good at manipulating people's minds. They don't need to spell out what they'll do—the possibilities are endless, and my imagination fills in the blanks with vivid detail. People's jobs, reputations, and lives have been ruined by them, and they didn't even lose a moment of sleep. All of it with the care of a shark and the accuracy of a surgeon. What if this is how I live for the rest of my life? Not able to connect with or touch anyone because I'm afraid my parents will use them against me? It hurts to be alone, and I don't know if it'll ever get better.

Another message comes through: "Remember why you're there."

As if I could forget. As if every moment on this godforsaken island isn't a reminder of what I've lost, what I'm trying to protect. I slam my phone into my bag, hands shaking with rage rather than fear now. Fine. If they want to play games, I can play too. I've learned from the best, after all. I could write the goddamn book on manipulation, and it would be a riveting, fucked-up read. The amount of pain my parents can cause is endless—to me, to Alex, or to anyone else I let close. I won't do that again. Once was enough.

"Luna!" Professor Austin's voice cuts through my spiral. He waves from the classroom doorway, his usual earnest smile in place. "A word before class?"

I force my face into a neutral expression as I approach. He's wearing another tweed jacket, wire-rimmed glasses slightly askew. Everything about him screams harmless academic, but I know better. In this place, everyone's hiding something.

"Good morning, Professor." My voice comes out tight but not shaky, which feels like a small victory.

"About the other day's… incident," he starts, shifting uncomfortably. "I want you to know I've identified the source of the hack. Appropriate disciplinary action will be taken."

I laugh, the sound sharp enough to make him flinch. "Don't bother. We both know nothing will happen to Belle. Her daddy's name is on too many buildings."

His expression tightens. "Miss Queen, I understand you're going through a difficult adjustment period, but?—"

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