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Lucien Ashford is leaning against the railing on the steps of the humanities building, one foot propped on the middle step, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a dark sweater—cashmere, probably, knowing him—and khakis that fit him too well. His dark hair is slightly longer than it was at St. Silas, but still perfectly styled, like a Ralph Lauren ad. Fuck, I love Ralph Lauren ads. So now he’s ruined that for me too.

Nothing about him is inherently threatening.

But I know better.

Claire sits on the steps below him, her legs crossed at the ankle, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Liam says Claire can’t stop talking about Lucien’s money, which explains why she’s currently looking up at him like he’s a god. Satan is more like it, and he’s made this place hell for me. Last year was torture. I’d see him everywhere, and the campus isn’t small. And here he is again. Looks like sophomore year is starting out the same way.

Lucien started dating Claire during our last year at St. Silas. I don’t know when it happened, exactly. One day they were just friends, or whatever they were, and the next, they were kissing each other’s faces off at Graham Campbell’s party. It made me hate him even more, not because I wanted Claire. I didn’t, not really, but because it felt like he was rubbing it in my face. It was like he was proving something.

We’ve never talked about what happened at the party on Culloden Moor. The day after, I woke up with a splitting headache and a vague sense of dread. I spent the rest of the year trying to avoid him. But he was everywhere, like he was stalking me.

Our interactions were the same as they’d always been: aggressive, hostile, laced with contempt. But there’d been something underneath it. Something that made my pulse quicken every time he looked at me. I told myself I was disgusted by what happened, and I was. I am.

I’m also confused by it. Because if I’m so disgusted, why do I think about it so much? Why do I replay it in my head late at night when I can’t sleep? Why do I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t run?

St. Silas was small, and Lucien Ashford demanded attention.

And now he’s here at Hayworth for the second year, still demanding my attention.

Last year was supposed to be my fresh start, my escape.

But of course he chose it too. It is the best school. His family would expect nothing less.

And Claire followed him.

She’s obsessed with him. It’s pathetic, really. The way she looks at him, like he’s everything.

I used to think she was sweet, the kind of girl you could introduce to your parents.

But then what kind of person falls in love with someone like Lucien Ashford?

What kind of person looks at him, at his arrogance, his cruelty, his complete lack of empathy, and thinks: Yes, that’s the one I want?

Fine…he’s hot, but he’s a fucking psycho. She must be as fucked up as he is.

I’m still staring at them when his steely eyes find mine across the quad. I want to look away, but if I do, it’ll look like I’m scared of him. Like I’m embarrassed he caught me looking at him…which I am. Oh God. But he can’t know that.

His expression holds for a beat, but then his light eyes go dark. It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t notice it. But I do. I’ve learned to read him over the past years, out of survival. Before I can look away, he licks his lips. It’s not an absent gesture. It’s not unconscious. It’s predatory, but in a way that’s seductive.

Christ, he’s terrifying.

My pulse pounds in my throat as I turn to walk away, fighting the urge to run. I don’t stop until I’m inside the lecture hall, surrounded by other students, safe in the anonymity of the crowd, no longer prey, no longer a target he can corner.

But I can still feel his eyes on me.

And I can still see the way he licked his lips, like he wanted to taste me.

I’m alone in my apartment when the most depressing thought occurs to me.

How is it possible that Lucien, the psychopath, has a girlfriend, and I’m still a virgin? What kind of fucked-up cosmic joke is that?

It’s not something I’ve let myself think too much about. I want to lose my virginity, of course, but not in some gross, casual way. Being a virgin means I’m weak, but maybe my real weakness is the loneliness I’ve felt for years, which is perhaps even more embarrassing.

Sitting here, in my too-big bedroom with its crown molding, hardwood floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the shops and restaurants along the river, I can’t ignore it anymore.

My parents arranged this apartment for me since I’m a sophomore now and no longer required to live on campus. It’s in a historic building near campus with two bedrooms, a full kitchen, a living room, and a fireplace.

It’s nice. I can’t complain.