C7 Stalking around

Date = 10 September

Five days since the party. Since I found out about her stalker.

Place = San Francisco (Stanford campus) (Paws and Claws Center)

Not my usual hangout places … but she’s there.

POV - Damion

“What’s your name?” I ask, shoving the frat boy back until his spine meets bark.

“Ben.”

“Why are you following that girl?” His brows flip up to his hairline.

His eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly detach. “Seriously?” he blurts. “I’m a dude. She’s hot.”

I scan his face anyway, searching for danger. For intent. For a capital D tattooed on his soul.

His bravado drains. He swallows.

“I—I just wanted her number,” he says quickly.

I release his shirt. He stumbles back a step, rubbing his chest. “Fuck, man. No need to go full psycho,” he mutters, puffing himself up like pride is an inflatable he can still salvage. “You gonna beat up every guy on campus who looks at her?”

Yeah. No. Maybe.

I jam my hands into my pockets and sigh.

“You’re gonna be busy,” he adds, smirking now. “’Cause she’s one sexy chick.”

My jaw tightens. My inner caveman snarls. But he’s not wrong. He’s guy number four in the past hour.

Tom. Charles. Brady. And now Ben. Not a D in sight.

Maybe stalking her like a deranged guardian gargoyle and body-slamming every dude with functioning eyeballs isn’t the plan.

But I’m running on caffeine, zero sleep, and a tight, ugly knot in my chest that feels a hell of a lot like fear. So yeah — this is not my best self.

Hell, it’s not even the best version of my usual fuck-up self.

“What are you doing here?”

The voice hits me from behind like a brick. I drag my hands down my face until they meet under my chin in prayer. Shit. Busted.

“Your boyfriend’s fucking crazy,” Ben mutters, storming off with wounded dignity.

I turn slowly.

Mel.

Arms crossed. Judgment fully loaded.

“Uh …” I flash a slow, bad-boy smile — the one that melts hearts, drops panties, ends arguments. “Would you believe I’m thinking of enrolling?”

“Not even a little.”

Of course, the smile doesn’t work on her.

I scratch the back of my neck. Mom’s voice whispers in my head to always tell the truth. So that’s what I go with.

“I’ve been following you the last couple of days.”

She inhales sharply and tightens her arms over a forest-green, man-cut T — with a black crop top underneath. Silky tummy skin peeks through the sleeves. Smooth. Bare.

My mouth waters like Pavlov trained it personally.

“Okay,” she says coolly, “I’ll pretend that isn’t creepy and ask why.”

Black spandex shorts cling to her like paint, carving out curves that should be illegal on public property. No panty lines. None.

Commando.

My brain short-circuits. My body reacts like a traitor.

She stands there — annoyed, unimpressed, clearly not aroused — while I’m internally spiraling and externally rock-hard.

I scrub a hand over my eyes. Fucked. Completely fucked.

Focus.

I want her to see me as more than a fuck-boy.

Multiplication … eight times five is — forty.

“Damion,” she snaps. “WHY?”

Look, I can multitask. But doing math, breathing, standing upright with an erection, and pretending my balls don’t ache, is supernatural-level shit.

Eight times six is —

I consider telling her the truth — that she scares me more than crashes, fists, or death. That the thought of losing her makes my chest cave in.

But a half-truth will have to do.

“I’m looking for the guy sending you messages. D.”

It slides out clean. Too clean.

Her eyes narrow, evaluating. Christ, she’s beautiful when she’s suspicious.

“You know about him?”

So she doesn’t remember that night. Figures. I remember everything.

“Should I not?”

Forty-eight. Eight times …

Her mouth tightens. I recognize that look — she hasn’t told her brothers. She hates interference. She’s independent. Gutsy. Sexy as sin. Stubborn as hell.

She shifts her weight, hip popping out.

I can’t choose a focal point, so my eyes loop — legs, ass, tits, face, tits, ass — repeat.

Torture. Glorious torture.

“And your genius plan,” she says, “is to follow me and assault every man nearby?”

When she says it like that … yeah. Sounds a little insane.

“Well, not exactly. I ask their names first.”

She stares at me like I just confessed to eating glue.

She makes me dumb. Okay — I was already dumb. I just go full idiot around her.

I doubt the plan. I just want her safe. I can’t lose another person. Especially not her.

“You’re not going to ‘curse’ me again, are you?” She wiggles her fingers, air-quoting curse.

Fuck. That’s what she remembers about that night?

She lifts her arms, adjusts her ponytail. The shirt stretches. Nipples outline clearly.

My soul leaves my body. “How do you know?” I croak. She drops her arms, but the shirt stays put, and so do the nipples. And it’s pretty perfect nipples. Eight is …

“Ren.”

Traitorous fuck.

“You ruined my life,” she snaps.

“I had my reasons.” I look down but feel the weight of her gaze.

She sticks a finger between the elastic material of her shorts and the skin of her right thigh and tucks it down.

Eleven times … fuck math.

“Mel,” I look up and straight into those pick-me-up eyes. Her mouth is grim. “Do you trust me?” Her eyes pop, showing an utterly bamboozled face.

“No,” comes the straight answer. Fair. Painful — but fair.

“Actually,” she adds. I hold my breath. “It depends … I trust you not to let me get physically hurt.” She looks down and eyes her toes. “But I won’t trust you with my heart.”

That lands hard.

“Well, you will. And we need to talk when I get back.” She looks at me as if judging my sincerity, that usual inner conflict of hers, back in her eyes. Torn. Wary. Curious.

Her nipples tighten again.

God help me.

“Why are you wearing that?” I gulp. I mean, a guy can only do so much multiplication and stay sane at the same time. She looks down at her clothes as if she can’t see the problem.

“I was trying out for the soccer team.” Her face lights up, eyes shining. “I made it. Center mid.”

Of course.

“Congrats.” I shrug off my hoodie and hold it out. “Now wear this.”

She takes it hesitantly, but holds it with a straight arm far away from her body as if it reeks. And I know it doesn’t. Worst-case scenario, it will smell like my perfume. And I’m pretty much for cloaking her in my scent.

“It doesn’t stink,” I chuckle at the disgusted face.

“Oh, I know,” she says. “You smell great. I’m just wondering if it can get me pregnant by osmosis … given who it belongs to.”

Ouch.

“I’m hurt,” I clutch my chest. “I have standards.”

“If it helps,” I add, deadpan, “there’s a condom in the pocket.”

Lie. I haven’t carried a Trojan around for months. “Rule seven.” That part’s true.

She recoils harder. Adorable.

“Prudent isn’t exactly the word I associate with you. Your dick cannot be trusted.”

Harsh. Not entirely inaccurate. But outdated.

“Do you need my help putting it on?” Huge baby-blues jerk from eyeing my top to staring at my crotch.

“The condom?!” she squeaks.

I laugh. “The sweater, angel.”

She’s still staring. Right there, where my dick is straining to unzip my pants. Lips parting. Shit — she’s thinking about it too.

“Oh, good, you found us a ride,” Kiara announces, stopping dead. She squints and leans into her friend to whisper — “Problem with the jacket?”

Mel blinks and drops her arm, my top now hanging down those gorgeously smooth legs. I will gladly exchange places.

“She thinks it might procreate,” I answer soulfully.

Kiara snorts. “That’s new.” She grabs the hoodie and shoves it against Mel’s chest. “Put it on before his nuts crack.”

Mel glares — but pulls it over her head.

And just like that, my world feels marginally safer. Barely.

“Where am I taking you ladies?”

“Paws and Claws,” Mel says, finding her voice again.

I blink. Once. Twice. “… The animal center?”

Just checking. Because I’m suddenly picturing leashes, drool, and fur explosions.

“Yeah,” Kiara answers. “Mel signed us up as volunteers for this therapy pets program. It’s part of her new experience-everything list.”

I stare at Mel like she just announced she’s joining a traveling circus.

Experience-everything list? I very much want to see that.

“You,” I say slowly, turning my attention to Kiara, “are going to work with dogs?” I point. “Dogs shed.”

“Oh, close your mouth, badboy.” She shoves me with casual familiarity. “Mel can do the dogs. I’m there for the men. Apparently, the trainers are hot-as-hell hunks. All single. All very … hands-on.”

She wags her brows and then stabs a finger at Mel. “They’re mine. You already have Ren.”

Then — because chaos is her love language — she loops her arm through Mel’s. “But if you want to make a change,” she adds sweetly, looking at me, “I’m open to sharing.”

Something hot and ugly burns in my chest.

“No,” I say flatly.

Kiara smirks. Victory.

“Where’s your car?” she asks, nodding toward the parking lot, while I’m mentally cataloging hot trainers, single, and hands-on under THREATS.

“Let’s go,” I say, sharper than necessary. I need to see those fuckers for myself.

I follow them, eyes dragging helplessly to the smooth stretch of Mel’s legs peeking out from under my hoodie. As if Ren isn’t bad enough. Now we’re tossing animal-loving hunks into the mix. And a mystery D-guy.

Fantastic.

Maybe I should just take her with me.

Kiara shoves Mel into the front seat like she’s arranging furniture.

“So,” Mel asks, softer now, “when are you leaving for Spain?” I’m kinda surprised that she even knows I’m leaving … what to say where I’m heading.

“In about two hours. I’ll be back again in October.”

“For your birthday.” She remembers. Another surprise.

“So,” Kiara cuts in from the back like a verbal grenade, “are you announcing your engagement then?”

I choke on air. “My what?”

“To Chloe,” she says with venomous cheer.

Chloe. Again with the Chloe.

“Engagement?” I echo, dizzy.

“Yes,” Kiara continues, relentless. “Mel overheard you telling your mom how much you love Chloe.”

I look at Mel. She’s staring out the window like it personally offended her.

“Well,” I say carefully, “she heard wrong.”

Kiara smacks Mel’s shoulder. “Told you.”

“I did not!” Mel snaps, spinning around, eyes blazing. “Your mom said Chloe, and then you said you loved her!”

I can’t help it — I snort. Just the idea is bad enough.

“My mom said she SAW Chloe,” I clarify. “She was worried because Chloe is a crazy-ass stalker.”

Silence.

“So,” Kiara asks slowly, “you don’t love her. And you’re not getting married.”

“Fuck no.”

I glance at Mel. She’s back at staring through the window.

“Then who were you talking about?” Kiara presses.

I grip the steering wheel. “Complicated. You’ll find out soon enough.”

She pouts but finally lets it go.

To kill the tension, I ask about their trip.

Big mistake.

Kiara launches into a nonstop monologue about buildings and food and trees and boats and trains and strangers she emotionally bonded with in under five minutes.

Mel stays quiet. Watching the world slide past. Wrapped in my hoodie.

And for reasons I don’t want to examine too closely, that feels like both victory and war.

Ears ringing from the conversation, we roll into Paws and Claws.

It’s huge, slightly neglected … but still impressive.

“This is close to the haunted house,” Mel says quietly, as if the thought surprises her.

Actually … it’s bordering MY place. And my parents’ house. A fact neither of them knows, because neither of them has ever been there — and suddenly that feels … loaded.

The reception building stops me cold.

Wood and glass with a butterfly roof. Sunlight spilling everywhere, screaming joyful warmth in a big way before you even go through the swivel doors. Hopeful. Safe in a way that reaches past skin.

Yeah. Any stray would land on its feet here.

To the left, a second building mirrors the style — bigger, broader, more serious. The sign confirms it — HOSPITAL.

“Are you a new trainer?” a chirpy voice asks.

I turn to see a nippy girl with twin brown ponytails and an aggressively cheerful smile, cradling a scruffy-looking, stuck-up cat. She’s dressed in overalls and boots, and not entirely bad-looking.

She waits a beat. We’re all staring.

“I mean —” she rushes, pink blooming across her face, her nose fumbling, “— I asked because you’re hot. Like the trainers.”

Ah.

“We’re here for the therapy dog course,” Mel cuts in, voice sharp enough to slice glass.

The girl points past us toward grassy pens, paddocks, and barn-style buildings dotting the landscape. “Camp three. But you need to sign in at reception first.”

She stomps off, glances back, and because she was so helpful, I give her a big, warm smile.

And immediately she trips over a bucket. Almost dropping the snobby cat.

Cat yowls. The girl swears. Bucket clatters.

Mel and Kiara give me the same synchronized death glare.

“You’ll never change,” Mel mutters.

“What?” I say innocently. “She was friendly. Doesn’t mean I’m going to bang her.”

Kiara snorts. “Okay, bitch. You go sign in. We’ll check out the goodies.”

She shoves Mel toward the building, then hooks her arm through mine. “Come on, handsome. Let’s inspect your competition.”

A stone path cuts between neatly fenced grassy pens. Each gate is numbered. When we reach 3, Kiara stops dead.

“Okay,” she whispers, “I call dibs on the muscles on the right.”

I glance at the lineup. Four guys. One girl. Khaki cargos. Navy shirts with logos. About fifteen women orbiting them like they’re rare celestial events.

“You can have him,” I say flatly. “Not my type.”

“That nugget on the far left is also rather yummy,” she continues as if I have a clue what that means.

I stare but say nothing. They’re all about my size — more or less — with faces. If they’re ‘yummy’ … I can not say.

I open the gate.

“Joining the class?” she murmurs.

“Nope. Just checking names in case one starts with D.” I wink.

She rolls her eyes. Classic Kiara. A total contrast to her absent-minded, ADHD, head-in-the-clouds counterpart. I sometimes wonder if they would have become friends if they weren’t thrown together.

“Hey,” I say, pitching friendly, because if I push another guy against a tree, Mel might just kill me.

Kiara’s muscle-man is the first to hold out his hand. Black dude with dreadlocks and a perfect smile. Next to him is a black Lab with friendly brown eyes and a wagging tail.

“Ken,” the man says, and I shake his hand. The next guy, a dude with a man-bun and a Golden Retriever, is called Adam. Then there is Shawn, a blond with an Alsatian, and the girl, Serena, with her Collie mix.

Then the last guy. The nugget on the far left.

Our grip locks. His is stiff. Deliberate. Cold. Ice-blue eyes pin me, and there’s a look in his cold stare I can’t place, but don’t like. Familiar in a way that makes my stomach tighten. A vein ticks in his neck.

His face is rigid, and a chill runs down my spine and gets stuck in my gut.

Rule 9 flares.

“Damion,” I say, a little too smug. But I keep my cool.

His Doberman pup sits the instant he looks at it — stern, disciplined, impressive.

“Alejandro.” His voice is tight … as if he forgot to take his Midol.

Damn, I sort of wanted him to be a D.

He lets go of my hand and runs his fingers through his messy black hair that curls low in his neck.

Mel walks in.

Every male spine straightens and notices. Every hungry gaze snaps to her like she’s the hottest thing since Miley Cyrus’s Wrecking Ball video.

I feel green. Hot. Immediate. Ugly.

“Aw, what a cute puppy,” she beams behind me.

That’s it.

I turn, grab her, pull her into me, and kiss her cheek — slow, deliberate, unmistakably claiming her. My nose slides to her ear.

“Don’t miss me too much, little angel.”

Her breath catches.

Her hands slide from my chest to my hips, and for one dangerous second, I forget every rule I’ve ever made.

The tiny hiss she makes when we separate hits me square in the balls.

I let go. Barely.

The trainers stare. Droopy-eyed. All except Alejandro — who looks like he wants to kill me and bury the body under a kennel.

Good.

I nod once, wave at the gaggle of giggling fans, blow Kiara a kiss at the gate, and walk out like a man who’s got his shit together.

I do not.

I get into my car, hands shaking just enough to piss me off.

Why did I do that?

Hunger. Hormones. Ego. Jealousy. Alpha nonsense. Severe lack of common sense. Temporary insanity.

I’m blaming the stiff ice cube, with the hot dog.

Or those obnoxious fuck-me peacock-blue eyes belonging to an irritating girl. Who isn’t exactly all that irritating at all.

I’m not exactly sure what she is, though it feels rather close to me wanting to bash my head against a wall … repeatedly.

I drive off, hoping like hell she’s safe. Wanting to stay. Knowing I can’t.

Races. Sponsors. Championships. Responsibilities.

Then a thought clicks into place.

Plan B.

“Hey Siri,” I say, gripping the wheel. “Call Jackson.”