The engine cut out in the driveway, and I peeled myself off Mordred’s back, legs unsteady from the ride and the adrenaline still buzzing in my veins.
The house lood quiet and dim, a far cry from the chaos of campus. I handed him the helt, avoiding his eyes.
"You’ve been silent the whole way," he said, voice low as we stepped inside.
He flicked on the lights and tossed his keys on the counter. "What happened?" he turned to face .
I dropped my bag by the door and sank onto the couch, rubbing my temples.The photo from Anonymous burned in my pocket—I’d deleted it, but the chill still lingered.
"Everything...." I muttered, in a low tone.
"...Maddox cornered at my locker, spewing crap about us shacking up.Made a whole scene."
"Damn, that bastard. I knew he would do that." He yelled, with his fits clenched.
"Offcourse he would, we both knew. But that wasn’t even the concerning part." I replied, trying to gather courage.
Because I’m the sa person who defended Lysander with my whole heart the last ti.
"Tell .." Mordred demanded. " What’s the concerning part?"
I opened my mouth at first to speak, but finding the right words was a problem. I can’t even bring myself to tell him I’m suspecting my friend now.
But I decided to let it out anyway, so I began.
"It’s Lysander... he walked right past like I was invisible. Wouldn’t even acknowledge . And so guy nad Trent— his friend, told to lay low, that things are ’complicated..." I paused, letting it sink in, before continuing.
"... Oh, and Anonymous texted , he sent a photo of on the bench, warning about trusting friends."
Mordred’s jaw tightened. He paced the living room, hands flexing like he wanted to punch sothing. "Anonymous again. And Lysander’s dodging you now? That seals it."
"Seals what?" I asked quickly, with my brows raised.
He stopped, then knelt in front of , hands on my knees. His touch was warm and grounding.
"I’m digging deeper into him. The SUV, the late nights—none of it adds up for a ’broke scholarship kid.’ I’ve got contacts. I’ll find out what he’s hiding, Kianna. You don’t have to worry." he whispered to gently.
I searched his face, the scar through his eyebrow, the faint stubble shadowing his jaw. "And if it’s nothing? If he’s just... scared, like I thought?" I asked him.
"Then we know. But until then, you stay close." His thumb traced a slow circle on my thigh, sending a spark up my spine. "I an it. No more solo campus runs, Kianna."
The air shifted slightly all of a sudden, then his gaze softened, dropping to my lips. I leaned in without thinking, the weight of the day lting under the heat in his eyes.
"Mordred..." I whimpered.
He cupped my cheek, pulled closer. "You drive crazy, you know that? All day, thinking about you out there, exposed." His lips brushed mine—soft at first, then insistent. I sighed into it, hands sliding up his chest to fist his shirt.
The kiss deepened. His fingers tangled in my hair, tilting my head back. A low groan rumbled from his throat as I arched against him whilst the couch kept creaking under our weight.
Heat pooled low in my belly; his hand slipped under my shirt, palm flat against my skin.
Just then a doorbell shattered the mont. It was a sharp and insistent ring.
Mordred froze, pulling back with a curse. "Stay here." he uttered.
He crossed to the door, peering through the peephole. Then suddenly his shoulders tensed. "Cops?" He said, almost like a shock.
"What?" I stood, heart slamming. Then he opened the door slowly. "Can I help you?"
The officer, a man in his mid-forties, badge gleaming, no-nonsense stare—flashed his ID. "Mordred Sinclair? We have a warrant for your arrest. Unlawful detention of a minor...Kianna Martin." he said.
My stomach dropped."What? I’m not a minor, I’m nineteen!" I yelled.
The cop’s eyes flicked to imdiately, "Step outside, miss. This is from your legal guardians, they filed the report. Claim you’ve been held against your will."
Mordred’s hand shot out, blocking the doorway. "She’s here by choice. This is bullshit."
"Sir, step aside or we’ll add resistance." Two more uniforms appeared behind him, hands on holsters.
I grabbed Mordred’s arm and shaked my head in disapproval. "Don’t fight them, please."
He shot a furious and protective look, then raised his hands slowly. "Fine. But she’s coming with to sort this out." he declared.
The lead cop nodded. "Both of you. Station. Now."
They cuffed Mordred roughly like he was so sort of a criminal and marched us to the squad car. I slid into the back beside him, our knees brushing, the tal biting into his wrists.
As the car pulled away, its blue lights flashing silent, I t his eyes.
"My stepparents," I whispered. "Why now?"
He leaned his head back, jaw set. "Because soone’s pulling strings. And I’m going to find out who." he murmured.
The fluorescent lights in the station buzzed like angry bees, casting everyone in a sickly glow.
I sat on a hard plastic chair in the holding area, wrists uncuffed but still rubbing the red marks where they’d dug in during the ride.
Mordred was across the room, separated by a desk and two officers grilling him about "detention protocols." He caught my eye once. He looked furious,I managed a weak nod to reassure him.
Then the door to the interrogation rooms swung open, and my stepparents walked out.
My mom, with her pinched face and pearl necklace too tight around her neck and my Dad, balding and smug in his golf polo. They spotted and beelined over, fake concern etched on their faces like bad makeup.
"Kianna, oh thank God," my dad simpered, reaching for a hug I dodged. "We’ve been so worried."
Before I could snap back, another figure stepped out behind them—tall, buzz-cut, hands in his pockets.
My eyes widened, Trent? It was him, Lysander’s "friend." The one who’d cornered on the bench with cryptic warnings.
My blood turned to ice. "What the hell are you doing here?" I asked him.
Then one of the officers, a burly woman with a clipboard—cleared her throat. "Miss Martin, these are your legal guardians. They’ve filed the complaint. And this young man is a witness."
"Witness? What the heck?" I frowned, then glanced at him.
He t my stare, expression blank as a wiped slate. "Hey, Kianna." He said, in an almost mockery tone.
My dad jumped in, voice booming like he was addressing a boardroom. "She hasn’t been ho in almost a month, officers. No calls, no texts—nothing. We thought she’d been kidnapped or worse."
"Imagine what I have to go through as a mother. Thank goodness she’s safe." My mom chipped in, fake tears flowed down her cheeks.
I opened my mouth to talk but words refused to form. A month? Wasn’t it last week they tried killing in their house, if Mordred didn’t intervene.
The scene in front of was quite a sight. Since when do they care about this much? What’s going on?
I just stared at them and shaked my head in awe. These two deserve an Oscar. They played their role in an impressive way, even I, I’m convinced they were worried.
My Dad placed his hands around Trent’s shoulders. Then continued,
"Then we t this wonderful guy over here. Today on their campus, he ntioned knowing her, and said she’d been staying with so... unsavory character." He shot a glare at Mordred. "Told us exactly where to find her."
My mom nodded vigorously, dabbing at dry eyes with a tissue. "We’re just so relieved. She’s our responsibility, after all."
I gaped, words jamming in my throat. Seriously? This is absurd. Trent? I’d literally just t him this morning.
"That’s a lie," I finally choked out. "All of it. I barely know this guy—he’s Lysander’s friend, not mine. We talked for, like, two minutes on a bench. How is he suddenly spilling my location to you?"
Trent shrugged, casual as if we were discussing weather. "We’ve been friends for a while, Kianna. Through Lysander. You know that." His eyes flicked to the officers, all innocence.
"She confided in about staying with Mordred. Said it was temporary, but... I got worried. Figured her family should know." He added, wiping his face with a handkerchief.
Friends for a while? The room spun. I clutched the armrest, nails digging into plastic.
This wasn’t just a setup—it was a scripted ambush. Trent knew things he shouldn’t. About , about Mordred’s place. And if he was lying this boldly...
The officer flipped a page on her clipboard. "We have statents from all parties. No evidence of coercion on your end, Miss Martin, but the guardians have custody rights until you’re fully independent. Living arrangent’s disapproved pending review."
Mordred’s voice cut through from across the room. "Like hell. Call my lawyer."
As if on cue, the station door burst open. A sharp-dressed woman in her forties strode in—briefcase swinging, heels clicking like gunfire. "Elena Vasquez, representing Mr. Sinclair. This arrest is baseless. Release him now."
Things blurred after that. Papers shuffled. Voices rose and fell. Vasquez dismantled the charges like a pro—pointing out my age, voluntary statents, lack of prior complaints.
The officers grumbled but uncuffed Mordred. No charges stuck, but the verdict on was clear: pack up, go back to the dorm. No more crashing at Mordred’s "safe house."
It was too risky, too tied to whatever web my stepparents and now Trent, were spinning.
We stepped out into the parking lot under a gray sky, Vasquez peeling away in her sedan. Mordred pulled aside, hands on my shoulders.
"This reeks. Your stepparents don’t give a damn about you—haven’t for years. Why now? And that kid..."
"Trent," I whispered, the na sour on my tongue. "He’s connected to Lysander. Has to be. The warnings, the lies... it’s all pointing at them."
Mordred’s eyes darkened. "I’ll handle it, I’ll dig into both. But you will have to be in your dorm tonight. I’ll watch from outside if I have to."
I nodded with my throat tight. As we climbed onto his bike for the ride to collect my things, one thought looped in my head: Lysander wasn’t just dodging anymore.
He or his "friend" was actively hunting.
The ride back to Mordred’s felt like a funeral procession—slow and heavy, the engine’s growl was the only sound between us.
I clung to him tighter than necessary, my mind replaying the station circus: Trent’s lies, my stepparents’ crocodile tears, the officer’s stern decree that I couldn’t stay here anymore.
Dorm life it was, back to thin walls and nosy roommates, like none of this nightmare had happened.
Mordred parked the bike in the garage, killed the engine, and helped off. His hand lingered on my elbow. " If you’re not okay, I’ll co with you tomorrow. Help you settle."
I shook my head. "No, it’s fine. Besides, the lawyer said low profile. And I need... space. To think." I replied.
He searched my face with concern, then nodded once in a sharp manner. "Fine. But I’m tailing you until you’re inside. And if anything feels off..."
"I know, I’ll call you." I forced a smile that didn’t reach my eyes.
Inside, the house felt smaller, echoes of last night mocking from every corner. The rumpled bed and bathroom where it all started.
I grabbed a duffel from the closet and started shoving in clothes—my jeans, a few tops I’d left here and the T-shirt that still slled like him. Mordred hovered in the doorway, arms crossed, watching like he expected to bolt.
"You don’t have to go tonight," he said quietly. "Screw the cops. We can fight it."
I zipped the bag harder than needed. "And give my stepparents more ammo? No. It’s better this way...And even safer."
He stepped closer, hand brushing my arm. "Safer for who?"
But before I could answer, my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I glanced at the screen—Lysander’s na flashing. My stomach twisted. After Trent’s betrayal and the station setup, seeing his na felt like a slap.
I let it ring out to voicemail. Mordred’s eyes narrowed. "Him?"
"Yeah." I replied and turned away, stuffing a hoodie into the bag. "Probably wants to explain why his buddy sold out."
The phone chid again,a text this ti. I snatched it up, heart pounding.
Lysander: " Kianna, pick up. It’s urgent. I think I know who Anonymous is. et tomorrow morning at the campus café. 8 a.m. Please."
I stared at the words, a chill crawling up my spine. No ntion of Trent. No apology for ghosting . No hint that his "friend" had just torpedoed my life at the police station. Like he had no clue or worse, like he was playing dumb.
My fingers tightened around the phone. He’s fooling , has to be.The pieces clicked too neatly: the black SUV, the warnings and Trent’s lies. Was this a trap? A way to lure out alone?
Mordred leaned over my shoulder, reading the text. His body went rigid. "Don’t even think about it."
But as I slung the duffel over my shoulder and headed for the door, the ssage burned in my pocket. Urgent? About the anonymous?
What if he really knew? Or what if eting him was the last mistake I’d ever make?
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