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  I slide a glance at him. He’s biting his lip, a frown of concentration furrowing between his eyes. “So are you,” I point out.

  Laughter sparkles in his slanted eyes for a moment, and then he sighs. “I don’t want to share you.”

  “You can’t keep juggling me and them. Besides, I get lonely when you go see them. I'm bored, and you’re gone half the day every day." A thought occurs to me, belated by my child's mind, and I twist my fingers nervously. "Is it because you’re ashamed of me?"

  The Boy stares at me, his expression inscrutable for a moment. At last he says, "No. It's because you break all my rules. They won't know what to do with you."

  "Are your rules important?" I ask.

  He shrugs carelessly, reaching for my hand. He seems to have made a decision, because he's pulling me along now, the island foliage slapping at my face. "They're the only rules, pixie girl. But they are rules. And rules are made to be broken, after all."

  "Peter says he met me before," I say, not bothering to greet him.

  Grayson is quiet for a moment, then, “Interesting. Pembrooke?”

  “I don’t know. Belle isn’t exactly rushing to spill his secrets. She only dropped this one because she was furious and it slipped.”

  “So he knew you from before, and he ended up at your tiny college. Right?”

  I hear what he’s hinting at. “You think he stalked me.”

  “It’s a possibility. You don’t know much about him, and I want you to be careful.”

  I nod. It occurs to me that even a month ago, I would have been offended and furious about Grayson’s warning. But there is some truth to it, and I’m tired of being angry every time someone expresses a concern that I don’t particularly like.

  “What should I do?” I ask.

  “You like him, and if you want to see where that goes, you need to talk to him. You need to find out where the truth is and what this kid wants from you.”

  I snort. “Getting Peter to talk is going to be the difficult part.”

  “You’ve given him the space he asked for. Now it’s time for him to answer questions. You can’t wait around for him forever, darling.”

  Yes you can.

  “I know.”

  Except, I want to. I would, I think, for Peter.

  I know I have other options. Lane has been clear he’d love to spend time together. But Lane doesn’t make me feel alive, not the way Peter does. He doesn’t quiet the memories.

  Which is why I’m still waiting.

  Chapter 22

  Orchid isn’t here. I didn’t ask when she got up a few hours ago, shoving her feet into moccasin slippers, tugging on a heavy coat before leaving the dorm.

  I didn’t ask, and she didn’t explain. And James quit texting me Bio questions.

  I twist on my bed, staring into the dark ceiling. I wonder if he’ll be in class tomorrow. If I can get him to talk to me, if he is. He hasn’t skipped classes, except for once, and Tank had explained that time—a meeting with his advisor.

  But he doesn’t sit next to me, and he doesn’t speak. His absence would be easier to handle than his quiet presence.

  I huff a sigh. “You’re being ridiculous, Gwen. Just go talk to him.”

  Something rattles outside my window, and I glance at it. The snow is steady now, a swirl of fluffy flakes spiraling down from the black sky.

  Why do your stars look different?

  I shake the random memory and close my eyes, curling on my side as I try to banish my worries and thoughts. It’s rare to have the dorm to myself, and I’m exhausted.

  There’s a soft rap on the window pane, and I jerk, swallowing a scream.

  Peter crouches on the wide window sill, his green eyes gleaming, white snow clinging to his beanie.

  What the hell?

  I jerk the window open, and Peter spills inside on a gust of snow-swirling wind. He lands lightly on the balls of his feet, rising with casual grace—like he didn’t just come through the window of my third floor bedroom. Covered in freaking snow.

  Like he hasn’t ignored me for four weeks with little explanation.

  For a long moment, we stare at each other, and I can see the tension leaking into him, the slight tightening of his shoulders and the shifting feet. His hand, tugging at his wool hat.

  I refuse to be the first one to speak, so I slide the window back down and crawl back into my bed. Then I stare at him. He’s moving anxiously around my room, touching knickknacks, a jade pendant Orchid left on her dresser. There’s a stack of drawings on mine, and he hesitates there, skimming through them.

  He pauses on one, and his bright gaze flicks to mine for a moment. I don’t need to ask or look to know he’s found the picture of the Boy. The one I’ve drawn a thousand times since being pulled off my bloody boat in the ocean.

  “Who is this?” he asks softly.

  I hesitate—I don’t want to explain my delusions, not after four weeks of not talking. I don’t want that to be our first conversation.

  His gaze sharpens. “Gwen. Is this the Boy?”

  I bristle. “I’m not Tank, or any of the AGZ brothers. I’m not Belle. Don’t talk to me like you expect me to follow your orders, Peter.”

  His eyes narrow, and I look away. “Do you want to fight, or did you come here for something?” I ask.

  For a long moment, I’m not sure he’s going to answer. Then, he releases a sigh and puts the stack of picture—the Boy—back on my dresser. I hear him move across the room, the bed shifting as he eases down on it.

  “I miss you,” he whispers.

  My gaze darts to him. “That’s no one’s fault but yours. I’m not the one playing least in sight.”

  “What are you doing tonight?” he asks, ignoring the jibe.

  “Sleeping. Or trying to sleep.”

  “Do you want me to go?” he asks, his voice low.

  I hesitate, and then I scoot over, pressing against the wall. Peter watches me, his gaze inscrutable. When I pat the bed, he doesn’t hesitate—he toes off his shoes and pulls his shirt over his head then stretches out alongside me. I curl on my side, and he curves around my body, one arm resting lightly on my hip.

  “How much longer is this going to be?”

  “Not long. She has to go back home soon.”

  “Where is home?” I haven’t asked this before. He goes still.

  I twist, and his grip on me tightens, holding me still. “A tiny little coastal town. You haven’t heard of it.”

  Why is he shrouded in more secrets than I am? I bite my lip on the question and try to relax into his embrace.

  “She’s scared. I’m trying to help her with that, before she leaves.”

  “When?” I ask.

  “Soon.” His grip tightens, and I inhale sharply as I press against him, feeling every inch of his body.

  “I don’t want to talk about Belle, Gwendy. Not now,” he whispers.

  I roll in his grip, lying flat while he is propped on one side, his fingers moving restlessly on my hip. “What do you want?”

  His eyes are hesitant, at odds with the boy who just climbed through my bedroom window. I reach up, tracing the curve of his jaw with my fingertips, a soft caress. Peter shudders under my touch, and I want more of that. More of him.

  It might be wrong and stupid. I might have a million questions, and it might be a thousand kinds of crazy. But right now, with Peter in my bed, his eyes closing as he leans into my touch—I don’t care.

  “What do you want, Peter?” I murmur again.

  “You,” he whispers. I curve my fingers, catching his jaw and pulling him down to me. He comes without a fight, the tension in his frame easing as I kiss him. I tug impatiently on his shirt, and he sits up, pulling it off before he comes back to kiss me.

  His lips part on a sigh, like this is what he’s been waiting for, and I shiver as his grip on my hip tightens, just a little. He rolls onto me, tossing a leg over my hip as his hand comes up, fingers threading into my hair as his tongue dar
ts out, stroking into me. He flicks his tongue against mine, a subtle tease. I rake my nails down his chest, lightly, and Peter hisses, breaking the kiss to pant. “Shit, baby,” he groans. Pleased, I do it again, and he rolls on top of me fully, sitting up as he straddles me.

  His beanie is gone, his hair wild from where I’ve played with it, his chest rippling with muscles and bearing the marks from my nails. His eyes are hot and impatient, and I smirk.

  “What?” he asks, a smile half formed on his lips.

  “Nothing.” I shake my head. “You. You’re so gorgeous.”

  He flushes, and I wiggle, bucking my hips to dislodge him. He looks confused, but rolls to one side. I shimmy out of my shirt and drop it on the ground.

  There is a heartbeat of uncertainty as he stares at me, panic flashing through his eyes, and then it’s gone, and he smiles as I crawl back onto the bed and straddle him. I can feel his erection through his jeans, pressing against me through the thin cotton shorts and my panties. He feels so good my eyes roll back a little, and I whimper as I rock against him. His hands are on my hips, and I need something—anything—more. “Peter,” I whimper.

  It brings him to life. Faster than I can process, he’s got me on my back, and a wet heat is on my breast, tugging at my nipple. Fire flashes through me, and I make a noise, half scream, as he plumps my other breast, his thumb playing over my nipple as he nips at me. I shift, writhing, and he laughs. Looks up at me.

  Scoots lower, dropping kisses as he slides down my body, until I’m so turned on I can’t think straight. I hear him say something, and I growl, irrationally angry that his lips aren’t on me.

  He tugs sharply on my shorts, and I arch off the bed, helping him undress me.

  “God, pixie. You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. I look down at him, and he smiles, a sly smirk that makes my heart flip and my pussy spasm.

  And then he kisses me. I shriek, my head falling back on the bed as his lips whisper over me, parting me with no effort. His tongue dances over my slit, and we both groan, a sexy sound I will hear until the day I die.

  I should stop him. This is so fucked up. I have no idea when Orchid will be home, and right now, as his tongue fucks into me, as his lips suck on my clit—I don’t care. All that matters is him, and the pleasure building. He pinches my clit, a flash of pain as he fingers pump into me, and he whispers, hoarsely, “Now, pixie. Come now.”

  I climax with a cry, my body jerking as his lips cover me again, sucking my clit, my pussy spasming around his fingers. I come harder than I ever have, an endless bliss washing through me.

  When it finally ebbs, and I can breathe again, I look at Peter. He’s still between my thighs, his head resting on my lower stomach, fingers still buried in me.

  His gaze is impossibly tender, full of something I can’t name.

  “What?” I whisper. He shakes his head, a smile turning his lips. I reach for him, and he crawls up the bed, hovering over me. I hook a leg over his, pulling him flush to me.

  “Why did you stop?” I ask.

  “I don’t want to push you, Gwen,” he says, eyes closing as I arch into him.

  I pop the button of his jeans, and he groans as I dip into his pants, finding him hard and hot. I push him back and come up on my knees, suddenly intent. Peter watches me with curious eyes, and I smile for him, kiss him quickly as I stroke his cock. I tug impatiently at his jeans, and he accommodates me, lifting his hips so I can pull them down.

  “Gwen,” he says, hoarsely, thrusting into my grip.

  “Shh,” I whisper, kissing him again. Then I slip down and take him deep into my mouth.

  “Fuck, babe,” he groans, and my nipples harden. I bob on him a little, and he fists a hand in my hair as I do, guiding me. He never stops talking. Not when I take him as deep as I can, his cock bumping against my throat. Not when I roll his balls in my fingers, or slip lower, caressing. Not even when I increase my pace, and he starts to move, his hips churning as he fucks into my mouth. He talks the entire time, a dirty, sexy litany that has me squirming anxiously, my thighs slick with arousal, until I slip a hand down and play with myself as I suck him off. His hand catches one nipple, rolling it between his thumbs. I swirl my tongue around the sensitive crown of his cock, and his dick jerks.

  “Gwen,” he says. “Fuck, I’m going to come, baby.”

  I don’t move as he shouts my name, his cock swelling as he climaxes.

  Forest. Ocean. Salt and sweat and endless star-filled nights. Memories explode through me as he pumps into my mouth, fingers tightening in my hair. I jerk back, scream as my own climax hits me, and he catches me, holding me to his chest as the orgasm drags me under.

  When I can breathe, I can’t think—I don’t want to think. So I lie still and silent in his embrace as his breathing deepens and evens out, until his voice fades into nothing and he drifts into dreams. And I’m left wondering why the hell the memories get stronger the more time I spend with Peter.

  Why did sex, of all things, trigger my memories of the Boy?

  I wake to the scent of memories, too hot. For a moment, wrapped in the fog of sleep and my green blanket, I have the heart-stopping thought that I am still on the island. Then a shriek from the hallway works its way into the room, and the blanket shifts as Peter curls closer to me.

  And I realize I’m still naked.

  I ease away from Peter, and a noise from across the room makes me jump. Peter’s grip tightens, and his breath tickles my throat. “Go away, Belle. I’m sleeping.”

  The world spins. I meet Orchid’s angry eyes an instant before Peter looks up, a sleepy smile on his face as he stares at me. “Hey, pixie.”

  “I’m not Belle,” Orchid says dryly from across the room. His gaze widens, and I wonder if he even realized he said that. I wonder if it’s better that he didn’t. That it’s so normal for her to be in his room first thing in the morning.

  I shut that thought down, clutching the blanket as I scramble out of bed and into the bathroom.

  Without clothes. Fuck. There’s a moment of quiet, and then a soft tap on my door.

  “Gwen,” Orchid says softly. I crack the door open, and she hands me a small stack of clothes. I scramble into the clean underwear and yoga pants, the sports bra and shirt, and pull my messy hair up. Then I emerge.

  Peter is sitting up in my bed, the blanket pooled around his hips, looking like a young sex god. I kind of want to strip and jump back in bed with him. But the morning light, and Orchid—and him calling for Belle—has me spooked, so I don’t meet his gaze. I don’t speak to either of them as I scoop up my phone and shove my feet into my shoes and bolt.

  I hear him shout my name as I let the door to the stairs slam shut behind me, and the shrieks of my hallmates as they take in my half naked stalker.

  I get to the boat house in record time and step into the quiet building with a soft exhale of relief. My phone buzzes against my skin, and I fish it out of my bra to glance at it.

  The third message from Peter, and a new one from Orchid.

  Orchid: Think it was an accident. He went home, so it’s safe to come back.

  Me: thanks. Rowing with Micah. I’ll see you at lunch.

  I slip the phone back into my bra and lean my head back.

  “What are you thinking about so hard, Gwen?” Micah says as he steps inside and catches sight of me.

  “Boys. And what it means to think of another person while you’re having sex.”

  Micah’s face goes white, a decidedly sick hue for my brother. “You had sex?” he asks, his voice queasy.

  I blink at him. “How is that the issue here? You’ve had sex.”

  “But…”

  “Because I’m crazy I don’t like getting off?” I say, being deliberately crass. He flinches. I grin at him, amused. “Sex is fun. And when you’re alone with a bunch of other crazies, it occasionally served to distract from the fact that we were all ticking time bombs.”

  I don’t mention that sex always left me feeling anxious a
nd dirty, like I had done something wrong. It was always followed by weeks of depression and the feeling like I had broken a promise.

  I quit having sex, because the moment of pleasure wasn’t worth it.

  “So who was he thinking about?” Micah says. Apparently he’s decided dealing with the squicky idea of his sister having sex is worth it if he can talk to me.

  “It wasn’t him,” I say. I hesitate. “Sometimes, when I’m with Peter, I don’t think about the Boy. At all. It’s like he never existed. And other times, the memories are so strong, I struggle to separate the two of them. And I know”—I hold up a hand—“I know that it’s dangerous and I should be careful. But I can’t stop the memories. I’ve tried.”

  “So you had sex with him while you were remembering the Boy,” Micah says, his voice dubious.

  “No. Not sex, sex,” I say vaguely.

  Micah groans, “Shit, just stop, Gwen. I think it was easier when your problems were people who don’t exist.”

  I laugh, and he shakes his head, stepping toward me and nodding to the rowing machine. We settle into silence as we find our rhythm, the hum of the machine and the water providing a soundtrack for our workout.

  It’s easy, to lose myself and my thoughts as I concentrate on matching his stroke, watching the dip of his oar and the bunch of his shoulders that clue me into the next motion. It takes just long enough that I can shove everything aside, and then the natural rhythm takes over and I fall into pattern with him, matching Micah’s stroke.

  I wish we were on the open water, the machine a real boat. We’d be flying, the salty water spraying up every time his oar dipped into the ocean.

  I close my eyes, and I can almost feel it—the wind and the water, the icy tease of it all and the way it feels like nothing else ever has.

  “You deserve more than memories of another guy,” Micah says, jerking me out of my trance. My rhythms bobbles, and he raps a sharp command, cutting his stroke to accommodate me as I fall back in sync.

  “Do you think it’s bad that I still remember?”

  He sighs. “No. Yes? The memories keep you safe—you know what Grayson says. They protected you from the trauma, which is why the how and where of meeting the Boy is so hazy.”