Chapter 83
Kieran's POV
I couldn't sleep.
Summer's face kept flashing behind my eyelids—the way she'd looked at me after I'd grabbed Blake's wrist, the way her lips had parted slightly like she wanted to say something but couldn't. The way her fingers had brushed mine yesterday when she'd handed me that book, and how I'd felt that touch all the way down to my bones.
I'd gotten up around ten, thinking maybe a walk would clear my head. The November air was sharp and cold, the kind that bit through your hoodie and made your breath fog. I told myself I just needed to move, to think, to stop obsessing over a girl who was so far out of my league we weren't even playing the same sport.
That's when I saw Tyler slipping out of the boys' cabin, phone in hand, glancing around like he was checking for witnesses.
Instinct kicked in. I followed.
He didn't go toward the main lodge or the bathroom facilities. He went toward the woods behind the girls' shower house, moving fast and low like he didn't want to be seen.
I stayed in the shadows, my pulse starting to pick up. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
When I got close enough, I heard the water running inside, heard girls' voices laughing and talking. And I saw Tyler crouched beneath the ventilation window, holding something small and black up toward the glass.
A camera.
For a second, I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. My brain was stuck on one horrible loop: He's filming them. He's filming her.
Then I heard him mutter under his breath, "This'll finish that Southie bastard for good."
And I understood.
He wasn't just being a pervert. He was setting me up. Planning to plant whatever footage he got on my phone, probably while I slept. Make it look like I was the creep. Get me expelled, arrested, destroyed.
And Summer—Jesus Christ, Summer—would think I'd done it. Would think I'd violated her like that.
The rage that hit me was so pure and so complete that for a moment, I couldn't see anything but red.
I moved without thinking. Grabbed his ankle and yanked him off that woodpile so hard his face slammed into the mud. Took his phone and camera before he could even process what was happening.
He started babbling about his dad, about the board, about how I was "fucking done."
I didn't care.
I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him toward the lake.
---
The water was freezing. Four, maybe five feet deep near the shore, but cold enough to stop your heart if you stayed in too long.
I shoved Tyler down onto the muddy bank and crouched in front of him, my left hand fisted in his collar.
"Who were you filming?" My voice came out flat. Calm. Like I was asking about the weather.
"I wasn't—I didn't—"
I dunked his head under.
He thrashed, arms flailing, but I held him down. Counted to ten in my head. Pulled him back up.
He came up gasping, choking, water streaming from his nose and mouth.
"Who. Were. You. Filming."
"Nobody! I swear, I just—"
Under again.
This time I counted to twelve. When I hauled him back up, he was sobbing, snot and lakewater mixing on his face.
"Cloud password," I said. "Now."
He gave it to me. I logged into his account on his phone, found the folder, deleted everything. Factory reset. Handed the camera back to him.
"Destroy it. Tonight. If I ever see you with a camera again, I'll make sure you can't hold one."
He was shaking so hard his teeth chattered. "My dad will get you expelled. You assaulted me. You have no proof I did anything wrong."
I stared at him for a long moment. Then I smiled.
It wasn't a nice smile.
"You're right," I said. "I don't have proof you attacked me."
I picked up a sharp rock from the shore.
"What the fuck are you—"
I dragged the edge across my right forearm. Once. Twice. Three times. The skin split easy, blood welling up dark and fast.
Tyler's face went white. "You're insane. You're fucking insane—"
I kept going. Methodical. Clinical. A slash across my bicep. Another near my shoulder. One more along my jaw, just deep enough to bleed but not scar badly.
Then I grabbed his hand.
He tried to pull away, but I was stronger. I forced his palm against my throat and squeezed. Hard. Using his own hand to choke myself.
"Stop! Jesus Christ, stop, please—"
I held his hand there until I could feel the bruises forming, until my vision started to blur at the edges. Then I let go and shoved him backward into the mud.
"There," I said, my voice hoarse. "Now you attacked me."
He was crying. Full-on sobbing, curled up like a kid. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I won't say anything. I won't—"
I heard footsteps. Voices. A flashlight beam cutting through the trees.
"Who's out there?" Ms. Thompson's voice, sharp and suspicious.