Chapter 22 Aslan
Aslan
I didn’t stay for the recital.
Not after what happened. Not after Evan’s voice, his little power trip; Garrett’s cold agreement; and the way my hope had died quietly in my throat before I could swallow it back down.
I slipped out while the music was still going and walked straight outside into the night.
I thought about going back to my dorm. Thought about hiding under my blanket and pretending this entire week hadn’t happened. But that meant James would ask questions the second I walked in. James would want details. He’d want to rage. He’d want to fix it.
And I didn’t have the energy.
Not tonight.
Tonight I wanted silence. Air. Space.
I wandered the hallways for a while. The cafeteria was closed, and so was the library, so I eventually left the building before I could be seen by anyone. I walked past the dorms without thinking, my feet carrying me away from the lights and toward the dark stretch behind campus—the edge where the horse field opened up and the world finally felt wide enough to breathe.
I wasn’t rushing. I just walked, letting my breath smooth out the tightness in my chest. In and out. In and out. Let it pass. Let it die. Let it fade.
The night smelled of grass and damp earth. Cold wind pressed against my face, clearing the sting behind my eyes. I kept walking until the stable fences appeared and the outline of the barn rose up ahead of me.
I should’ve stopped there, should’ve turned around, but the moment I got close enough to see the shadow of the stables, my body remembered.
That place. That greenhouse—the sound, the humiliation, the heat crawling under my skin…
My steps slowed without my permission, and something mindless in me—something stupid and curious and broken—pulled me toward the utility shed instead. The old log walls. The familiar scent of hay and wood and dust.
I ended up at the window.
My fingers lifted and traced the cold glass, almost reverently. Almost ashamed.
The image hit me all over again—Garrett, naked, beautiful, shameless. The way he’d looked right at me and kept going. The way he’d claimed the moment, like he owned me for watching.
A shiver ran through me, sharp and humiliating.
I hated it. I hated myself for it. Still… I couldn’t move.
The memory tugged, and my feet followed it before my brain could stop them. I stepped toward the shed door, hand closing around the knob.
And opened it.
The air inside was warmer than I expected. Still. Stale. Empty.
I walked in anyway, like a ghost returning to the scene of his own execution.
My gaze swept the room, landing on the spot where he’d been, where she’d been, where I’d stood frozen outside like a fool. My stomach twisted hard when I spotted the blanket he’d carried that night.
Before I could stop myself, I grabbed it and brought it to my face—breathing him in. Then I snapped out of it, disgusted with myself.
I shouldn’t be here. I had no business here.
I took a breath, ready to leave, when a presence filled the room. Not a sound. Not a movement. Just… him.
My senses caught it before my eyes did: the shift in the air, the weight behind me, the familiar electricity that always made my body react like it was wired wrong.
A voice cut through the silence, low and sharp, slicing right into my spine. “Reminiscing on the past, lion?”
I spun around.
Garrett stood there watching me, bottle in hand.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded, heart kicking hard enough to make me dizzy.
“I should ask you the same thing…” His mouth curled. “Creep.”
He reached his hand toward me, and my heart skipped—traitor.
Garrett noticed. He stopped mid-motion, chuckling under his breath, then shook his head and ripped the blanket out of my hands. He took another sip from the bottle like he needed it to stand being in the same room as me.
“I’m not here to touch you, cub,” he said coldly.
“You’re drunk.”
“Not drunk enough.” He set the bottle down like he was trying to prove it.
My jaw clenched. “What are you here for? Why do you push me away and then follow me when I leave? What do you want from me?”
“I want nothing from you.” He stepped closer until he was in my space. “I want you gone.”
“I don’t believe you.” The words came out before I could stop them. “If you want nothing from me, why did you follow me?”
He turned away like the conversation bored him, like I bored him.
I couldn’t let him do that.
I grabbed his arm, stopping him cold. “I asked you a damn question—”
Garrett whirled around like my touch burned him, eyes flashing. Suddenly he was an inch from my face, breathing my air, expression murderous.
“Don’t you ever touch me like that again,” he whispered. “Ever.”
My blood froze, but my body didn’t back down. His proximity was dangerous—intoxicating—everything I shouldn’t want.
I lifted my chin, closing the last inch between us. “Or what?”
His breath brushed my mouth.
“Or I might not be able to hold myself back.”
“Then don’t,” I whispered.
For a second, he didn’t move.
His jaw clenched hard. His eyes flicked to my mouth like it physically hurt him to look. The air between us tightened until I couldn’t breathe right.
Something in Garrett snapped.
The shed door slammed so hard the walls shook.
Before I could even flinch, he grabbed me by the nape, fingers threading into my hair with brutal control, and yanked me into him like he’d been starving. His body collided with mine, solid and hot and shaking.
And then his mouth crashed into mine.
It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet.
It was raw—hungry, desperate, furious—as if he’d been holding his breath for weeks and finally decided he didn’t care if it killed him.
My brain went blank.
Everything vanished—the recital, Crownwell, the humiliation, the weeks of war. All of it burned away until there was only him.
His kiss tasted like heat and alcohol and denial breaking apart.
I made a sound into his mouth that I didn’t recognize as mine, and it only made him kiss me harder. His other hand fisted in my shirt, dragging me closer until there was no space left between us, like he was trying to crawl under my skin and live there.
And God—he kissed like he meant it.
Like he needed it.
Like he hated how much he needed it.
When he finally broke away, it was only to breathe—forehead pressing to mine, both of us panting like we’d been running.
“Fuck,” he whispered, like the word hurt.
Then he kissed me again.
Slower. Deeper. Still unhinged, still consuming—but now it felt like surrender. Like he’d finally stopped pretending.
I didn’t know how long it lasted.
All I knew was that when Garrett finally pulled back, his eyes were dark and wild, his lips swollen, his grip still locked at my nape like he didn’t trust himself to let go.
And I stood there shaking, breathless, and undeniably ruined—because he was fire and I was ice, and we both knew fire and ice could never survive each other.