Death isn't an option

Chapter Three

By Friday, the week has stretched and blurred just enough that I almost convince myself Monday didn’t happen the way I remember it.

Almost.

Classes have started. Professors handed out syllabi with the solemnity of funeral rites. I’ve found my classrooms, learned which stairwell smells weird, and discovered there is exactly one coffee place on campus that makes something drinkable. I’ve been busy enough that my brain doesn’t have time to replay the orientation over and over.

Except at night, when it replays anyway.

Careful, Miss Cole.

Tonight, I tell myself, I’m going to be normal.

“Junie.” Talia’s voice blasts through the door a second before it swings open. “Get dressed, we’re going out.”

“I am dressed,” I say.

I’m in leggings and an oversized t-shirt, sprawled on my bed with my laptop open to half-read notes. Definitely not what she means.

“You’re dressed like we’re about to binge a murder documentary,” she says, dropping an armful of fabric onto my legs. “We’re going to a bar.”

I look at the clothes. Sparkly top, black jeans that are probably legally classified as a second skin.

“A bar,” I repeat. “You remember we’re not twenty-one yet, right?”

“Details,” she says. “Anyway, half the student body goes there. It’s off campus, but they’re cool as long as you’re not doing body shots on the tables. Officially it’s eighteen plus. Unofficially, it’s where everyone ends up on Friday.”

“That’s not reassuring,” I say.

“Come on,” she wheedles. “You promised this year you’d do more than sit in the dorm and silently judge people.”

“I can silently judge people anywhere,” I say. “It’s portable.”

She rolls her eyes and rips my laptop off my thighs. “Ian’s already on board.”

“That sounds fake.”

As if summoned, my phone buzzes. A text from Ian:

IAN: i have been bullied into nightlife

IAN: apparently we’re going somewhere called blackridge

I exhale through my nose. Of course he’s in.

“What kind of place is it?” I ask, giving in enough to sit up.

“Nice,” she says, eyes lighting. “And kind of… intense? Everyone says the security is crazy good. No fights, no creeps, they toss people out fast. Rumor is it’s owned by some rich security guy. I saw it on a t****k. The drinks are strong, the bathrooms are clean, and the lighting makes everyone look hot. What more do you want?”

Maybe a night where my scar doesn’t feel like a barometer anytime someone says “safe.” But I keep that to myself.

“Come on, Cole,” Talia says, softer now. “One drink. We scope it out. If you hate it, we can leave.”

That’s the thing about her. She can be relentless, but she always leaves the door cracked.

“Fine,” I say. “But I’m not wearing something I can’t breathe in.”

She grins like she’s won a war. “I’ll find you something breathable that still makes men stupid. Compromise.”

By the time she’s done with me, I’m in a dark green top that dips just enough to hint at cleavage without exposing my scar and black jeans that cling more than I’m used to but not enough to send me into a spiral. She does something witchy with my eyeliner that makes my eyes look bigger.

“You look dangerous,” she says smugly.

“I look like I’m going to trip in combat boots,” I say, tugging at the hem of my top.

“Hot,” she says. “Let’s go.”

Ian meets us in the lobby, leaning against the wall in a button-down he clearly didn’t pick himself.

“Nice shirt,” I say.

“My mother sent it,” he says. “She said, and I quote, ‘Maybe you’ll finally look dateable.’”

“I love her,” I say.

He looks me over once, not in the way creepy guys do, just checking. His gaze catches briefly at my neckline, at where the fabric hides the scar, then flicks up. He smiles, small and genuine.

“You look good,” he says. “You sure about this?”

“No,” I say. “But I’m going anyway.”

Outside, the air is cooler than it was earlier, finally remembering it’s supposed to be evening. The bar is a ten-minute walk off campus, across a busy street and down a row of old brick storefronts. We follow groups of students in the same direction, voices rising in alcohol-bright laughter.

Blackridge sits on a corner, its name in simple black letters above a wide glass door. No neon, no peeling posters. Just clean lines and dark windows that let you see hints of warm light and movement inside. There’s a line, but it moves steadily.

Two bouncers man the door—a woman and a man, both in black, both with the kind of stillness that makes you aware of every uncontrolled movement in your own body.

The woman is tall and strong, dark hair braided back, eyes sharp. Her nametag reads Mara. The man has shoulders like a brick wall and a shaved head--his tag says Kade. They don’t banter with the line, don’t flirt. They check IDs, glance people over, and either wave them through or murmur something that makes the person in question shuffle to the back or leave.

“They look like they could kill me with their pinkies,” Talia whispers.

“That probably helps with security,” Ian says.

When it’s our turn, Mara takes our IDs, scanning each one briefly before handing them back. Her gaze pauses on me for a second longer. Not in a creepy way—more like she’s comparing my face to a picture only she can see.

“First time here?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

She nods once. “Don’t leave your drinks unattended. If anyone bothers you, find staff.” Her voice is calm, matter-of-fact.

“Got it,” I say.

She steps aside. The guy, Kade, opens the door with an easy motion. For a second, as the light catches his eyes, they reflect oddly—like an animal’s in a camera flash.

I blink, and it’s gone.

The music hits as soon as we step inside. Not deafening, but thick, a bass line you feel in your ribs. The air is warm and smells like citrus, whiskey, and the faint metallic tang of ice.

Blackridge is… nice.

Dark wood floors, exposed brick walls, warm golden light. The bar stretches along one side, all bottles and glass and polished metal. Tables fill the center and a dance area pulses toward the back. Overhead, a second-level balcony lines three sides of the room, metal railing overlooking everything.

“Okay, this is sexy,” Talia says. “I approve.”

My eyes go up automatically. People lean on the railing, drinks in hand, talking, watching. Some faces are already flushed from alcohol. Some are shadowed.

One of them is his.

Knox Graves stands near the center of the balcony, one hand resting lightly on the rail. He’s not in a suit jacket tonight, just a dark shirt that fits like it remembers he owns it and the building both. Sleeves rolled to his forearms, throat bare where the top buttons are undone.

He’s talking to a man in a blazer, but even mid-conversation, his gaze sweeps the room in slow, steady arcs. Cataloging. Measuring.

And then, like someone clicked a switch, it finds me.

My pulse jumps. It’s ridiculous; there are a hundred people between us. There is no reason for that line of attention to feel like a hand closing around the back of my neck.

Talia follows my line of sight and lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “Is that the security guy from campus?”

“It is,” Ian says, voice dry.

“So he owns this place?” she says. “Of course he does. He looks like he owns everything within a ten-mile radius.”

“Let’s not make it weird,” I mutter, dragging my gaze down.

Too late. The weird is already here. It lives behind my sternum now, in the way my scar tightens when he looks at me.

“Drinks?” Ian asks, rescuing me from my own thoughts.

“Drinks,” Talia agrees. “I want something fruity and irresponsible.”

We weave through the crowd toward the bar. It’s busy but not chaotic. Staff move with purpose, sliding between patrons, wiping down surfaces, delivering drinks. No one’s shouting. No one’s obviously wasted. When a guy at the far end starts talking too loudly, I see one of the bouncers from the door—Mara—appear beside him like she teleported, leaning in to say something that makes him deflate and sit down.

Their movements are… coordinated. Not in a choreographed way. More like a flock of birds, all turning at the same time without bumping into each other.

My brain slots that observation next to the reflective eyes and labels the whole thing unsettling.

We order. I pick something light—a gin and tonic with extra lime. The alcohol fizzles pleasantly when I sip it, loosening a knot between my shoulder blades.

We claim a small high-top near the edge of the crowd. From here, I can see one of the exits and part of the bar. The music is loud enough to discourage serious conversation, but Talia tries anyway, shouting about a guy’s jawline and the injustice of cover charges.

After a while, she disappears toward the dance floor with someone she met in the bathroom, leaving me and Ian at the table.

“Thoughts?” he asks, leaning on his elbows.

“It’s… nicer than I expected,” I admit. “And weirdly efficient.”

“Efficient?”

I nod toward the door where Kade is already stopping someone who’s gotten too loud. “They don’t wait for problems. They cut them off.”

Ian watches for a second, then nods. “Control freak’s dream.”

“Maybe the t****k was right. Security here is no joke.”

His gaze flicks up to the balcony where Knox had been. “When the guy at the top is like that, I’d be surprised if it wasn’t.”

I follow his look before I can stop myself.

Knox isn’t at the railing anymore. The spot he was occupying is empty. The conversation that had been happening without him continues around a gap.

A tiny, irrational part of me is disappointed.

“He’s probably busy,” I say, more to myself than Ian.

“Probably,” Ian says. His tone is unreadable.

We sit there a minute longer. The music shifts, the crowd adjusts. I finish my drink and glance at the bar, considering whether I want another or just water.

“I’m going to grab some water,” I say. “You want anything?”

“I’ll come with you,” he says.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” I say automatically.

He gives me a look. “Too late. That ship sailed when you moved into my house, Cole.”

He’s half joking, but only half.

“I’ll be fine,” I say. “Watch Talia. Make sure she doesn’t end up married to someone whose major is ‘vibes.’”

He hesitates, then nods. “Text me if some frat clown tries to talk to you.”

“Frat clowns are your natural habitat,” I say, weaving away before he can argue.

The bar is a line of bodies, elbows and backs and hair. I find a gap near the end and slide in, catching the bartender’s eye for a refill and a water. While I wait, I let my gaze wander.

The lights are low, the world tinted amber. People sway and laugh and lean in close. At another time in my life, this might have felt like something out of a movie. Now it feels like walking on thin ice. Pretty, but always an inch from cracking.

My water arrives. I take a long swallow, trying to cool the heat at the back of my neck.

“Hey,” a voice says beside me. “You look like you could use something stronger than that.”

I turn.

The guy is around my age, maybe a year or two older. Messy hair, expensive sneakers, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show chest hair and a chain. His smile is lazy in the way of someone who thinks it works on everyone.

“I’m good,” I say. “Thanks.”

“Oh, come on.” He leans closer, breath humid with beer. “First week, right? Gotta celebrate. Let me buy you a real drink.”

“I’m fine,” I say, more firmly. I step sideways, but there’s a barstool and another person behind me. The crowd presses in on my other side.

He shifts with me, keeping the distance the same, hand landing on the bar right next to my hip. “One drink,” he says, dropping his voice like we’re sharing a secret. “I don’t bite.”

My scar tightens. The air feels too thick.

“I said no,” I say. Louder, this time.

He laughs like I’m being cute. “You don’t have to play hard to get. I’m just being friendly.”

His hand brushes my arm. My skin crawls.

The music swells, the crowd jostles, and suddenly I’m seventeen again with metal pressing into my ribs and a stranger’s hands on my body and nowhere to go. The room shrinks, sounds stretching thin.

I look for Ian. I can’t see him.

My heartbeat roars in my ears. I catalog exits—front door across the room, back hallway by the bathrooms, staff door near the end of the bar. None of them are within easy reach without going through him.

Something yanks under my breastbone. For a split second, the noise drops away and I feel… lines.

One thin, taut thread, stretching from me into the crowd where I know Ian is, even if I can’t see him. And another, thicker, darker one stretching from somewhere above, thrumming like a plucked wire.

I blink. The vision snaps, leaving only the music and the press of the guy’s presence in front of me.

He leans in, voice dropping. “Look, don’t be a b***h, alright? I’m trying to be nice.”

It happens so fast I almost miss the beginning of it.

A chill washes through the air around us, subtle but unmistakable. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, my body recognizing something before my brain does.

Then a voice cuts through the music.

“Walk away,” it says, quiet and perfectly clear. “Now.”

The drunk guy stiffens. I feel rather than see the presence at my side—solid, calm, like stepping into the shadow of something much larger than you.

The guy turns his head. I follow his gaze.

Knox stands half a step behind me and to the side. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him, close enough that if I shifted back an inch my shoulder would brush his chest.

His expression is neutral. His eyes are not. They’re cold in a way that makes the drunk’s lazy bravado curdle.

“We’re just talking,” the guy says, some instinct making him keep his voice low even when he’s trying to sound tough. “Who are you?”

“This is my bar,” Knox says. “And she told you no.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to.

The guy scoffs, but it comes out weak. “She didn’t look like she minded to me.”

I feel Knox’s focus shift, sliding over me for a heartbeat, taking in my posture, my face, the way I’m angled away.

“She minded,” he says. “You’re done here.”

The drunk opens his mouth again, then closes it when he realizes we’re not alone.

Mara and Kade have appeared, one on each side of him, like they grew out of the floor. No shoving, no theatrics. Just two large, unamused bodies suddenly in his space.

“Sir,” Mara says. “We’re going to ask you to come with us.”

“Are you serious?” he says, looking between them, then back at Knox.

Knox doesn’t even bother answering. He just watches.

Something in the drunk man’s instincts finally kicks in. He mutters a slur under his breath, too soft to carry, and lets Mara and Kade steer him away. They walk him toward the door with a kind of practiced ease—one hand at his elbow, one near his shoulder, guiding without yanking.

The crowd barely notices. A few people glance over, assess, decide it’s handled, and turn back to their drinks. It’s like watching a ripple move through water and then smooth out.

My heart is still pounding.

For a moment, I stay where I am, fingers clenched around my half-empty water glass, eyes fixed on the space the drunk just vacated. The urge to bolt is a living thing in my muscles.

Then Knox shifts, attention settling fully on me.

“Are you alright, Miss Cole?” he asks.

Hearing my name like that does something stupid to my insides. His voice is the same as it was on the quad—low, even, edged with something that feels like concern and something that feels like ownership.

I swallow. “I was handling it,” I say. It comes out more defensive than I intend.

His mouth does that almost-smile thing, the barest tilt at one corner. “I’m sure you were.”

He steps in half a pace, hand coming to rest at the small of my back. It’s light, just contact, but it’s enough to guide me a little away from the press of bodies at the bar, enough to make my skin spark under the fabric.

“Humor me,” he says. “I don’t tolerate that kind of behavior in my establishment.”

My establishment. My bar.

The words resonate in my chest. The scar throbs, sharper now, like something trying to hook into it. It feels too much like the Dean’s “You’re safe here,” like an invisible thread tightening.

I take a small step forward, out from under his hand. The sensation eases.

“I didn’t ask you to get involved,” I say.

“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t.”

He studies me, head tilted slightly, eyes moving over my face, the way I’m breathing, the way my shoulders sit. It’s not leering. It’s assessment, and somehow that’s almost worse.

“Still,” he says, softer. “No one puts their hands on you here unless you want them to. You’re off-limits in my bar.”

The way he says it—my bar, off-limits—digs under my skin.

Anger flares, bright and hot, cutting through leftover fear. “Off-limits,” I repeat. “You don’t even know me.”

He holds my gaze. There’s something in his expression I can’t parse—amusement, maybe, and something darker.

“I know enough,” he says.

“That I’m a liability?” I shoot back. “Bad for your safety stats?”

His eyes flick briefly to my hand, where it’s crept toward my sternum again, then back up. “That you don’t like being cornered,” he says. “And that you’re stubborn enough to pretend you’re fine when you’re not.”

The accuracy makes me want to hit him. Or kiss him. Or both.

Before I can decide how to respond, someone says my name.

“June.”

Ian appears at my side, face tight, eyes tracking from me to Knox and back again. There’s no mistaking the protectiveness in his posture—the slight step forward, the angle of his shoulders.

“You okay?” he asks me, not taking his eyes off Knox for more than a blink.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically.

Knox’s attention shifts to Ian. The two of them take each other’s measure in a single, loaded second.

“Your friend was being… bothered,” Knox says. “We’ve handled it.”

Ian’s jaw flexes. “Thanks,” he says, flat.

You’re off-limits in my bar echoes loud in my head.

“I think we’re going to head out,” I say.

Talia appears then, a little breathless from dancing, eyes wide as she takes in the triangle of tension. “Did I miss something?”

“Just the part where security daddy up there went full John Wick on a drunk guy,” I say, aiming for flippant. It lands crooked.

Knox’s mouth twitches, like he’s deciding whether to comment on that title.

“Enjoy your evening,” he says instead, stepping back. The distance is immediate, like a switch flipped—his hand no longer at my back, his focus widening to take in the room again.

If anyone bothers you again, you come find me is implied and unnecessary.

“Come on,” Ian says quietly.

We make our way toward the door. The music fades with each step, replaced by the hum of our own pulse and the low murmur of late-night conversations.

Outside, the air is cooler, almost cold against my heated skin. The street is busy with people coming and going, ride shares pulling up, someone arguing about whose turn it is to pay.

Talia chatters the whole way down the sidewalk.

“That was insane,” she says. “He just appeared out of nowhere. Did you see his face? That guy is terrifying. In, like, a good way. For safety. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” I say.

“And the way he said ‘off-limits’—”

“Talia,” Ian warns.

“What?” she says. “We’re all thinking it.”

“I’m thinking I want to get June home without any more incidents,” he says.

I walk between them, water glass still clutched in my hand like a useless talisman. My heart has mostly calmed down, but the echo of adrenaline is still buzzing in my veins. Every time I replay Knox’s voice in my head, claiming I’m off-limits in his space, something low in my stomach responds.

It’s infuriating.

At the corner, we pause to wait for the light. The bar’s sign glows behind us, letters clean against the dark.

I tell myself not to look back.

I look back.

The balcony railing on the second floor is a dark line against warmer light. People lean there, drinks in hand. Most of them are turned inward, talking.

One figure stands apart, nearer the center. One hand resting on the rail, shoulders relaxed, posture unmistakable even at this distance.

Knox.

His gaze is on the street, scanning. On us.

On me.

For a moment, the rest of the world blurs at the edges. Cars, headlights, pedestrians—all background. It’s just that line of sight, straight and unbroken, pinning me in place.

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t raise a glass. Doesn’t do anything but watch.

Like he’s tracking something in his territory.

Something he’s decided he’s not finished with.

Talia says something I don’t catch. Ian nudges my shoulder gently when the walk signal flashes.

“Come on,” he murmurs.

I drag my eyes away from the balcony and step off the curb.

I did not come here to belong to anyone, least of all a man who thinks he can decide where I’m off-limits. But as we cross the street and the bar recedes behind us, the weight of Knox’s stare lingers between my shoulder blades like a touch that hasn’t quite faded.