#####CHAPTER 5

Isla

I can't stop thinking about him.

It's been three days since our encounter at the café, and I can't get his face out of my head. The way he said my name. The way he knew about Carnegie Hall. The way he looked at me like he owned me.

I try to distract myself with work. My students are talented and engaging, and teaching should be filling the void that comes from running. But instead, I find myself spacing out during lessons, thinking about his words instead of focusing on the students in front of me.

I heard you play at Carnegie Hall once. You were extraordinary.

How did he know that?

More importantly, how did he know that I was the one playing?

I've covered my tracks carefully. I changed my name. I moved constantly. I cut off contact with everyone from my old life. Nobody should be able to connect the Sophia Whitmore who played at Carnegie Hall to the Isla Cross who just arrived in Raven's Edge.

Nobody except someone with resources so vast that the normal rules don't apply.

On Friday evening, I'm desperate to get out of the cottage.

The walls are closing in. My thoughts are spiraling. I keep checking the locks on the doors, checking the windows, convincing myself that I'm not as trapped as I feel.

So I make a stupid decision.

I drive to the harbor and go for a walk.

The pier is quiet this evening. The fishing boats are still in their slips, rocking gently with the tide. The smell of salt water and diesel fuel fills the air. There are a few restaurants and bars along the waterfront, mostly empty on a Friday evening—people have moved indoors, away from the cold that's starting to creep in with the darkening sky.

I walk to the end of the pier, letting the ocean wind whip my hair around my face. The view is stunning—dark cliffs in the distance, the Atlantic stretching out endlessly in shades of gray and silver, the lighthouse beam starting to cut through the approaching darkness.

This is beautiful.

This is peaceful.

This is the first moment I've felt even remotely like myself since I arrived in Raven's Edge.

That's when I hear his voice.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

I spin around so fast I almost lose my footing on the slick wooden planks. My heart leaps into my throat and for a moment I think I might actually vomit from pure adrenaline.

He's standing at the entrance to the pier, silhouetted against the last light of the sunset. Dark hair. Expensive clothes. That same predatory stillness that I recognized from the café.

But he's close now. Too close.

And his face is finally fully visible in the dying light.

He's breathtaking in the way that certain dangerous things are breathtaking. Sharp features. Strong jaw. Eyes that are such a dark gray they're almost black. There's a scar along his left jawline that somehow makes him more beautiful, not less. It's the kind of scar that tells stories—violence, survival, things that have marked him permanently.

He's smiling.

It's not a warm smile.

"I didn't hear you come up," I say. My voice is steadier than I feel. That's something, at least.

"I know," he says. He takes a step toward me. "You were very focused on the view. On the ocean. On everything except what's happening behind you."

Warning bells are screaming in my head. Every self-preservation instinct I have is telling me to run. To push past him. To get back to my car and drive away from this town and never look back.

But I've learned that running makes things worse.

So I stand my ground.

"Can I help you with something?" I ask.

"That's an interesting question," he says, taking another step closer. He's circling me now, slowly, the way a predator circles prey. I can smell his cologne—something expensive and dark, with notes of cedar and smoke. "Let me ask you one instead: How long do you plan to keep pretending that you don't recognize me?"

My blood runs cold.

"I don't know you," I say carefully. But there's doubt in my voice now. Uncertainty.

"No," he agrees. "But I know you. Or rather, I know *of* you. I've been waiting a very long time to meet you properly. To have this conversation."

He's circling me, and I'm tracking his movements, trying to calculate whether I could get past him, whether I could reach my car before he catches me, whether I could scream loud enough for someone to hear.

"I don't understand," I say, even though I'm terrified.

"Isla," he says softly. And the way he says my name—with such intimacy, such knowledge—makes my knees go weak. "You can't lie to me. Not about this. Not anymore."

"How do you know my—"

"Name? That's easy," he says. He stops circling and positions himself directly in front of me, blocking my path back to the pier entrance. "I make it my business to know things about people. Especially people who matter."

"I don't matter to you," I say. But there's doubt in my voice now. There's uncertainty.

He allows himself a smile at that. The smile of someone who knows exactly how many lies I'm going to tell before I break completely.

"You're wrong," he says. "You matter very much to me. You've been mattering to me for four years."

Four years.

The exact amount of time since Carnegie Hall.

I watch as the realization becomes clear on my face.

He steps even closer until he's only inches away from me. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough that if he reached out, he could touch me.

Trapped.

"I watched you play at Carnegie Hall," he says quietly. "Four years ago. Front row. Center. I watched you play Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat Major like your soul was pouring out through your fingers."

My stomach drops.

He was there.

He saw me.

He saw the moment everything fell apart.

"I watched the moment everything went wrong," he continues. "I watched you collapse on that stage. I watched the security guards help you away from the piano. I watched your father's face as he realized his perfect prodigy was broken. And in that moment, I became completely, irrevocably obsessed with finding you. With understanding what happened. With knowing everything about you."

"Why?" My voice is barely a whisper.

"Because," he says, his hand reaching out to cup my face, "your music broke something in me. Your pain broke something in me. And I needed to know if you survived it. If you healed. If you were okay."

His thumb traces the line of my cheekbone, and the touch is gentle. Possessive.

"That's insane," I whisper.

"Probably," he agrees. "But I don't care. Because for four years, I've been looking for you. And last week, when the academy received your application to teach music, when I saw your name on the file, I knew. I knew you had finally come to the one place where I could reach you."

The realization hits me like a physical blow.

"The academy is yours," I say. "You're the donor."

"I own half the town," he says calmly. "The academy, the businesses, the real estate. I've been investing in Raven's Edge for three years, slowly accumulating power and control. Because I knew that someday, you would run here. And when you did, I wanted to be waiting."

I take a step back. Then another. My mind is racing through all the implications of what he's saying.

He owns the town.

He orchestrated my arrival.

He's been planning this for years.

"You orchestrated this," I say. "You engineered my hiring."

"I read your application personally," he says. "And yes, I made sure you got the job. I made sure you got the cottage. I made sure everything was perfect for your arrival."

"That's not okay," I say. "That's not—that's stalking. That's—"

"Obsession," he finishes for me. "I know. I've been very obsessed with you."

He steps toward me again, and I'm backing away, my heart hammering so hard I think it might break through my ribs.

"I don't understand what you want from me," I say.

"I don't know yet," he admits. His voice carries a vulnerability that somehow makes him more dangerous, not less. "But I'm going to find out. That I can promise you."

"I don't want this," I say.

"I know," he says. "But you're going to get it anyway. Because you're here now, in my town, working at my school, living in my cottage. And whether you like it or not, Isla, you belong to me."

The possessiveness in his voice is staggering. It's intimate and violent and wrong in every possible way.

And somehow, it's also the most honest thing anyone has ever said to me.

I turn and run.

I run back down the pier, my feet slipping on the wet wood. I run past the restaurants and the boats. I run toward my car without looking back, even though I can feel his gaze burning into my back like it's a physical force.

He doesn't follow.

There's no need.

He's already made it clear that he owns my entire world.

I make it to the car and fumble with the keys. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely get the key in the ignition. And just as I'm about to start the engine, his hand appears on my window.

He leans down so that his face is level with mine. The window is between us, but it might as well not exist. The intensity of his gaze is so powerful I can feel it through the glass.

"I know you're scared," he says, his voice muffled but clear. "I know this is overwhelming. I know you want to run again. But I want you to remember one thing, Isla: I've waited four years for you. I'll wait as long as it takes. And eventually, you're going to understand that this isn't a curse. It's a salvation."

"Leave me alone," I say.

"I don't think you actually want that," he says. "I think you want someone to see you. To understand you. To know exactly who you are and want you anyway. And that's what I'm offering you."

"You don't know me," I say.

"I know your music," he says. "And music is the soul, Isla. I know your soul. And I'm completely, irrevocably obsessed with it."

He steps back and waves his hand, granting me permission to leave.

I start the car. I drive away.

But even as I'm driving back to the cottage, even as I'm locking all the doors and checking all the windows, even as I'm trying to convince myself that I need to pack my things and leave this town immediately, I can hear his words echoing in my mind.

*I've waited four years for you.*

*You belong to me.*

*Eventually, you're going to understand that this is a salvation.*

And the terrifying part isn't that he's dangerous.

The terrifying part is that somewhere deep inside me, in the darkest corner of my broken heart, a small voice is whispering: *What if he's right?*

What if he's the only person in the world who actually sees me?

What if belonging to someone like him is the only way I'll ever feel safe?

What if everything I've been running from has been leading me directly to him?

I spend the night awake in my cottage, staring at the ceiling, and I can't stop thinking about his eyes. The certainty in his voice. The absolute conviction that I belong to him.

And the most terrifying thing of all is that I'm starting to believe it.