Chapter 2: Irritation

## RIVER'S POV - Morning

I hate Mondays. Actually, I hate most days, but Mondays especially. And you know what makes Mondays infinitely worse? Ethan fucking Kingstone.

I'm sitting in the library, actually trying to get some work done on my essay about social psychology, when I feel a presence. Not like a gentle awareness that someone's near me. No. I feel *him*—like a storm brewing, like electricity in the air before lightning strikes.

"Working hard, I see," a smooth voice says from behind me.

I don't even look up. "If you're here to waste my time, make it quick. Some of us have actual deadlines."

Ethan walks around and sits directly across from me, spreading out his own laptop and textbooks like he owns the entire table. Which, knowing him, he probably does own the building or something equally ridiculous.

"Didn't say I was here to waste your time," he says, eyes skimming over his screen. "Maybe I just wanted to study."

"In the two years I've known you, I have never once seen you actually study. You just show up, take exams, and somehow get perfect scores. So either you're cheating, or you're the most naturally gifted person alive, which is fucking annoying either way."

He glances at me over his laptop, and there's that infuriating smirk. That *look* that makes my blood boil. "Are you really that bothered by my presence? Because from where I'm sitting, it seems like you think about me a lot."

"I don't think about you," I snap. My voice is louder than I intended. A few students look over. I lower it. "You're just... always there. Like a cockroach. Impossible to ignore."

"A cockroach," he repeats, like he's testing the word. "That's new. Usually it's 'asshole' or 'arrogant prick.'"

"Don't give me ideas. I can add more to the list."

"I'm sure you could. You're very creative when you're angry."

There's something in the way he says it. Not mocking, exactly. More like... observational. Like he's genuinely interested in my anger, like it means something to him. Which is insane. Of course it doesn't mean anything. He probably just enjoys getting a rise out of people.

"Why are you even here?" I ask, closing my laptop. I can't concentrate now. My mind is too full of him, too full of frustration and irritation and something I don't want to name.

"Same reason you are. I'm a student."

"You're never in the library."

"Maybe I wanted a change of scenery."

"Bull. Shit."

He leans back in his chair, and I can see the slight curve of his lips. Like he's enjoying this. Like my anger is entertainment for him.

"You're cute when you're mad," he says casually.

That's it. I stand up so fast my chair nearly falls backward. Several people jump. "You know what? Fuck off, Kingstone. I don't have time for this."

"Running away now?"

"I'm removing myself from a toxic situation. There's a difference."

"Is there?" He's still sitting, still calm, still smirking. "Because it looks like you're leaving because you can't handle being around me."

"I can handle you just fine. I just choose not to."

"Yet you're still standing here, arguing with me instead of leaving."

He has a point. I hate that he has a point. I grab my things without another word and storm out of the library. Behind me, I can feel his eyes on me, and it makes my skin prickle with something I refuse to identify as anything other than anger.

## ETHAN'S POV - Library

I watch River leave, his shoulders tense beneath that oversized sweater—forest green today, my favorite—and I have to grip the edge of the table to stop myself from following him.

God, he's infuriating. And beautiful. And infuriating in a way that makes me want to push him further, make him angrier, just to see those green eyes flash with that specific kind of rage that only I seem to provoke.

He called me a cockroach. He's insulted me in approximately five hundred different ways over the past two years, and somehow that one lands differently. Cockroach. Like I'm a pest. Like I'm something he wants to crush under his heel.

I pull out my phone and open my notes app.

*He wore the green sweater again. He was angry the entire time we talked. His voice got that sharp edge it only gets around me. He said I was always there, like I'm unavoidable. I am. For him. I'm unavoidable.*

*He has a test in Environmental Science on Wednesday at 2 PM. He'll be in the science building. I'll find an excuse to be there too.*

*He hates when I call him cute. His face gets flushed. His hands clench. He looks like he wants to hit me. I would let him. I would let him do anything.*

I close the app and stare at his empty chair. The library suddenly feels too quiet without him. Too empty.

My phone buzzes. A text from Oliver, my secretary:

*The monthly transfer to River's account has been processed. Is there anything else you need?*

I don't respond. There's nothing else I can ask for. I've already done everything—arranged his scholarship, ensured his stipend, made sure he and Liam are safe and secure. He has no idea that every comfort he has is because I exist in his life, because I'm obsessed with making sure he never has to struggle the way he does.

And all he can do is hate me for it.

I gather my things and head to my office. The one that doesn't officially exist. The one where I run a billion-dollar gaming company while simultaneously being a college student. The one where I keep every piece of information about River that I can possibly obtain.

Somewhere between the university records and the gaming reports and the quarterly earnings projections, I've become a man who saves every photo River doesn't know was taken. Who records his voice without permission. Who changes his favorite color to match his eyes.

I should feel guilty about that. Probably, I should feel something other than this bone-deep need to keep him, protect him, possess him in every way except the one that matters.

But guilt isn't what I feel when I think about River.

## RIVER'S POV - After University

I'm still angry when I pick up Liam from Nan's house. He takes one look at my face and asks, "Uncle Riv, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, baby," I lie, ruffling his hair. But my jaw is clenched so tight it probably looks like I'm grinding my teeth. Which I probably am.

We take the bus home, and I try to focus on Liam's rambling about his day—something about dragons and treasure and a kid named Marcus who pushed him off the monkey bars. My protective instincts flare. "Did you tell your teacher?"

"I told Nan. She said Marcus is just being a boy."

I make a mental note to have a word with Nan about letting people push my nephew around. That's not "being a boy," that's being an asshole. And I should know. I'm around an asshole all day.

By the time we get home, I've managed to push Ethan to the back of my mind. Or at least, I've managed to pretend I have.

I make dinner—pasta with a simple tomato sauce—and eat with Liam at the small kitchen table. He talks more than he eats, which is fine. Food is secondary to time with him. I'd rather listen to him tell me about his dreams than have him finish his plate.

After dinner, I bathe him, brush his teeth, read him a story about a lonely wolf who finds a pack. He falls asleep halfway through, his small hand gripping my shirt.

I stay there for a while, just watching him sleep. This is why I do everything. This kid. This beautiful, innocent kid who depends on me completely.

I move to the kitchen and pull out my textbooks. I have an essay due on Thursday, a lab report due Friday, and a presentation due next Monday. My scholarship covers tuition, and the monthly stipend the university gives me—which is honestly more than I expected, but I'm not going to question it—covers rent and food and Liam's needs.

Still, I work part-time at a coffee shop on weekends just to have a buffer. Just in case something happens. Just because I'm paranoid about stability after a childhood of having nothing.

As I'm writing, my mind keeps drifting. To the library. To Ethan sitting across from me like he belonged there. To the way he said, "You're cute when you're angry."

No. No, I'm not doing this. I'm not thinking about him outside of the university. That's my rule. At school, I have to deal with him. But at home, in my space, with Liam sleeping peacefully down the hall, I don't have to think about Ethan Kingstone at all.

I force myself to focus on my essay. It's about attachment theory and how early childhood abandonment affects adult relationships. Ironic, considering my own life, but whatever. Academia doesn't care about irony.

By the time I finish, it's past midnight. I'm exhausted in a way that goes beyond physical. Emotionally drained. Spiritually bankrupt. Just tired of fighting so hard all the time.

I collapse into bed and dream of green eyes and infuriating smirks and a voice that says, "You're cute when you're angry."

I wake up angry at myself for dreaming about him at all.

## ETHAN'S POV - Night

I'm in my penthouse by 8 PM, which is early for me. Usually, I stay at the university until late, reviewing reports, handling business, making sure everything is running perfectly. But tonight, after the library, I couldn't stay there.

I couldn't stay anywhere that wasn't here, in this empty mansion, alone with my thoughts and my obsession.

The view from my floor-to-ceiling windows is spectacular. The city lights spread out like stars, and I'm up here, looking down at it all like a god. Except I feel nothing like a god. I feel like a lonely twenty-year-old who's running an empire and a university while the only person he cares about hates him.

I pour myself a drink—expensive scotch that tastes like nothing—and sit on my couch. The place is all steel and glass and leather. Designed by someone famous. Decorated to impress people I'll never invite here.

On the wall, I have a painting. It's abstract, supposedly worth a fortune. But what people don't know is that the artist used colors that match River's eyes. I paid triple the asking price for it, and the artist probably thought I was insane.

They're not wrong.

My phone buzzes. It's Kai.

*You coming to the party Friday?*

I type back: *No.*

*Why not? There's going to be—*

I don't let him finish. *Not interested.*

He doesn't respond, probably because he knows exactly why I'm not interested. Kai knows that my entire social life has contracted to a single person, and that person can't stand me.

I open my laptop and pull up the security footage from the library. Yes, I have security cameras everywhere. Yes, I use them to watch River when he's on campus. Yes, that's probably illegal and definitely unhinged.

I don't care.

I watch the moment when he stood up, when his chair nearly fell backward, when his eyes flashed with pure rage at me. He was beautiful. Absolutely, achingly beautiful.

I rewind it and watch again. And again.

Then I open my notes app and write:

*He called me a cockroach today. A pest. I wonder if he knows that I'm drawn to him like a disease. Like I'm infected with the need to be near him, to exist in his space, to breathe the same air. He thinks I'm annoying. He has no idea that I'm obsessed. That I've been obsessed since the moment I smelled his scent in the hallway two years ago and realized what he was. What he is.*

*An omega. My omega. Except he's not mine. He'll never be mine if he doesn't stop hating me. And if he stops hating me, I'll lose the only reason I have to keep existing in his orbit.*

*So I'll keep antagonizing him. Keep making him angry. Because angry River is better than no River at all.*

*Even if it destroys us both.*

I delete that last thought. It hits too close to something real.

My parrot, a beautiful green bird named Solomon—yes, I named him after River's eyes—ruffles his feathers in his cage.

"River," the bird squawks, because I've taught him to say that name approximately ten thousand times.

"I know, buddy," I say to the empty penthouse. "I know."

I finish my scotch and pour another. Then I go to my bedroom—the same sterile, empty bedroom I woke up in this morning—and pull up my phone.

There's a folder labeled "Private" that contains video files. Audio files. Photos. Everything River has ever done that I've managed to document.

I shouldn't watch them. I should delete them. I should stop this right now, before I become a complete monster.

Instead, I press play on the recording of him singing in the corridor. The one from last week where he didn't know I was there.

"River," Solomon squawks again from the other room.

"Yeah," I whisper to the darkness. "River."

And I fall asleep to the sound of his voice, wondering if this obsession is love or if I'm just broken in a way that can never be fixed.

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