Page 88 of Stalked

“And that doesn't bother you?” Keira asks, genuine curiosity in her voice.

“It should,” I admit, running my finger along the stem of my glass. “But after spending so many years pretending I didn't want him, there's something freeing about being with someone who knows exactly what he wants. Who wants me enough to wait this long?”

“Not just wait,” Keira points out. “Pursue. Plan. Orchestrate.”

“Yes,” I acknowledge. “And it's that intensity that fascinated me from the beginning.”

Keira signals the bartender for another round. “So, besides being hunted by possessive men, what do you actually do in Ravenwood? I noticed your name on the gallery downtown.”

“I run Elliot's gallery—which I found out is actually Vane's gallery,” I say with a rueful smile. “Triple my New York salary was apparently his way of making sure I couldn't refuse.”

“Clever man.” Keira nods.

“Do you dance any shows?” I ask.

“I prefer choreography.” She shrugs modestly. “Dance has been my sanctuary since I was a kid in foster care. It gave me structure when nothing else did.”

“I get that. Art was my escape, too, just in a different way.” I finish my martini, feeling the pleasant warmth of alcohol. “Growing up here, I always felt trapped. Organizing exhibitions gave me control—deciding where each piece belongs, creating a narrative through arrangement.”

“And now you're back in the place you ran from.”

“With better pay than New York.” I laugh. “And honestly? It feels different now. Less suffocating.”

“Because of Vane?”

“Partly.” I pause, considering. “Also, because I've grown up. New York taught me I was running from myself as much as from him.”

“I know what that's like—finding yourself.” She hesitates, then adds, “Listen, I don't really know many people in Ravenwood outside of work and, well, the Dexters. Would you want to grab dinner sometime? Maybe check out that new Thai place on Maple?”

“I'd like that,” I say, genuinely pleased. “It would be nice to have someone who understands...” I gesture vaguely.

“Being claimed by terrifyingly intense men?” Keira finishes with a laugh.

“Exactly that. Plus, I could use a friend who isn't tied to my high school days. Everyone else here still sees seventeen-year-old Lia.”

“Well, I only know claimed-by-Vane Lia, so you're getting a fresh start with me.” She raises her glass. “To new friendships forged in unusual circumstances.”

I clink my glass against Keira's, feeling a surprising wave of relief. The Hunt ended less than twenty-four hours ago, and everything still feels dreamlike—the rope burns, the possessive words, the way Vane looked at me like I was his world.

“My high school friends texted this morning,” I admit, setting my glass down. “They want to meet for brunch tomorrow tocatch upandhear all about the gallery.”

Keira gives me a knowing look. “But not all about the Hunt.”

“God, no.” I laugh, but it comes out strained. “Megan, Zoe, James, Dani—they'd never understand. We were the good kids, you know? Student council, debate team.”

“And now you're the woman who was suspended from the ceiling in front of a room of people while your first claimed you.”

Heat rises to my cheeks. “Exactly. They still see me as predictable, organized Lia who color-codes her planner and never takes risks. They'd be horrified.”

“But it's who you've always been underneath,” Keira observes, stirring her drink. “The organized exterior kept that part of you safe.”

I stare at her, struck by how accurately she's read me after one conversation. “Yes. That's... exactly right.”

“I get it,” she says simply. “We all have masks.”

"Does the possessiveness ever scare you?" I ask. "How absolute it is?"

"I'm figuring that out day by day," Keira admits. "But it helps having someone who understands the contradiction—wanting independence but craving surrender."