4. Jasmine
JASMINE
“I’m telling you, Jasmine,” Vincent sighs, knocking his hip into my bedroom door with a box full of my brand new valuables—courtesy of Cast and his shitty attitude. “I had nothing to do with the stalking.”
“I’ll believe that when pigs fly, Vinny boy, ” I sing, slapping his cheek twice as I slide past him into the obnoxiously large living room.
The apartment Cast bought for my four-year sentence at Haven University is—unfortunately—stunning. Rich. Industrial. The kind of place that says I have money and I want you to know it, but also I might commit tax fraud in a leather jacket.
The walls are exposed red brick, aged and imperfect in that curated way that probably cost more than my mother’s trailer.
Steel beams cut across the ceiling, matte black and dramatic.
There’s a chandelier hanging over the living space—actual fucking crystal—like we’re in the kind of villain’s lair where someone pours whiskey into a glass they didn’t wash.
The floors are dark concrete, polished to a mirror-sheen, and the whole place smells like sandalwood, leather, and secrets.
A massive leather sectional takes up half the living room, sunken around a low-slung coffee table made of black marble and brushed brass. Built-in shelves climb one wall, filled with books I didn’t ask for and art I’d probably roll my eyes at—if it wasn’t so damn perfect.
The kitchen is open-concept, all stainless steel and sharp edges, with a waterfall island that could double as a runway. A wine fridge I’ll never touch hums quietly beneath it, probably stocked with bottles more expensive than my entire wardrobe.
It’s all harsh lines, heavy textures, and brutal luxury.
And I hate that I love it.
“You know I only let you call me Vinny because of Willow, right?” Vincent sighed, swiping his forearm across his forehead, that lazy, boyish smile tugging at his lips. “Anyone else would’ve been punched in the face by now.”
“Physically harming an innocent girl like me?” I gasp in a flawless Southern belle accent, tossing a bag of decorative pillows onto the couch.
“There’s nothing innocent about you, love.” Landon’s voice cuts in smoothly as he nudges into the living room, arms full of a box labeled Kitchen.
“I beg your pardon,” I shoot back, still in character.
“Ooh, beg. I like that word when you say it.” Landon winks as he sets the box on the counter, clearly pleased with himself.
I groan, rolling my eyes as I pull out a black faux fur pillow.
This has been Landon and my relationship for the past week while I get adjusted to Haven University.
I missed Freshman Week entirely and spent the last few days holed up in a hotel room—again, courtesy of Cast—while Landon went apartment shopping for us.
And no, that’s not a typo. I mean us .
Despite my very vocal objections—and a full rant list detailing why Landon shouldn’t live within my apartment, let alone my zip code—Cast made it clear: Landon stays, or I meet my maker at the hands of the Italian mob who thinks I’m Willow.
So in the interest of keeping my life, Landon is staying with me in the smaller bedroom on the opposite side of the apartment, and not a step closer.
“Alright, love birds,” Vincent sighs, both hands on his hip as he looks around the apartment.
“We’re not lovebirds,” I snap.
Landon clutches his chest like I’ve driven a dagger through it, staggering back with dramatic flair. “Awe, Peach, you wound me.”
Vincent barks a laugh, folding his arms across his chest. “Yeah, Peach—don’t wound him. Poor lad’s already hanging on by a thread.”
“Nope!” I square my shoulders, popping the P with extra venom as I scowl at them both. “You don’t get to call me Peach. That nickname is retired.”
Landon’s smile curls wickedly as he strolls over, confidence oozing from every step like heat from asphalt. “That’s right, Vincent. Only I can call my Peach, Peach.”
“I’m not your anything,” I snarl, heat flooding my cheeks under his gaze, so I turn my attention to Vincent. “And you especially don’t get to call me that.”
“Oh, come on now.” Vincent tilts his head, his mouth tugging into a crooked smirk. “I still don’t get the Peach thing. She’s not exactly sunshine and soft fuzz.”
“She’s not your peach,” Landon says, his tone dipping lower. “That’s the difference.”
Before I can step back, his hand curls around the side of my neck—not choking, but firm. Commanding. His palm is warm, fingers pressing just enough to make my breath hitch. A low current of heat, and dangerous hums in the space between us.
My hands twitch at my sides, but I don’t move. I should . Every nerve is screaming at me to shove him off. To slap that smirk off his face. But all I do is stand there, pulse racing beneath his thumb.
“You only know me because you’re my stalker,” I say, but it comes out too soft. Too breathless.
“Nah,” he breathes, fingers flexing just slightly—just enough for the pads of them to feel the tremble running down my spine. “Anyone can stalk. But me ?” He tilts his head, that grin softening into a look of intimacy as if I am something precious . “I watch you.”
His thumb brushes the base of my throat, and I feel it—the way my body betrays me, the way the breath I swallow shudders against his skin. He feels it too. I see it in the way his smile deepens, slow and knowing.
“I see how your lips twist when you lie. How your shoulders stiffen when you pretend you’re not scared. I know the exact second your bravado runs out and your panic kicks in, and I know—” His voice drops to a velvet murmur, “—that you tell yourself a lot of things that aren’t true.”
“Like what?” I ask, and my voice is barely there.
Landon goes to respond, but Vincent clears his throat loudly behind us, snapping the moment like a rubber band.
“Alright, Shakespeare,” he drawls, folding his arms with the dramatic flair of a man long-suffering.
“Save the tortured poetry for someone who’s not three seconds away from kicking you in the dick. ”
Landon doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t so much as glance in Vincent’s direction. His eyes stay locked on mine, steady and electric. “She’d have to stop staring first.”
And damn him—he’s right. My eyes are still on his, caught in that stupid, ocean-blue undertow that’s pulling me deeper with every breath. It takes effort—actual, physical effort—to drag my gaze away. To break the spell.
I look down, because if I keep looking at him, I’ll forget. Forget why this is a bad idea. Forget every scar that says men like him are danger dressed in charm. Forget that wanting him is reckless. Stupid. Bound to end with me bleeding on the floor and calling it love.
My breath catches, and I jump back like Landon’s touch has seared itself into my skin. I turn quickly, latching onto the first distraction I see—Vincent, arms crossed, smugness oozing from every sarcastic pore.
“I don’t mean to interrupt the little eye-fuckathon,” Vincent drawls, “but some of us have better things to do than third-wheel a frat party romance.”
“Awe,” I sneer, still breathless. “You must’ve burned out in high school.”
Vincent lifts a brow. “Keep talking, Jaz. ‘Cause I’m about ten seconds away from convincing admissions to drop your ass from Professor Kilgore’s class.”
Landon perks up. “Kilgore?”
I scowl. “You wouldn’t.”
I freeze. “ You got me into Kilgore’s class? ” My voice hits a pitch I didn’t even know I was capable of, and suddenly I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet. “ You got me into Professor Conner freaking Kilgore’s class?!”
Vincent shrugs like it’s nothing. “Well I’m going to need you in my corner to get Willow back so…”
“Kilgore is the top forensic scientist in the entire state of Texas—maybe even the country!” I practically squeal. “He solved that triple-murder case in Houston just by analyzing pollen, and he is like my idol.”
Rumor has it the FBI has wanted him for years, but he loves his horse Jelly more than the city, and despite being an official detective, he works more as a resource for special crimes.
Vincent gives Landon a deadpan look. “And she says you’re the dramatic one.”
I smack his arm. “Shut up, you absolute angel. I could kiss you.”
“Absolutely not,” Landon growls. “To the class and to kissing Vincent.”
“Okay—first things first—I can kiss anyone I want,” I snap. “And two, I am taking Kilgore’s class. It is my dream to be a Forensic Psychologist, and a recommendation from him would be everything to me.”
Landon walks a little closer, his voice dropping a few octaves. “Peach, I don’t think--”
“Save it.”
“Fine.” Landon nods sharply, looking over to Vincent. “Send me her schedule. I gotta make a run.”
Vincent nods. “I’ll walk you out.”
Landon and Vincent are already on their way out the door when Landon turns on me, eyes narrowing. “Stay here.”
“Ruff,” I deadpan, but Landon smiles again so fucking smugly I don’t know if I want to slap him, or see that smirk with me dripping down his chin.
“Good girl, Peach.”