Chapter 33
Alex
I was never going back to the life before Carrie.
The university car park was eerily quiet as the engine of Dr. Carter’s sleek Mercedes cut out.
It was early—hours before the usual morning rush of students—and the grey dawn light made everything feel cold and clinical.
Usually, I’d just be fucking waking up to catch the bus from home, but today, I was stepping out of her car, my body still humming with the phantom heat of her touch.
"Carrie got out and moved around to the passenger side. She opened my door with a practiced, elegant poise. I scrambled out, my eyes darting around the place to ensure we were truly alone before I leaned in and stole a soft, lingering kiss.
Carrie smirked against my lips. As she pulled back, her gaze dropped immediately to the dark, violent bloom on my neck—the brand she had spent the night fucking perfecting.
"Mommy." The word slipped out like a secret prayer. When the fuck did I become this person?
Carrie tensed, her eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp intensity. "Yes, princess?”
"I'm going to miss you," I murmured, my fingers hooking into the expensive wool of her coat. I couldn't seem to fucking let go. I was anchored to her, addicted to the weight of her gravity.
She smirked, leaning in until her lips were brushing my ear, her voice dropping to that dangerous, private register. "You never have to miss me for long, baby."
I looked at her and wondered how the hell this had become my life.
I was calling my lecturer Mommy in a public car park and clinging to her clothes like a fucking lifeline.
It was toxic, it was messy, and it had completely ruined my sense of self—and I was loving every fucking second of the wreckage.
Unfortunately, the professional mask returned. Carrie gently but firmly detached my hand from her coat, and we began the walk toward the main building. We were just two colleagues, two academics, a student and her mentor—at least, that was what the world was supposed to see. I hoped.
I froze mid-step as we reached the entrance.
There, by the heavy glass doors, was Billie. She was rummaging through her bag, looking for her lanyard, but the sound of our footsteps made her look up. Her eyes found mine instantly, softening for a fraction of a second before they flickered over to Dr. Carter.
The air between the three of us turned to ice. Billie’s gaze traveled from Carrie’s stony, triumphant expression down to my throat, where the high collar of my jacket had shifted just enough to reveal the edge of that dark, unmistakable mark.
I wanted to fucking die. Why the fuck was the universe like this?
I squared my shoulders, doing my best to mimic Carrie’s effortless, chilling confidence.
I fucking prayed I was pulling it off, but inside, I was a frantic mess of nerves.
Carrie looked at Ms. Davies with a blank, professional stare—as if she hadn't spent the last twelve hours systematically dismantling me just for letting this woman touch my fucking leg.
Billie’s eyes found mine, and for a second, they were hungry, filled with a heat that made my skin crawl with guilt.
"Morning, Carrie," Billie said, her voice casual, though her eyes were busy scanning me.
"Good morning, Billie," Dr. Carter replied, her tone as smooth and cold as polished marble.
The three of us walked into the building together, the silence in the foyer thick enough to fucking choke on. I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead, feeling like a high-wire artist over a pit of fucking fire. As we reached the junction for the faculty offices, Billie slowed down.
"See you in the seminar, Alex," Billie murmured.
Before I could even fucking blink, she glided her hand down my arm. It was a slow, heavy drag of her palm that felt like she was stripping me bare right there in the hallway. She gave me a look—a dark, knowing simmer—before turning and walking away toward her office.
I wanted the floor to fucking swallow me whole. I wanted to pass out. I wanted to be anywhere but in the immediate radius of the woman currently standing two inches to my left.
I didn't move. I didn't lean into it. But I also didn't stop it—I fucking couldn't. It had happened so fast, a silent violation of the rules I had just spent the night being "re-educated" on. My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard it hurt. I could feel Carrie’s presence beside me, and it was no longer just professional; it was a silent, pressurised fucking volcano.
I didn’t dare look at her. I could practically feel the temperature of the hallway dropping. The brand on my neck felt like it was fucking glowing, a mark of ownership that I had just let another woman's hand slide past.
I finally looked at Carrie, desperate for some sign of the woman who had held me last night, but the mask was impenetrable.
Her face was a portrait of academic professionalism—cool, detached, and utterly unreadable.
Without a word, she turned on her heel and began walking toward her office, the sharp, rhythmic click of her heels on the linoleum sounding like a death knell.
I stood there for a heartbeat, paralysed, before my legs found their movement.
I scrambled after her, the panic fucking rising in my throat like bile.
I felt like I needed to fall at her feet and beg for forgiveness for something I hadn't even initiated.
I couldn't control Billie’s hand; I couldn't stop the friction of her palm against my skin. But in Carrie’s world, "intent" doesn't matter nearly as much as "territory. "
She reached her door and swung it open, her movements precise and tight. She didn't look back at me, but she left the door ajar—just wide enough for me to slip inside.
I followed her in. The familiar scent of her expensive perfume and old books usually calmed me, but right now, the air in the office felt thin. Carrie didn't go to her desk. She stopped in the middle of the room, her back to me, her shoulders set in a rigid, terrifyingly straight line.
"Close the door, Alex," she said, her voice a low, vibrating hum that made my knees feel like water. "And lock it."
My fingers trembled as I slid the bolt home. I turned to face her, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Carrie... Dr. Carter, I swear, I didn't—she just—"
"I don't recall giving you permission to speak," she interrupted, turning around slowly. Her eyes were no longer professional; they were dark, predatory, and fixed entirely on the arm Billie had just touched. "Come here. Now."
I was bracing myself for the impact of her anger, but when Carrie moved, it wasn't with the sharp, clinical steel I had expected. Instead, she reached out and softly glided her hand down the length of my arm—tracing the exact path Billie’s fingers had just taken.
Her touch was a balm, an intentional erasure of the lingering friction Billie had left behind.
She stepped into my space, cupping my face with both hands, and kissed me. Thank fuck. It wasn’t a claim or a punishment; it was soft, lingering, and uncharacteristically tender.
"I was right there, baby," she whispered against my lips, her voice unravelling with a rare, raw honesty. "I should have thrown her across the room. I am so sorry she put her hands on you like that."
I was completely fucking thrown. The adrenaline that was ready for a fight or a lecture suddenly had nowhere to go. I was prepared for the maddened version of Carrie—the one who marked me, commanded me and locked doors—but this vulnerability was even more overwhelming.
"No, Carrie, don't—you don't have to apologise," I said instantly, my hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. "It wasn't your fault. I didn't want it. I felt sick the second she did it. I’m yours, only yours."
Carrie let out a long, shuddering breath, burying her face in the crook of my neck, right over the dark mark she had left there. She held me with a desperate, crushing tightness, her fingers digging into my back. What the fuck, I wasn’t expecting this.
"I know," she hummed, her voice muffled against my skin.
She stayed like that for a long moment, just breathing me in, before she pulled back just enough to look me in the eye.
"I know you didn't want it. I trust you, Alex.
This isn't about you doing anything wrong.
It's about her... and it's about how much I loathe the idea of anyone else thinking they have a right to even a centimetre of your skin. "
She stroked my cheek, her thumb tracing my lower lip. "But you have a seminar with her this afternoon. And since I can't be in the room to guard you, I think we need to make sure you’re wearing something of mine. Something she can’t see, but you can feel."
"Baby, look at me," I whispered, tilting my head back to fully expose the side of my throat. "Your mark is right here. It’s the only thing I want on my skin. I don’t want her, Carrie. I don’t want anyone else."
Carrie’s gaze dropped to the bruise, the dark, violent bloom she had worked so fucking hard to perfect.
She reached out, her thumb grazing the centre of it with a reverence that bordered on desperation.
She nodded slowly, finally accepting the claim, but the mask of the formidable Dr. Carter hadn't just slipped—it had shattered.
For the first time, I saw the actual raw vulnerability behind the dominance. There was a ghost in her eyes, a flicker of an old, deep-seated pain that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with whatever or whoever the fuck had come before.
My stomach did a slow, sickening churn. I had always known Carrie’s possessiveness was intense, but seeing this...
it made me realise that her territorial streak wasn't just about ego.
It was a defence mechanism. I wondered how many times she had been the one left behind.
How many times had she watched someone she loved be lured away, or worse, had them choose a "safer" or "easier" option right under her nose?