Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
PENELOPE
Mornings shouldn’t start like this.
My hair’s still damp, there’s a coffee stain on my sleeve, and I’m definitely going to be late.
I blame Gideon. Entirely.
The man’s got magic between his legs and zero respect for morning classes. I got home early enough, but after I showered, I sat down on my bed in my towel, telling myself I’d rest my eyes for five minutes… and woke up forty-five minutes later.
Now my legs ache from rushing across campus, my bag’s half-unzipped, and my brain still feels hazy from too many rounds of God, right there.
By the time I reach the lecture hall, there’s barely a minute left before class starts. My heels hit the tile like gunshots. I push the door open, trying to look composed even though my lungs are on fire—
And there he is.
Talon.
Of course he’s here.
Not just here, but waiting for me.
He’s leaning against my desk like he owns it, hoodie pushed up over his forearms, a lazy grin curving his mouth. Those damn glasses catch the light and make him look too fucking smart for his own good. It’s the grin that gets me though. Confident. Knowing. Like he planned this.
I walk down the aisle with my best fake calm, pretending I don’t feel his eyes follow every step. The professor glances up and nods, none the wiser. I slide into my chair, drop my bag, and give Talon my best professional adult voice.
“What do you need, Talon?”
He bends down slowly, and the edge of his chest brushes my shoulder. His voice drops low enough that it’s just for me.
“Help with a question,” he says, all smooth confidence. “Thought maybe you could explain something… personally.”
My pulse skips. I can smell his cedar and citrus cologne. I should move, tell him to back up, do something, but all I can do is grip my pen tighter and keep my eyes on the paper.
“This one?” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“Mhm.” He doesn’t even glance at the page. He’s looking at me, and he already knows he’s getting under my skin.
I swallow and force myself to sound like I’m in charge here. “You’re mixing up folkways and mores; re-read the prompt and clarify which norm is being violated, then tie it to the group’s sanctions.”
His hum is low and quiet, a vibration that runs through me before my brain catches up. “Right,” he says. “Got it.”
Professor Brose looks over and nods, approving. Great. Perfect. My pulse is doing the samba, and I’m out here winning Teacher’s Pet points.
“Thank you, Miss Penelope,” Talon says, dragging out the title like he knows what it does to me.
I look up at him, meet those dark eyes that shouldn’t look that intense at nine-thirty in the morning. “Anytime, Mr. Grant.”
He grins—half challenge, half sin—and strolls back to his seat like nothing happened.
I exhale, my pen trembling slightly against the paper.
When I catch his eye again, I mouth, “Stop pushing.”
He just chuckles, a low rumble that’s going to end up in my head later whether I want it there or not.
The rest of class crawls. Every time I glance up, he’s watching me. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that my skin buzzes with it. I focus on Brose’s voice, highlight notes I already know, anything to stop from thinking about the way Talon’s breath felt against my neck.
When class finally ends, students spill out like a wave. I pack my things with shaky hands, tell Brose I’ll update the slides later, and step into the hall before I can second-guess how flushed my face must look.
My phone buzzes.
Dad.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, trying to sound normal.
“Hey, sweetheart. How’s school?”
“It’s good. Busy, but good. How’s work?”
“You know. Meetings and coffee.” His voice is calm, steady. “You’ve been eating, right?”
“Dad—”
“I’m just asking. You forget when you’re stressed.”
“I’ve been eating,” I lie.
“Good.” There’s a pause. I can hear the faint clink of dishes; he must be loading or unloading the dishwasher. “Come by for dinner tonight. Abi’s making something special.”
Abi. Right. The future stepmom, who’s basically a Pinterest board in human form. She’s polite and pretty in that perfectly practiced way, but so stiff it’s like talking to someone who walks around in heels half a size too small.
Still, she tries. And Dad’s happy. That’s what matters.
“Sure,” I say. “What time?”
“Six sharp. Don’t be late.”
“I’ll be there.”
“See you later, kiddo.”
“Bye, Dad.”
The line goes dead, and I stare at my reflection in the dark phone screen. My expression is calm, but my stomach’s a knot. Dinner at Dad’s means smiling at all the right times and pretending everything’s fine.
I shove the phone in my bag and head toward my next class, coffee in hand, notes ready, paper tucked under my arm—the routine that keeps me breathing.
I see his text hours later, somewhere between errands and caffeine. A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. I type back fast.
Gideon: Morning, Little Menace. Hope you didn’t leave a glass slipper at my place. I’d hate to have to come hunt you down.
Me: If I did, it’s probably next to your ego. Both are too big to fit in one place.
Three dots flash. Disappear. Come back.
Gideon: You wound me.
Me: You’ll live.
Gideon: Barely.
I roll my eyes but can’t stop smiling.
The rest of the day passes easier after that—grading, reading, a little tutoring session squeezed in before lunch. Every so often though, the image of Talon leaning close flickers across my brain. That voice. That grin. That absolute refusal to take “no” as an answer.
By the time the last class ends, the sky’s turned pale gray and the air’s cool against my skin. I sling my bag over my shoulder and start the walk to my car, telling myself I’ll shower, change, and maybe eat something before dinner.
And hopefully not see Talon again today. Because if he corners me like that again, I’m not sure if I’ll keep my cool…or completely lose it.
By the time I get back to my apartment, the day’s already worn me down to a thin wire. I drop my bag on the couch and kick off my heels like they personally offended me. Dinner at Dad’s is at six, which gives me just enough time to pretend I’m a functioning adult before heading over.
I open the fridge, stare at the sad collection of leftovers, and grab the emergency stash instead: a pizza Lunchable and a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.
Fine dining, college edition. I eat standing over the counter, phone propped against the paper towel roll, scrolling mindlessly while fake cheese and spicy dust ruin my manicure.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate Abi’s efforts. It’s just that her cooking always involves something I can’t pronounce and ingredients that sound like they belong in a chemistry lab. Last time, she made duck confit with lavender foam. My taste buds filed a complaint and haven’t forgiven me since.
When five-thirty rolls around, I’m back in jeans and a sweater; casual enough to feel like me, clean enough to pass the “Abi approval” test. I drive across town, rehearsing small talk in my head the whole way.
The house looks like a magazine cover—white shutters, wraparound porch, flowers that have their own gardener. I ring the bell and hear Dad’s footsteps before the door opens.
“Hey, kiddo.” He smiles big, pulling me into a hug that still smells like aftershave and home.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Come on in,” he says, closing the door behind me. “Abi’s just finishing up.”
The hallway’s warm, full of that mix of furniture polish and expensive candles Abi’s always lighting. My steps slow near the photo wall—old pictures of Mom and me, smiling on the lake, covered in sand, wind tangling her hair. My throat tightens, the familiar ache pressing in.
At least Abi has never tried to erase her. That’s something. She might redecorate every other inch of this place, but Mom still lives here on the walls.
Dad glances back. “You okay?”
I nod and force a smile. “Yeah. Just… remembering.”
We reach the dining room, and it’s pure Abi—everything gleaming and perfect, table set like she’s expecting a royal delegation instead of her future stepdaughter. Crystal bowls, folded napkins, matching cutlery, even little mints on the napkins.
Abi’s already seated, posture perfect, blonde hair smooth as glass. She looks up with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Penelope. You look lovely, dear.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking my usual spot beside Dad and across from her.
The salad’s already served. I start building mine like armor—boiled eggs, cheese, croutons, pickled onions, and enough red wine vinegar to make my eyes water.
Dad’s talking about some work project when the doorbell rings again. Abi’s fork clinks against the bowl as she stands. “I’ll get it.”
I barely notice. I’m too focused on eating this salad, hoping it hits the spot before she serves whatever the fuck is in the giant pot in the middle of the table.
Voices drift in from the foyer—Abi’s soft lilt, then a deeper tone that has me looking at my dad and then to the opening to the dining room. Abi walks back in, smiling that same perfect hostess smile, and behind her—
What. The. Hell.
Talon.
Standing there in my dad’s house like this is just a normal weekday dinner.
My fork stalls halfway back to the plate. He looks right at me, grin wide, eyes intrigued, like he knows exactly how impossible this moment is.
I choke on a piece of romaine, cough hard enough my eyes water, and cover it with a napkin. Dad pats my back once, not noticing the sheer what the fuck radiating off me.
Abi beams. “Penelope, darling. You know I have two kids from my late husband. Minxy, who’s fourteen and away at junior boarding school—you’ve heard me talk about her.
And this—” She gestures toward him with both hands like she’s unveiling a prize.
“This is my son, Talon. He just returned to town after a gap year. He’s enrolled at the same university you are!
I’m surprised you two haven’t run into each other. ”
Oh. My. God.
My mouth opens, but words do not come out. My brain is still rebooting.
Talon. Her son.
Which means—
We’re going to be stepsiblings.
Fucking hell.
He breaks the silence first, his voice too casual to be anything but calculated. “I think I’ve seen her around, but I wouldn’t have known who she was. Actually… aren’t you in my Sociology class?”
I manage to blink. “Yeah. With Brose. I’m the TA.”
His smirk widens, pure sin and smugness. “Right. That’s where I know you from.”
I grip my fork so tight I’m surprised I don’t bend it in half like Magneto. “Lucky you,” I say, forcing a smile that probably looks more like a threat.
Dad looks between us, oblivious. “Small world, huh?”
Small world.
Tiny. Suffocating. Comically cruel.
Talon slides into the seat diagonally from me, all relaxed confidence and mischief in human form. Abi chats about the salad dressing, Dad reaches for the bread basket, and I sit there silently screaming inside my head.
Because the universe has officially lost its mind.