Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
TALON
I’m screwed the second I walk into class.
I tell myself I’m fine, that I’m chill. That I can sit through fifty minutes of Intro to Sociology without staring at her like a starving animal.
Then I see her.
She’s at the front of the room, half-bent over her desk, sorting papers, and it’s game over.
The overhead lights find her hair first—platinum strands with darker roots that look deliberate, expensive, too soft for this campus lighting.
Her skin’s bronze, the kind of glow that doesn’t fade in winter.
The curve of her cheekbones could cut glass; her mouth is full and glossy. And then there’s the outfit.
A black-and-white Houndstooth blazer over a thin black cami that dips low enough to destroy me, high-waisted leather shorts cinched with gold buttons, and heels that click on the tile every time she moves.
Professional enough for plausible deniability.
Cruel enough to make me question the existence of mercy.
My dick twitches.
I adjust my backpack a little lower and head to my usual spot before anyone clocks what’s happening in my jeans.
The room smells like dry erase markers, cheap perfume, and stress.
People file in with laptops and dead eyes, talking about exams and parties.
Nobody’s really paying attention to her yet.
I am.
All I can see is coffee shop sunlight on her hair, the way she laughed when she said she didn’t believe in monogamy, the casual way she dropped that she already has two guys in her orbit and doesn’t plan on apologizing for it.
Two boyfriends.
And here I am—the kid, the student, the one she keeps patting on the head.
She straightens, flips through her notes, then looks up. Our eyes catch. It’s not long, but it’s enough. A flicker of recognition. A hint of something amused.
Professor Brose is slouched at the back, still nursing his “accident” injuries and pretending to supervise while she runs the show.
It’s obvious who’s actually teaching. She straightens, flips through her notes, then looks up.
Our eyes catch. It’s not long, but it’s enough—a flicker of recognition, a hint of something amused.
“Good afternoon,” she says. “Let’s talk about gender and social roles.”
Fucking perfect.
I bite back a grin and open my notebook.
My pen moves, but my brain isn’t on the notes.
My brain is on her leaning against the desk, fingers loose around a marker, mouth shaping words about gender, identity, and the boxes people get shoved into.
About how we’re all performing versions of ourselves just to make other people comfortable—and all I can think is how she looks when she isn’t performing for anyone.
I take notes that make no sense.
At Velvet, she’s chaos. Here, she’s control.
And I want to find out what happens when the two collide.
By the time she caps the dry-erase marker, the hour has vanished; chairs scrape back, students stretch, and the room fills with the low hum of bodies eager to escape, but I stay exactly where I am.
She’s alone at the front, stacking assignments, the gold buttons on her shorts catching the light. Her perfume hangs in the air—coffee, vanilla, something darker underneath. I stand before I can stop myself.
“Can I help you with something, Talon?” she asks without looking up. Professional. Controlled.
It should stop me. It doesn’t.
“Yeah,” I say. “I want to know when I can get you one-on-one again.”
Her eyes lift, slow and skeptical. “Office hours are on the syllabus.”
“Cute,” I say, smiling. “No—I mean you. Just me and you.”
“Is this about the gender roles paper? Because the assignment—”
“I’m not struggling with the paper.” I lean against the desk. “I’m talking about a real date.”
That gets her attention. She stills. Straightens. “We’ve been over this a dozen times.”
I ignore her tone and answer, pushing forward. “Dinner,” I say. “A movie, perhaps a walk by the river. I’m flexible.”
Her gaze flicks toward the door; two girls are still packing up, chatting. No one’s paying attention. She lowers her voice. “How many times do you need to be turned down before you get it? You are a student. I’m the TA. It’s not happening.”
She’s the same woman who just gave a lecture about how gender’s all made-up rules, how people just act the way they’re told, and now she’s hiding behind her TA badge like it’s a damn shield. I meet her eyes.
“Yeah,” I mutter, “that’s kinda funny, huh?”
Her brow lifts. “What is?”
“That you talk about breaking expectations, but the second it gets real, you play by them.”
Her mouth tightens. “Watch it.”
Yeah. Not happening.
“We’re not kids,” I tell her. “I’m not seventeen. I’m not your advisee in high school chem. I’m a grown man who happens to be enrolled in a class you assist in.”
“Exactly,” she snaps. “That’s why this conversation is inappropriate.”
“Only if someone decides it is.”
“That’s literally how norms work,” she says, voice sharp. “We just talked about—”
“Yeah, I know,” I interrupt. “Gender boxes, social rules, who’s allowed to step out of line without getting crucified. I heard every word.”
I let that sit between us; not a threat, just proof I was paying attention and that I’m not the idiot she wants me to be.
Her eyes narrow, reading the shift in me. This isn’t playful Talon. This is the one who’s tired of being told he’s a kid.
“You done?” she asks.
“Not really,” I admit. “But I’m trying to respect your time.”
Her lips twitch in something that isn’t a smile. She starts packing faster, sliding her notebook into her bag, slipping her laptop into its sleeve.
I watch her hands move. Think about the coffee shop. About her laugh when I said I wouldn’t touch another guy’s cock. About her eyes lighting up when she talked about how the heart can want more than one.
“You want to keep your secret,” I say quietly. “I get it.”
Her shoulders tense.
“I don’t have a secret,” she says quick and sharp.
I almost laugh. “Okay.”
She glares.
I drag a hand over my jaw, debating just how far I want to push this. I don’t want to hurt her. The idea sits in my chest like a stone. But I want her to stop acting like I’m a child poking at her ankles when I’ve already seen more than she wants to believe.
“I know you’re not the sweet, shiny TA half this room thinks you are,” I say. “I know you spend your nights in places they don’t put on the tour pamphlets. I know you don’t believe in monogamy, and you’re already seeing more than one guy.”
Her throat works. The room’s mostly empty now. Just one student by the door, leaving.
“Careful,” she says.
I take a breath and check myself. There’s a line between calling her out and cornering her. I’m already toeing that line and have been since that night at the club.
“I’m not going to run to Brose,” I say, voice lower. “Or Daddy. Or faculty. That’s not my style.”
“Good,” she bites out.
“But you keep pretending I’m some harmless kid with a crush, and yeah—it pisses me off.”
Her eyes flare. “What do you want from me?”
Honest question. No wiggle.
“A chance,” I say. No joking, no grin. “A real one. Not as your stepbrother. Not as some annoying student you help with assignments. As a man who wants to take you to dinner and talk and see if I can get under your skin the way you have mine.”
She stares at me, breathing a little harder now. Her fingers curl around the strap of her bag.
“You’re not listening,” she says, but it sounds less certain. “I can’t. You’re in my class. There’s a power imbalance. There’s ethics, there’s—”
“You preach about how norms are just lines people draw,” I say quietly. “Feels like you like those lines better when they keep things safe for you.”
Her mouth parts. Anger flashes through her eyes. “That’s not fair.”
“Probably not,” I admit. “But neither are you, acting like I’m the only wrong thing in your life, when you’re out here collecting deviant points like it’s a loyalty card.”
Her nostrils flare. “You done judging me, or do you want to write a paper too?”
I smile then, but it’s not real. “I’m not judging you. I’m…interested. As in, I see you.”
Silence stretches. She looks away first.
For a second, I think she might say yes. Not because I wrung it out of her, but because there’s a flicker of something behind her eyes—recognition, annoyance, curiosity.
Then she shakes her head, jaw locking into place.
“No,” she says.
Just that.
It hits harder than all the little jokes from before.
I swallow it. Nod once.
“Okay,” I say. “You said no. I heard you.”
Something in her gaze softens at that. Barely.
“So don’t pull this shit again,” she says, shouldering her bag. “Don’t imply. Don’t ‘I know this about you’ me. You don’t get to weaponise what I told you in confidence just because you’re mad I won’t fuck you.”
That stings, mostly because she’s right.
“I’m not sorry for knowing what you hide,” I tell her, still leaning in close. “You think being careful keeps you safe, but secrets don’t stay buried forever.”
“Careful,” she warns, but it comes out thinner than before.
I smile. “You keep saying that like you’ve got anything left to threaten me with.”
She swallows hard. “You don’t know what you’re playing with, Talon.”
“Sure I do,” I say. “I’m playing with fire. And you like fire, don’t you?”
Her jaw clenches, but she doesn’t answer. She just steps back like she’s trying to put distance between herself and the mess she’s suddenly realized we are.
“Go home,” she says, voice trembling just enough to make me grin wider. “And don’t follow me.”
“Didn’t plan to,” I lie, standing upright. “But you’ll think about me, anyway.”
She huffs, shaking her head, then turns and leaves, heels sharp against the tile. She makes it to the door before she turns around, and I half think she’s gonna change her mind.
“You want to be treated like a man?” she says. “Act like one. Start by respecting my no.”
It hits like a punch, but I don’t flinch. If anything, I enjoy it—the way her hands tremble just slightly, the way she wants to sound in control.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and the corner of my mouth tilts up. No mockery, just heat.
Her lips twitch like she’s not sure whether to be angry or relieved. Then she storms out the door, spine stiff but steps too quick to hide the shake in them.
I stand there in the empty classroom, blood pumping, chest tight.
I could write her off. Pretend she’s just another TA who thinks she can out-lecture her own secrets.
But that’s the thing—she isn’t.
And that’s the problem.
She’s the one with a life built on contradictions, and I’m the one who’s seen through them. I know what hides under that perfect skin and those polished words, and she knows I know.
The thought doesn’t cool me off; it sharpens me.
I grab my bag, run a hand through my hair, and catch my reflection in the dark window.
“Respect her no,” I mutter, mostly to keep myself from smiling too wide.
I mean it, technically. But respecting her no doesn’t mean forgetting what I’ve seen. It doesn’t mean I stop reminding her that I exist in the same shadow she’s trying to hide.
She can pretend this is over. I won’t.
Let her walk the halls with that mask, heart racing every time she catches me watching.
She’ll know I’m still there—close enough to ruin her calm, close enough to make her remember every word she wished she’d never said.
I flick off the lights and step into the hall, my pulse finally steady, my grin returning.
I’m not done with Penelope.
Not even close.