11. Arson
Arson
H er dorm room is easy to locate. Third floor, east wing, second window from the end. I’ve memorized every detail of Lilian’s schedule over the past few weeks—when she attends classes, which dining hall she prefers, which path she takes back to her building in the evening.
Tonight, I watch her through binoculars from the parking lot as she moves around her room, silhouetted against the thin curtains. She’s completely unaware of my presence, of how vulnerable she truly is. The knowledge sends a thrill through me—not just of power, but something darker, more primal.
The campus is quiet at this hour, most students either asleep or holed up in the library cramming for midterms. A security guard passes by on his rounds, a flashlight beam sweeping lazily across the grounds. I sink deeper into the shadows, patience perfected through years of institutional survival. The guard continues on, oblivious to my presence—just like all the orderlies who thought their routines were unpredictable.
From my vantage point, I track her movements as she prepares for bed. Her silhouette pauses by the window, and for a heart-stopping second, I think she might see me. I hold my breath, but then she merely draws the curtains tighter and continues her nighttime routine.
The light in her room finally clicks off at 11:23 p.m. I wait another thirty minutes, ensuring she’s fallen asleep before going inside.
The night air is crisp against my skin as I move across the quad, keeping to the shadows between streetlamps. Every sense is heightened—the sound of distant laughter from another dorm, the smell of fallen leaves, the weight of the lock picks in my pocket.
This hypervigilance is familiar, comforting even.
In the institution, awareness meant survival. Here, it means control.
Campus security is laughably easy to evade. The dormitory’s electronic locks take seconds to bypass with the equipment I’ve brought.
A swipe of a cloned access card, and I’m in. The lobby is deserted, the night attendant nodding off behind the desk. I use the service stairwell rather than the elevator—less risk of encountering students returning from late-night study sessions.
Within minutes, I reach her floor. The carpet muffles my footsteps as I count doors, memorizing the layout for future reference. I pause at the sound of a door opening farther down the hall, pressing myself against the wall until whoever it is returns to their room. Amateur. If they knew what lurked in their hallway, they wouldn’t be so casual about midnight snack runs.
Lilian’s door requires a more delicate touch—can’t leave evidence of forced entry. The lock pick slides in smoothly, tumblers clicking into place with practiced precision. It’s a skill learned during my third year in the institution, when I needed access to the medication storage. The memory brings a bitter taste to my mouth, which I swallow down as I ease the door open.
The scent of vanilla and clean laundry fills my nose when I step inside. My eyes adjust quickly to the darkness, scanning the space until they land on her bed. The dim glow from her alarm clock casts blue shadows across her sleeping form, highlighting the curve of her hip and the delicate arch of her neck.
She’s asleep, curled on her side, one arm flung above her head in unconscious vulnerability. The thin sheet covering her has slipped down, revealing smooth legs and the curve of her hip. Her face is softer in sleep, younger somehow, the tension she carries when awake completely absent. Without the sharp intelligence in her eyes, the calculating observation, she looks almost innocent.
Almost.
Her breathing fills the small room—steady, soft, completely unaware of the predator standing at the foot of her bed. I could do whatever I want to her right now. Take anything. The power of that knowledge is intoxicating.
I shouldn’t care about these details. Should focus on the mission, on finding what she took from Aries’s room. Instead I’m fixated on the sight of her—her chest rising and falling with each breath, lips gently parted, hair splayed across the pillow like liquid gold.
As she shifts in her sleep, the sheet slides lower, revealing the edge of white cotton panties against her skin. My body responds immediately, hardening painfully against the confines of my jeans. I want to touch her. Want to slide my hand up that exposed thigh until I reach the edge of her panties. Want to feel her heat against my palm.
Stop. Focus.
The institution taught me control above all else. During my time there, I learned to compartmentalize desires and channel them into something more useful. That discipline reasserts itself now, cooling the heat in my blood, allowing me to redirect my focus to the task at hand.
With effort, I tear my gaze away, forcing myself to search the room systematically. Desk first. I rifle through drawers, careful to replace everything exactly as I found it. Each movement is precise, leaving no trace of my presence. Her laptop is password-protected—no time to crack it now, though I make a mental note of the brand and model for future reference.
The closet yields nothing but neatly arranged clothes and shoes—more organization than I would have expected from a college student. Then the bookshelf. They say books are a portal to a person’s mind, and I believe that. Its contents reveal more about her than perhaps she realizes.
Medical textbooks rest alongside Russian literature. Self-defense manuals hide behind romantic novels. The complexity of her tastes both surprises and intrigues me.
I check beneath the bed—nothing but storage containers filled with seasonal clothing and a first-aid kit more extensive than standard issue. Of course she would be prepared. Of course she would have contingencies.
Where would she hide the stuff she stole from me? Where would I hide it?
I pause, eyes lingering on her sleeping form again. What would her reaction be if she knew how close to the monster she was right this second? She murmurs something in her sleep, leg stretching out before curling back.
The answer comes to me instantly. Closest to her. Where she’d feel secure.
Moving to her bedside table, I carefully slide open the drawer. The slides make the faintest whisper, and I freeze, watching her face for any sign of wakefulness. Nothing.
Her breathing remains steady, untroubled.
Inside, concealed beneath a novel, lies the USB drive I’ve been searching for—along with a small notebook and a watch that used to be in Aries’s closet. I snatch them all up. If she took these other two things, then they mean something to her. Now, I need to know if she got into that drive and what she knows.
The journal’s leather binding is worn with use, pages dog-eared from frequent reading. The watch gleams in the dim light, expensive and untouched. And the USB drive—small, innocuous, potentially devastating.
But as I prepare to switch off my emotions, to shove down the softness I feel for her, something stops me. A realization that settles like ice in my veins: this was too easy. She wanted me to find these. Wanted to confirm my identity.
Clever girl.
This was a test. She’s been playing her own game all along, testing theories and gathering evidence. The knowledge that she’s been manipulating me, however subtly, enrages me. I can’t let this pass without consequence.
Without teaching her exactly who she’s dealing with. I’ll have answers and a lesson at the same time. I move to the bed, settling my weight on the mattress beside her sleeping form. Quickly, I stuff the re-stolen goods into my cargo pants pocket so my hands are free.
The springs creak slightly under my weight, but she doesn’t stir. Up close, I can see the faint scatter of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the slight furrow between her brows even in sleep. What does she dream about? Does she dream of him? Of me?
When she finally learns the truth, who will she want?
She stirs slightly, murmuring something unintelligible. For a moment, I simply watch her, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the flush of her skin in sleep.
Then I strike.
My hand clamps firmly over her mouth, careful to allow enough space for breathing through her nose. My other arm pins her shoulders to the mattress. Her eyes fly open instantly, confusion transforming to recognition and then fear in rapid succession.
She struggles against my hold, body bucking beneath mine as I shift to straddle her, using my weight to subdue without harming. The last thing I need is to trigger a heart episode—though part of me wonders if her condition is as severe as her family makes it out to be. There’s too much strength in her resistance, too much fire.
I lean close, my lips brushing against her ear.
“Is this what you wanted?” I whisper, feeling her shiver beneath me. “Breaking into my room, stealing my things...were you hoping I’d come for you like this?”
Her breathing accelerates, chest rising and falling rapidly against mine. I ease the pressure on her mouth slightly, allowing her to speak if she chooses. She remains silent, eyes wide and wary, but there’s something else there too—a flicker of excitement she can’t quite hide.
“You think you’re clever,” I continue, licking a slow line up the column of her throat, tasting salt and fear and desire. She whimpers, the sound vibrating against my lips. “Think you can play detective without consequences.”
I hold up the USB drive where she can see it, watching recognition dawn in her eyes. Her pupils dilate, with fear or arousal, it’s impossible to tell. Maybe both. It’s sick and twisted at the excitement that realization gives me.
The thin barrier of her nightshirt does nothing to hide the rapid beat of her heart against my chest or the warmth of her body beneath mine. I can see the tight pucker of her nipples straining against the cotton. I want to suck them into my mouth, taste her, see if she’s as forbidden as Aries thinks.
Slowly, deliberately, I lower my head to the junction of her neck and shoulder, teeth grazing her pulse point. I feel it jump under my touch, a rabbit caught in a snare.
“Did you look at the USB?”
She whimpers, and I nip slightly and angle my hips. It’s a dangerous game, but it’s obvious how much she wants me— him —and I can use that to my advantage.
“I’m only going to ask you one more time. Did you look at the USB drive?”
She swallows so hard I feel it against my lips. “No, I couldn’t get through the password.”
My lips hover over her pulse. “Why should I believe you?”
She wants to speak—but hesitates. When she finally finds her voice, it’s softer and tentative. Her eyes search mine like she’s trying to understand something bigger. “If you’d just talk to me,” she adds, voice trembling. “I could help you. I know something’s wrong… I just don’t know what. What are you hiding, Aries?”
I freeze. The question isn’t a challenge—it’s curiosity drenched in concern. She doesn’t know who I am, but if she did, I doubt she would be offering me such help. I told myself I would make a point and leave. Now I’m contemplating my next move.
What would she give—if I asked? How far would she go to feel useful? To feel trusted?
My control snaps, and the temptation to ruin another piece of my brother’s perfect life overwhelms me. “You want to help? What are you willing to do to gain access to my secrets?”
“I don’t know. Whatever it takes. I will help however I can.”
I tilt my head to the side and inspect her delicate features. “However you can?”
“Yes.” The word is a whisper escaping her lips, and I’m tempted to kiss those lips, to devour her from the inside out.
“Then prove it.”
Her brow furrows with confusion. “How?”
I smile. “Through obedience. Show me I can trust you. Prove yourself to me.”
“Okay,” she agrees without knowing what she is agreeing to. So innocent, yet stupid at the same time.
“Get on your knees.”
She blinks. “What?”
I lift myself off her, letting her up. “Knees. Now.”
She doesn’t move. Not right away. Her eyes dart between mine and the USB still in my hand. “What am I proving to you by being on my knees?”
“That you can follow directions. That you aren’t afraid of the unknown. That you’re willing to do anything, no questions asked.” I anticipate her pushing back, or at least telling me no, but she shocks the hell out of me when she licks her lips and instead asks a question.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Accept your punishment.”
Even in the dim lighting, I can see the slight pink in her cheeks. “I’ve never done this before.”
“Oh, I know,” I say, unbuckling my belt slowly. “Nothing thrills me more than the fact that I get to be your first.” What am I thinking? I should get the fuck out of here, but the thought is no longer an option in my mind.
“Wait… I don’t…” Fear and lust swirl together in the depths of her blue eyes.
“You said you wanted to help. Said you want to prove yourself to me, and now you’re backpedaling. Which is it? Do you want to prove yourself to me, or would you rather remain hidden in the dark?”
Her eyes flash with defiance, and I know I have her right where I want her. She wants to prove herself to him, to me, more than anything.
“Ticktock…” I purse my lips and stare down at her. My brother might’ve found her first, but she belongs to me now. It doesn’t matter if she’s aware of it or not.
“What’s it going to be?”
She hesitates, just for a second. That second tells me everything—she’s afraid, torn, unsure. Slowly, with trembling legs, she lowers herself to the floor. She’s a girl stepping into the fire, knowing it’ll burn and needing to feel it, anyway.
Good girl.
The sight of her down there—knees pressed together, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted—lights something low and electric in my gut. I feel it in the base of my spine. A slow, tight coil winding inward, anticipation darkening into hunger. I should take a breath and rein myself in, but I don’t. I reach down, drag the waistband of my boxers down just enough, and let my cock spring free. The cool air brushes the head, sending a jolt through me.
I’m already hard. Too hard. Thick and heavy, pulsing with the weight of what’s about to happen. I wrap a hand around myself and stroke—slow, deliberate, once…twice…dragging my palm over the crown to spread the leaking precum. She watches every motion, transfixed, her lips parting a fraction wider.
“Are you scared?” I murmur.
“Not scared,” she whispers. “I just… I want to understand. I want you to trust me.”
That word trust lands like a knife between my ribs. She doesn’t know the sick, twisted truth. That I’m someone she will never reach. When she finds out who I am and what she let me do to her body, she’ll be so ashamed.
“Then prove yourself,” I say softly. “Open your mouth.” There’s a tremble in her lips as they part, and I feel my cock twitch in response. My body is thrumming with power. With control. With the sick satisfaction of knowing she has no idea what she’s giving away right now. I guide the head of my cock to her lips and smear it across them—watching it glisten. I thumb her cheek once. “This is what punishment looks like,” I murmur. “Not rage. Ruin. ”
I push in slowly. The heat of her mouth hits me like a blow—wet, warm, velvet-tight. My jaw flexes. Muscles along my spine tighten. My hips twitch forward on their own.
She gags almost instantly, pulling back with a wet, messy cough. I growl and catch her hair in my fist. Not roughly; no, I don’t want to crush, not yet. “I didn’t say stop.” I guide her back and slide in again, deeper this time, feeling her throat flutter in protest.
My cock pulses inside her mouth, thick with the blood pounding through me. I can feel the tension rising—low in my gut, crawling up my back, flooding every nerve with heat. She gags again, eyes watering. Spit drips down her chin, soaking the front of her nightshirt. Her hands claw weakly at my thighs—not to escape, but to ground herself. To hold on. “Feel that?” I grind out, voice strained. “That ache in your throat? That sting in your eyes? That’s what it feels like to be caught.”
Her moan is soft, wet, muffled around my length—and it nearly unhinges me. I feel it in my stomach, in my thighs, in the way my balls tighten painfully. Somehow she can feel it, too, and she opens her mouth wider, taking more of my length into her warm, wet mouth. Spasming around me again, I hiss through my teeth as the sensations ripple through me. My abs flex involuntarily, and I have to fight not to thrust harder. Not yet.
“You said you wanted to help,” I rasp. “Prove it.”
It doesn’t take long to build a rhythm of slow, shallow thrusts to start. Lilian is a beautiful, chaotic mess. Tears spill from her lashes in thick, glistening streaks. Her cheeks are flushed a deep, mottled pink—blotchy from crying, from choking, from the overwhelming humiliation of it all.
Spit slicks her chin, dripping onto her throat, catching at the collar of her thin nightshirt. Her lips are stretched wide and raw, swollen from use, glistening with saliva and precum. Red. Glossy. Obscene.
She looks ruined. Shattered. Perfect.
Her chest rises and falls in uneven bursts, the fabric of her shirt damp and clinging. Her hands claw at my thighs—not in protest, but for balance as her throat tightens again, struggling to keep up. And my body—fuck, my body is strung so tight I feel like I’ll snap in half. The muscles in my stomach coil, every muscle rigid. My cock pulses, twitching at the sheer visual of her on her knees, eyes red and watery, mouth ruined by me.
Sweat slicks my spine. My jaw grinds as I fight the urge to grab her by the back of the neck and take what I want, harder, deeper. There’s no way to describe how her tongue flattens, and the way her throat moves when I hit the back of it. She chokes again, violently, her body tensing as her breath catches.
It’s chaos. Carnal. Punishment laced with pleasure. She’s a portrait of shame—dripping, gasping, trembling, and it only makes me harder.
“Fuck, you feel that?” I whisper. “That’s what surrender tastes like.”
Every part of me is raw—my skin hypersensitive, my cock throbbing with a savage need to finish in her mouth, to mark her where no one else ever has.
“God, look at you,” I breathe. “You’re wrecked already.”
Something inside me snaps, and I grab her by the throat. Not to stop her breathing—but to feel it. To feel me , inside her. With my fingers wrapped tight around the delicate column of her neck, I thrust forward again. There it is. The pressure. The stretch. The way her flesh shifts around the shape of my cock buried in her throat.
Fuck yes. Her hands paw at my legs at the sudden change in depth, and I can feel the racing of her heart beneath my palm. “You’re not going anywhere,” I whisper, low and cruel. “You made your choice when you got on your knees. This is your lesson now.”
I start to thrust harder and rougher; we’re past the point of mercy.
Her throat tightens again and again, and I can feel it every time under my hand—tight, hot, trembling. Soft, muffled, almost pleading sounds escape her.
The sounds make me harder.
“Look at you,” I snarl, slamming deeper into her throat. “You’re terrified. And you’re still letting me fuck your mouth.”
But even through the fear, even through the tears, she opens again. Like her body’s made its decision, even if her mind hasn’t caught up.
“You want to take from me?” I rasp, tightening my grip just slightly—just enough to make her gasp, just enough to remind her who she belongs to. “You want to steal, lie, fucking snoop ?” I drive forward again, relentless, hips snapping with sharp, punishing thrusts as I use her mouth. Use her throat. Use her as the fucking consequence.
“You want answers?” I growl. “Here’s your fucking answer.”
Her throat closes tight, milking me, choking around me. And that’s all it takes for me to lose control. Balls tightening, spine locked in place, a snarl that’s more animal than human rips from my throat as I explode. The heat of release is blinding, the kind that cracks behind the eyes.
I feel it in her neck as her throat swallows, clenches, takes . My body is shaking with it—legs rigid, stomach spasming as I keep her there, pulsing into her until I’m drained and twitching.
“Swallow it,” I grit out. “Every last fucking drop. Keep it. Carry it.”
When I finally release my hold—on her hair, her throat, her mouth—she falls back onto her heels like a puppet with cut strings. Her breath comes in broken gasps, and I’ve never seen something so fucking beautiful. Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
I crouch down, thumb swiping a thick line of spit and cum from her chin, smearing it across her cheekbone like war paint.
“You offered to help,” I whisper. “Now you know what that means.”
I’m tempted to pick her up and put her back in the bed, but I remind myself that this was a punishment. It was psychological warfare. Fighting against the compelling need to care for her, I put my softening cock back into my boxers and clean myself up.
The look on her face as I slip out the door stays with me—fear mingled with fascination, confusion with desire. I already know that she won’t stop pursuing this. At least I’ve regained some measure of control over the situation.
I move through the darkened hallway with renewed purpose, retracing my steps to the stairwell. The night attendant is still asleep, as oblivious to my exit as he was to my entrance. Outside, the campus is silent, streetlamps casting pools of light that I easily avoid.
In my car, I examine the recovered treasures.
The journal will need careful study—what secrets of Aries’s does it contain? What has he written about her? About me? The watch is meaningless except as a symbol, a token of her affection that he kept but never wore. And the USB drive—this will require immediate attention.
Satisfaction settles deep in my chest. For the first time since she complicated my carefully laid plans, I feel like something has finally gone right. I’ve reclaimed control of the narrative and reminded her of the power dynamic between us.
There’s only one problem.
Even as I tell myself I’m in control, her scent lingers on my skin, the warmth of her wet mouth haunts me, and a treacherous thought forms: in punishing her, have I also punished myself? In trying to scare her away, have I only made her more curious, in turn dragging her deeper into the darkness?
I guess there’s only one way to find out…