7. Violet
VIOLET
I shift in my seat as I turn off the engine, and the soreness between my legs reminds me why. Vincent fucked me last night while I slept. I woke this morning with the evidence still inside me, my thighs sticky, my pussy tender and used.
The memory makes heat flood through me as I grab my bag and head toward the main quad.
Whitmore is beautiful in late September: brick buildings with ivy climbing their walls, tree-lined paths, students scattered across the lawn.
It's quintessentially New England, prestigious and expensive and exactly the kind of place my mother insisted I attend.
I'm a senior now, studying art history and museum studies. Usually I love my classes, love discussing Renaissance paintings and curatorial practices. But today I can barely focus.
My morning seminar is on Baroque architecture, and I spend the entire hour thinking about Vincent's hands on my body. The way he touches me like I'm his possession. The marks he leaves on my skin that no one else can see.
I shift in my chair again, uncomfortable, and Professor Richard notices.
"Are you alright, Miss Hayes?"
Everyone looks at me. I force a smile.
"Yes, just...didn't sleep well."
The lie comes easily. I slept perfectly. It's what happened during my sleep that's the problem.
Under my sweater and bra, there's a hickey on my left breast. Vincent's mouth had been there, sucking hard enough to mark me. It feels like a brand. His ownership stamped on my skin.
The class finally ends, and I escape to the student union for coffee. I need caffeine if I'm going to survive my afternoon lecture on museum ethics.
I'm stirring sugar into my cup when someone slides into the seat across from me.
"Hey, Violet."
I look up to find Tyler Brennan grinning at me. He's good-looking in that effortless way college guys are—dark hair slightly messy, expensive casual clothes, the kind of smile that probably works on most girls.
It does nothing for me.
"Hi, Tyler."
He's been pursuing me since the beginning of the semester. Three times now he's asked me out. Three times I've turned him down, each rejection a little softer than the last because I'm trying not to be rude.
But today, with Vincent's cum still dried on my inner thighs, I have zero patience for Tyler's interest.
"How was your weekend?" Tyler asks, launching into conversation without waiting for an invitation. "I didn't see you at Kappa Sig on Friday. Everyone was asking where you were."
"I was out of town." Paris. In a hotel room. With Vincent's cock buried inside me.
"Anywhere fun?"
"Just visiting family."
Tyler nods, then shifts forward slightly. Working up to something.
"So, I was thinking," he says, his tone carefully casual. "Maybe we could grab dinner this weekend? There's this new Italian place downtown that's supposed to be amazing?—"
I cut him off.
"I'm seeing someone."
It's the first time I've said it outright. The previous rejections were vaguer: I'm too busy, I need to focus on my thesis, maybe another time.
But I'm done being polite. I'm Vincent's. Completely his. And pretending otherwise feels like a betrayal.
Tyler looks surprised, then skeptical.
"Since when? I haven't seen you with anyone."
"It's recent. And...private."
I can't exactly explain that I'm in a relationship with my stepfather. That the man I'm sleeping with is twenty-eight years older than me and used to be married to my mother.
Tyler doesn't take the hint. He leans back, arms crossed, studying me.
"Well, if it's that new, it's probably not that serious yet?—"
"It is serious," I say firmly, standing. "I'm not interested, Tyler. I'm sorry."
He stands too, following me as I head toward the door.
"Come on, Violet. Just one date. What's the harm?"
I don't answer, just push through the exit and head toward the library. I have two hours before my next class, and I need to finish a research paper.
But Tyler's persistence stays with me, irritating like a splinter under my skin.
Vincent texts me at 10:07 AM.
Vincent: Where are you?
I'm in the library, surrounded by art history books, but I stop to respond.
Violet: At college, in class
His reply is immediate.
Vincent: Which class? When does it end?
I should probably find his need to track my location concerning. It borders on controlling. But instead I find it reassuring. I like that he's thinking about me, that he's jealous and possessive even when I'm miles away.
Violet: Library now. Class at 1. Home by 4.
Vincent: Text me when you leave campus.
Violet: I will
Throughout the afternoon, he texts me repeatedly. Asking what I'm doing, who I'm with, when I'll be home. Each message is another reminder that I belong to him, that he's keeping tabs on me.
I love it.
My afternoon lecture is torture. Museum ethics and donor relations should be interesting, but I can't focus. I keep checking my phone, reading Vincent's messages, imagining what he'll do to me tonight.
The professor drones on about acquisition policies and provenance documentation. I take notes mechanically, my mind elsewhere.
When class finally ends at 3:15, I gather my things quickly. I'm ready to go home. Back to Vincent.
But as I walk toward the parking lot, Tyler appears beside me.
"Hey, let me walk you to your car."
I don't want company, but he's already matching my pace. We cross the quad together, and he keeps talking.
"That reading for Richard's class was brutal, right? I barely understood half of it?—"
I make noncommittal sounds, not really listening. We reach the parking lot, and I head toward my car.
Tyler leans against the driver's side door, blocking me.
"Just think about it," he says, his tone wheeling now. "One dinner. I promise you'll have fun?—"
A black Mercedes G-Class pulls into the lot behind us with a low, powerful rumble. The sleek, imposing vehicle catches the afternoon light, all sharp angles and aggressive luxury. I recognize it immediately, and my stomach drops.
Vincent.
He's never come to campus before. I had no idea he was planning to pick me up today.
The Mercedes parks two spots away, its engine cutting off with a refined purr.
The driver's door opens, and Vincent steps out, unfolding his tall frame from the seat.
He's still in his work clothes from the firm: charcoal suit perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and lean waist, white shirt crisp and pristine against his tanned skin, no tie.
The top two buttons are undone, revealing a glimpse of the intricate tattoo patterns on his chest. He looks expensive and authoritative and dangerous in a way that makes my pulse quicken.
His eyes lock on me, then shift to Tyler. The expression on his face makes my breath catch.
He's furious.
Tyler notices him approaching and straightens slightly, sizing Vincent up. The age difference is immediately obvious. Vincent is distinguished, mature, commanding. Tyler is just a boy in comparison.
Vincent walks directly to me, ignoring Tyler completely. His hand settles on my lower back, possessive and claiming.
"Ready to go?"
His voice is controlled, but his eyes are dark with barely contained rage.
I nod mutely.
Tyler finds his voice.
"Who's this?"
Vincent finally looks at him. The coldness in his gaze could cut glass.
"I'm taking Violet home."
Tyler glances between us, confusion crossing his face.
"Are you her...dad?"
The word hangs in the air. Uncomfortable. Too close to the truth.
Vincent's jaw clenches.
"No."
Understanding dawns on Tyler's face. His eyes widen slightly.
"You're dating him? He's old enough to be your father."
I bristle, ready to defend Vincent, but he speaks first.
"She's mine. And you're going to stop bothering her."
His voice is dangerously quiet. A warning.
Tyler scoffs, but there's nervousness underneath the bravado.
"Does he always speak for you? Seems pretty controlling?—"
Vincent steps forward, and suddenly the threat of violence is real. He's six-five, powerfully built, radiating menace. Tyler is maybe five-ten, slim, no match physically.
"Walk away," Vincent says. Each word clipped and final.
Tyler holds his ground for a moment. Pride warring with self-preservation.
Then he backs off, hands raised.
"Whatever, man. She's not worth it anyway."
Vincent tenses, ready to lunge. I grab his arm.
"Vincent, don't. He's not worth it."
Tyler retreats across the parking lot, calling back over his shoulder.
"When he gets tired of you, give me a call, Violet!"
Vincent's muscles are coiled under my hand. Ready to chase Tyler down and destroy him.
"Please," I say quietly. "Let's just go."
For a long moment, Vincent doesn't move. His breathing is harsh and controlled, like he's physically restraining himself from going after Tyler. Then he turns, his hand gripping mine tightly—possessive, almost painful in its intensity.
"Get in the car."
I glance back at my vehicle, parked several rows away. "But my car?—"
"I'll have it picked up and brought to the house," Vincent says, already pulling me toward his sleek black sedan.
"You can do that?"
"I can do a lot of things, Violet."
The casual confidence in his voice makes me wonder, not for the first time, exactly how wealthy Vincent is.
How much influence does he actually have?
He owns a successful architectural firm, I know that much.
But arranging to have a car picked up and delivered like it's nothing—like calling for an Uber—suggests resources I haven't fully grasped.
The drive home is silent for the first ten minutes.
Vincent's hands are tight on the steering wheel, his knuckles white with tension.
His jaw is clenched so hard I can see the muscle jumping beneath his beard.
The anger radiating off him fills the entire vehicle, thick and oppressive, making the air feel heavy and difficult to breathe.
Finally, he speaks.
"Who was that?"
"Tyler. He's in one of my classes."
"He's been bothering you."
It's not a question. I swallow.
"He's...persistent. I've turned him down multiple times."
Vincent's knuckles go white on the wheel.