EVANDER
── ? ──
The penthouse study smells like snow and expensive leather and the faint, maddening scent of whatever soap Aurora uses—something cheap and clean that shouldn't be nearly as distracting as it is.
She's sitting at the small desk I had moved in for her—positioned close enough that I can see her without turning my head, far enough that she can pretend she has some semblance of independence.
Her hair is pulled back in that same messy ponytail, a few strands escaping to curl against her neck.
She's wearing jeans and an oversized burgundy sweater that keeps sliding off one shoulder, exposing skin I want to bite.
The mark I left on her neck three days ago is still visible. Dark purple fading to green at the edges, ringed with teeth impressions that look almost artistic in their precision.
Every time she moves her head, I catch a glimpse of it. Every time I see it, my cock gets hard.
She won't look at me. Hasn't made eye contact once since she arrived this morning. Just keeps her head down, her movements efficient and controlled, her face carefully blank.
Like the locker room never happened. Like she didn't kiss me with desperate, furious hunger. Like she didn't make sounds that are still playing on repeat in my head every time I close my eyes.
The denial is driving me fucking insane.
I'm supposed to be reviewing quarterly reports for Laurent Holdings—dense financial documents that require actual focus.
Instead, I've been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes, my eyes tracking Aurora's movements while my brain replays the way she tasted, the way her hands fisted in my shirt, the breathy gasp she made when I bit down on her neck.
The silence in the room is oppressive. Heavy. Charged with things neither of us is saying.
I stand up abruptly. The chair scrapes against the hardwood floor—loud in the quiet—and Aurora's shoulders tense.
She still doesn't look at me.
I walk to the window. Stare out at the white-blanketed campus below, hands shoved in my pockets to keep from doing something stupid like crossing the room and pulling her out of that chair.
"You're avoiding me," I say.
"I'm working." Her voice is flat. Professional. The same tone she's been using all morning, carefully stripped of emotion.
"You're pretending I don't exist."
"You told me to organize these files. I'm organizing them."
I turn to face her. She's still focused on the papers in front of her, pen moving across the page in neat, precise handwriting.
"Look at me."
She doesn't.
"Aurora." My voice drops lower. Dangerous. "Look at me."
Her pen stops moving. Just for a second. Then she continues writing like I didn't speak.
The defiance makes something dark and possessive flare in my chest. I cross the room in four strides, stopping directly in front of her desk.
She keeps writing.
I reach down and pull the pen from her hand.
Her head snaps up. Finally. Those warm brown eyes meeting mine with barely suppressed fury.
"What do you want, Evander?" The professional facade cracks just enough for me to hear the exhaustion underneath. "I'm doing exactly what you told me to do. What more—"
"I want you to stop pretending nothing happened."
"Nothing did happen."
"Liar."
Her jaw clenches. "Fine. Something happened. A mistake happened. I kissed you in a moment of weakness and adrenaline, and now it's over. Can I have my pen back?"
I don't give it to her. Just set it on my side of the desk, deliberately out of reach.
"It's not over," I say quietly.
"Yes, it is."
"You're still thinking about it." I lean forward, bracing my hands on her desk. Close enough to see the way her pulse is fluttering in her throat. "You're thinking about the way I tasted. The way my hands felt in your hair. The way you sounded when I bit you."
"Stop." The word comes out breathless.
"You want me to stop?" I tilt my head, studying her. "Or you want me to keep going until you admit the truth?"
"There's no truth to admit. You're delusional."
"Am I?" I reach out, my fingers brushing the mark on her neck. She flinches but doesn't pull away. "Then why is your heart racing? Why are your hands shaking?"
She jerks back, putting distance between us. "Because you're a psychopath who's trapped me in this room and won't let me do my job!"
"You think this is a job?" I laugh—harsh and bitter. "You think I need files alphabetized? Coffee delivered? Busywork completed?"
"Then why am I here?"
"Because I can't breathe when you're not."
The confession hangs in the air between us. Raw. Honest. More truth than I've given anyone in years.
Aurora stares at me. Her lips part, like she's going to say something, but no words come out.
I shouldn't have said that. Shouldn't have given her that kind of ammunition. Admitting need is weakness, and I don't do weakness.
But the words are out now. Can't be taken back.
"That's not my problem," she finally says, her voice unsteady. "Your obsession isn't my responsibility to manage."
"Isn't it?" I step closer. She stands up quickly, her chair scraping backward. "You created it. You walked into my line of sight and didn't flinch, didn't apologize, didn't bend. You made yourself impossible to ignore."
"So this is my fault?" Her voice rises. "I'm responsible for you stalking me, manipulating my scholarship, buying my father's debts, trapping me here?"
"No." I close the remaining distance between us. She backs up until she hits the bookshelf behind her. "You're responsible for making me want those things. For making me need to own every part of your life just to feel like I can breathe."
"That's not—" She presses her palms against the bookshelf, like she's trying to push through it. "That's not how any of this works, Evander. You can't just decide someone belongs to you because you're obsessed with them."
"Why not?" I cage her in, hands on either side of her head. "I decide everything else. Why should this be different?"
"Because I'm a person, not a fucking possession!"
"You're my person." I lean in closer, my mouth inches from hers. "My possession. Mine to protect, mine to control, mine to—"
Her phone rings.
The sound is jarring. Shrill. Completely wrong for the expensive quiet of the penthouse.
Not her smartphone—the cheap prepaid flip phone she keeps in her bag for emergencies. The one she uses to call her brother because the minutes are cheaper than her regular plan.
Aurora's entire body goes rigid. Her eyes widen with something that looks like panic.
She shoves past me—actually puts her hands on my chest and pushes with enough force to make me step back—and runs to her bag.
Her hands are shaking as she digs through it, pulling out that ancient flip phone with the cracked screen.
She answers without checking the caller ID. "Hello?"
I watch her face change. Watch the color drain from her cheeks, watch her eyes go wide with terror.
"What?" Her voice cracks. "When? How high?"
A pause. She's listening to whoever's on the other end, and whatever they're saying is making her sway on her feet.
I move closer. Not touching. Just close enough to catch her if she falls.
"I can't—" She's crying now. Tears streaming down her face, her breathing shallow and panicked. "Mrs. C, I don't have—I can't afford—"
Another pause.
"I'm six hours away. Even if I could get a bus, by the time I—" Her voice breaks completely. "Is he awake? Can I talk to him?"
The hand holding the phone is shaking so badly I'm surprised she hasn't dropped it.
"Okay. Okay. I'm coming. I don't know how but I'm coming. Just—please don't let them take him to the hospital without me. I can't afford—" She chokes on a sob. "Just keep him cool and I'll figure it out. I'll be there. I promise."
She hangs up. Stares at the phone in her hand like she doesn't know how it got there.
And then she crumples.
Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just... folds. Her legs give out and she sinks to the floor, back against the desk, phone clutched in both hands.
I'm on my knees in front of her before I make the conscious decision to move.
"What happened?" My voice comes out harder than I intended. "Aurora. What happened?"
She looks up at me with those tear-filled eyes and whispers, "Liam."
Her brother. The seven-year-old kid whose safety I've been using as leverage for weeks.
Ice floods my veins.
"What's wrong with Liam?"
"Fever." She's shaking so hard her teeth are chattering. "Mrs. Calloway said it's 104. He won't wake up properly. She wants to take him to the ER but I don't—I can't—"
She looks at me with absolute desperation.
"I have twelve dollars in my bank account, Evander. Twelve. The bus ticket home is One hundred twenty. Even if I could afford it, it won't leave for another three hours and then it's a six-hour ride and by the time I get there he could be—he could—"
She can't finish the sentence. Just dissolves into sobs, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes like she can physically push the tears back.
I stand up. Walk to my desk. Grab my phone and laptop.
"What are you doing?" Her voice is small. Broken.
"Getting you home." I close the laptop with a sharp snap, pull my jacket from the back of the chair. "Get up."
"I can't pay you back for a plane ticket. I can't—"
"I'm not asking you to pay me back." I cross back to her, reach down, and pull her to her feet. She's unsteady, still crying, looking at me like she doesn't understand what's happening. "Get your things. Now."
"Evander—"
"Now, Aurora." I grab her coat from where she hung it by the door and shove it at her. "We're leaving."
She stares at me for one more second. Then survival instinct kicks in and she's moving, grabbing her bag, shoving her phone in her pocket.
I grab her hand—not gentle, just functional—and pull her toward the door.
The Laurent family jet is kept at a private airfield twenty minutes from campus. I make the drive in twelve.
Aurora is silent in the passenger seat of my Aston Martin, her hands clenched in her lap, staring straight ahead with tears still streaming down her face.