CHAPTER 9| The Distraction & The Trigger
Going back to campus feels like walking into a different universe.
It's been five days since the incident with Carter. Five days of living in Nikolai's penthouse, eating food he provides, wearing clothes he bought, existing in a bubble so removed from reality that I'd started to forget what the real world felt like.
Now I'm remembering.
And it's terrifying.
The first difference I notice is the crowd. Or more accurately, the absence of crowd. The main quad is usually packed between classes—students rushing to lectures, sitting on benches, gathering in groups. But as Nikolai and I walk through, people scatter.
Not obviously. Not dramatically. But I watch it happen anyway—the way conversations stop mid-sentence when we pass, the way groups subtly shift to create a wide berth around us, the way eyes track our movement with expressions that range from fear to awe to something that might be reverence.
They're not looking at me, though.
They're looking at Nikolai.
At the boy who shattered Carter Morrison's arm so badly that he needed three surgeries and will never regain full mobility. At the heir to criminal empires who has diplomatic immunity and unlimited money. At the monster who proved he'll destroy anyone who touches what he considers his.
And because I'm walking beside him—because his hand occasionally hovers near the small of my back without quite touching, because he angles his body toward me like I'm the only person who exists, because everyone on campus now knows exactly what happened and why—they look at me differently too.
Not with pity. Not with contempt.
With the kind of careful, fearful respect you give to something dangerous by association.
I am untouchable now.
Not because of who I am, but because of who owns me.
The thought should make me sick. Should make me want to run screaming back to my old life of poverty and fear and autonomy.
But that strange, unnatural calm is still wrapped around my nervous system, and all I feel is... safe.
Safer than I've felt in five years.
Safer than I've ever felt.
And that safety came at the cost of Nikolai buying an entire university's endowment just to make sure no one could take it away.
We reach the courtyard near the literature building—the same area where he first sat beside me on that bench and made me spit chocolate into his hand. The bench is empty now. Everyone who was sitting on nearby benches has quietly relocated.
Giving us space. Giving him space.
Nikolai gestures toward the bench, and I sit. He sits beside me, maintaining that careful distance he always does. Close enough that we're clearly together. Far enough that I don't feel immediately threatened.
The sun is warm on my face. The October air is crisp but not cold. It should be a pleasant moment—sitting outside between classes, enjoying the weather.
But nothing with Nikolai is ever just what it appears to be.
He turns toward me, angling his body so that I have no choice but to look at him if I want to see what he's saying. His emerald eyes lock onto mine with that terrible, patient intensity.
Then he starts speaking.
French. Low and smooth, his lips forming each word with exaggerated precision so I can read them even though I don't understand the language. He's telling me a story—I can tell by the cadence, the way his expression shifts minutely to emphasize certain points.
I catch a few words. Roi—king. Chateau—castle. Feu—fire. Fille—girl.
A story about a king who burned his castle for a girl.
His voice is hypnotic. I've noticed this before—the way he can modulate tone and rhythm to create something almost musical, something that bypasses rational thought and goes straight to some deeper, more primitive part of the brain that responds to patterns and certainty.
I'm watching his mouth form words, tracking each syllable, and I realize too late that this is deliberate.
He's commanding my complete attention.
Making it impossible for me to look anywhere but at him.
Making sure I'm so focused on reading his lips that I don't notice anything else happening around us.
But I do notice. Because survival instinct doesn't just disappear, even when wrapped in unnatural calm and expensive cashmere.
There's a window behind him. Glass reflecting the courtyard. And in that reflection, I see movement.
Nikolai's hand. Still resting casually on his knee where I can see it from the front. But in the reflection, I can see what's actually happening—a sharp, quick gesture. Fingers flicking in a pattern that's clearly a signal.
And immediately, two massive men in dark suits appear from somewhere behind me.
They move with the kind of coordinated precision that speaks to military training.
They're on someone before I can fully process what's happening—a student who was standing maybe twenty feet away, staring at us. At me, specifically.
The men grab him. Not gently. One on each arm, lifting him slightly so his feet barely touch the ground. They drag him toward an alley between buildings, and he's gone.
Just like that.
Disappeared.
While Nikolai continues his story in smooth, uninterrupted French, his expression never changing, his lips still forming pretty words about kings and castles and burning the world down for the girl you want.
I force myself to keep looking at his mouth. To keep tracking his words. To pretend I didn't just watch him order someone removed for the crime of looking at me too long.
But my hands are shaking.
He notices. Of course he notices. He notices everything.
He reaches out slowly—telegraphing the movement so I can pull away if I want—and gently takes one of my trembling hands in his. His skin is warm. His grip is careful. He brings my hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to my knuckles while never breaking eye contact.
"Le reste du monde est bien trop laid pour que tu le regardes," he says, his lips moving against my skin. The rest of the world is far too ugly for you to look at.
I don't need to understand French to know what he's saying.
Keep your eyes on me. Don't look at what I'm doing. Don't question the violence I commit in your name.
Be my beautiful, distracted butterfly while I burn down anyone who threatens you.
He releases my hand and leans back, continuing his story like nothing happened. Like he didn't just have someone violently removed from campus for the crime of existing in my field of vision.
And the worst part is that some sick piece of me is grateful.
Because that student was staring. And I know that look. Know what it means when men stare at you like you're something they're entitled to understand, entitled to access, entitled to.
And Nikolai made him disappear before he could get close enough to be a real threat.
Nikolai protected me.
By being a monster.
For me.
I'm so fucked.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. Nikolai walks me to my next class—American Literature, which I've somehow managed to keep attending despite everything.
He doesn't come inside. Just positions himself outside the lecture hall like a guard dog, making it very clear to everyone passing by that I'm under his protection.
When class ends, he's still there. Waiting. Patient.
He walks me to the library next, even though I don't work there anymore. I think he just knows I find comfort in the space—in the quiet, in the books, in the familiar routine of call numbers and organized shelves.
He doesn't follow me inside this time. Just watches me go in, then presumably returns to whatever he does when I'm not directly in his sight line.
I spend two hours in the stacks, pretending to study but actually just trying to process everything that's happened in the last week. Trying to understand how I went from being an invisible scholarship student to being the untouchable property of the most dangerous person on campus.
Trying to figure out if I should be more afraid than I am.
By the time I leave, it's late afternoon.
The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across campus.
Nikolai is waiting exactly where he said he'd be—outside the library's main entrance, leaning against the stone wall with his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed on the door like he's been watching it the entire time.
Like he was waiting for me to reappear.
Like I'm the only thing worth looking at.
We walk back to the penthouse in silence. Not uncomfortable silence—just the quiet that comes from two people who don't need to fill every moment with noise. His hand hovers near my back again, not touching but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his palm.
Close enough that anyone watching knows exactly who I belong to.
The penthouse is exactly as we left it. Secure. Quiet. Safe.
But there are new guards now. Two of them, positioned in the hallway outside the main entrance. I don't recognize them—they must have been hired or transferred in the last few days, part of Nikolai's expanding security presence now that I'm officially under his protection.
They're massive. Both easily over six feet, broad-shouldered, with the kind of build that comes from serious training. They wear dark suits that can't quite hide the bulk of whatever weapons they're carrying.
They nod respectfully as Nikolai approaches. "Monsieur de Rivel," one of them says.
Nikolai responds in rapid French, too fast for me to even attempt to read his lips. Some kind of briefing, probably. Information about who came by, what happened while we were gone, security updates.
I'm standing slightly behind Nikolai, waiting patiently, when the guard on the left shifts his position.
He's not trying to hurt me. He's just moving to maintain proper spacing in the hallway. Just adjusting his stance.
But he moves too close. Too fast. Without warning.
His shoulder brushes mine.
Hard. Rough. The kind of contact that would barely register for most people.
For me, it's a detonation.
The world fractures.
I'm not in the hallway anymore. I'm thirteen years old, pinned against a wall, someone bigger and stronger forcing contact I don't want, can't stop, can't escape—
My legs give out.
I hit the floor hard, my knees cracking against hardwood. The sound that comes out of my throat isn't quite a scream—my damaged vocal cords can't produce that kind of volume—but it's close. A broken, raspy keen that sounds like an animal in a trap.
I can't breathe. Can't see. Can't think beyond touch, unwanted touch, someone touched me, hands hands hands—
My hearing aids are picking up sound but I can't process it. Everything is white noise and panic and the overwhelming need to get away, to make it stop, to somehow crawl out of my own skin.
I'm hyperventilating. Pulling air into my lungs in sharp, painful gasps that aren't giving me enough oxygen. Black spots dance across my vision. My hands are clawing at the floor, trying to find purchase, trying to pull myself away from the threat even though I can't see it anymore.
I'm trapped in the flashback. Completely, utterly trapped.
Somewhere very far away, I hear shouting. French words spoken in a tone I've never heard from Nikolai before—sharp, furious, absolutely lethal.
Then there's movement. Someone grabbing the guard who touched me. I can't see what's happening but I can feel the violence in the air, can sense the shift from controlled professionalism to barely-restrained murder.
But I can't focus on that because I'm still trapped thirteen years old trapped can't breathe can't scream can't—
Hands touch my shoulders.
I scream again. Try to scramble backward. But the hands don't grab. Don't force.
"Leah." A voice. Low and familiar. Speaking English now, not French. "Leah, look at me."
I force my eyes to focus.
Nikolai.